Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran woke in the sitting position he had been in all night, back against a tree where he had dozed off into his thoughts. The side of his neck ached from where it had been taught overnight as his head drooped to one side and as he stood, he winced, his hand coming to his neck. Rubbing it gingerly, he rolled his head from side to side and stifled a yawn, stretching his head and shoulders as he looked out across the expanse where the army were waking.

Realising he had been stupidly careless to simply doze off when his position with Herding was so unfavourable, his hand flew to his belt quickly...and he was relieved to find his dagger still there. He ran his fingers gently across the smooth, fine stone set as the pommel, his fingers still hypersensitive to the touch from the night's sleep, and smiled gently to himself. The weapon was probably the only thing Koran truly valued now - value was dangerous, he had found, tying people to possessions as worshippers to false idols: he had seen so many times both friend and foe falling needlessly as they sought to retain and defend their possessions. What thanks would a chair ever give you? Would you stake your life upon a stick of furniture? Weapons....they were different. And the dagger was special to Koran - in a place where he had little else, it was some security: in a swift, undercover fight, a dagger was so much more effective than a large blade.

With that dark thought in mind, he turned to look for Ehan...and found himself staring into a rather less favourable countenance. His face must have shown some disgust at the orc's appearance behind him, only a foot or so from him, but if the creature saw it, it made no comment except to sneer nastily - or maybe that was simple it's usual expression.

"Captain Herding wants t' see you. Now." The orc was not ceremonious and did not waste words before it turned away, but there was a certain smug satisfaction in it's voice that Koran did not like. He contented himself with glaring after it's retreating, leather-and-fur bound body, then cast another look across the bustling camp, orcs and easterlings scurrying around like bees over their hive.

"Time to bid the illustrious captain good morning..." he muttered dryly. Turning away, he started towards Herding's tent, running a hand through his dark, curly hair then across his stubbled chin. It wasn't like Herding would care - only one thing about Koran's appearance mattered currently: the dagger in his belt. If Herding was as alike to Ferach and Cortim as Koran suspected, he would stop at nothing. Steeling himself, he entered Herding's tent warily, his dark eyes flicking around to check for any hidden assassin before he settled on Herding.

Who was asleep.

Koran's lip curled upwards distastefully as he regarded the sleeping Southron captain for a few moments. From one hand, a bottle hung loosely. The very model of a fine Southron captain, Koran thought wryly. Hesitating, he coughed loudly and pointedly into the back of his hand, watching Herding. The sound had the desired effect: alert to any loud sharp noise even when sleeping, the older captain's eyes snapped open and he jerked upwards, the bottle slipping from his fingers and smashing on the floor. Herding jerked again at the loud noise and glared at the bottle's shattered remains, then turned to Koran. He alternated glaring at glass and Koran for a few seconds, then seemed to settle on the latter. Koran met his cold gaze with an equally icy one.

"Good morning, captain," Koran said in a falsely bright voice.

"Are you trying to kill me with shock?" came the snapped reply. No, that's your job, remember? Koran was tempted to reply. Instead he said nothing. Herding glared at him balefully, then rose, walking to the table at one side of the tent and tearing off a hunk of bread, taking a bite, apparently ignoring the young captain's prescence.

"You wished to see me, Captain," Koran prompted impassively, his voice neutral. Herding grunted taking another bite, swallowing, then finally turning around at his leisure and pointing an accusatory finger at Koran.

"Elves have been sighted not far from here, Cenbryt - heading for the forest, I should guess. You will intercept them."

"On my own, Captain?" Koran's voice was still utterly neutral, only a trace of humour entering it. Herding glared at him sharply but found nothing on the boy's face and grunted, unsatisfied, before pouring himself a glass of dark, thick liquid.

"Orcs. Take a few," he replied carelessly, not looking up at the captain.

'Take a few'? Koran was disgusted at the captain's carelessness, even more so as he knew the reason for it - once more, Herding wanted him to fail. He would place Koran deliberately in the way of danger, giving him too few warriors and only a few treacherous orcs, hoping to harm or even kill him, wishing to stand over his body and gloat...

"A few? How many elves are there?" Koran replied, his teeth almost gritted as he forced himself to remain neutral.

"One or two, I suspect."

You know exactly how many there are, don't you?! Koran resisted the temptation to voice his thoughts, grinding his teeth together and mentally placing the number of elves at five to ten from Herding's response. "And may I take some of my own men?"

"The southrons?" Herdin's piggy eyes flitted up to Koran, sending him a piteous look over the top of his wine glass. "Well, if you feel you need them," he replied patronisingly.

Koran sent him a barely veiled glare of disgust, then bowed stiffly and turned on his heel. As the flap of the tent fell behind him, he suddenly realised his fists had been clenched: so tightly, in fact, that his stubby nails had actually bitten into his palms, drawing a few thin lines of blood near the surface, a neat row of four curves on each palm. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Opening them abruptly, the Southron became a different man: business was everything. Striding towards the camp and through it, he snapped orders to his men and to a few of the orcs.

"Get yourself ready: I want forty to fifty orcs ready to come with me and take the elves. Catham, get fifteen of my Southrons and of the Falhik tribe together. Ehan, get my sword. We're going to see the elves..."

[Orofaniel]

Herding smirked. Hopefully he had managed to trick Koran in a way that he’d not be fully prepared for a battle that might come - sooner than the poor lad would ever had dreamed of. What a nice thought that was. Herding had indeed, refrained from telling the whole truth to Koran. He had beheld information that could be of great importance. Now he was in the lead, Herding thought. Hopefully, there would be a battle where elven blood was spilt, and of course not to mention some real Haradrim blood too. One couldn’t imagine how satisfied Herding was with himself by now. He couldn’t wait to see Koran coming back – defeated. Or even better: badly hurt. Death was no option yet. But a few dangers and injuries on the road was a tempting and most pleasant thought.

By now, the sun had reached it far skies, and it was about time Herding got up and dressed properly with armour and everything. He stumbled to his feet, as he had been sitting for quite some time studying his map until Koran had burst in. He found his weapons on the ground. What a chaos; bows and arrows among daggers and knives which should originally be placed in his belt. He fetched his sword, felt the blade towards his strong hands. What a powerful sword it was. He could see rotten brown blood in the curves of the decoration which was slightly disgusting. Herding liked it that way though.

Pulling his second pair of boots forwards he sat down again and lifted them up. They looked old and worn out, and indeed they were. He wouldn’t want to trade them though, because they were simply the best one could get. He had always appreciated such boots during battles. It had never failed him. Without thinking more about it, he pulled them on. Then he rushed out of his tent to see Orcs and Southrons already set to go. Surprisingly enough, Herding figured, Koran had managed to do something. Maybe he wasn’t that useless after all? Time would show, although Herding doubted that Koran was good for anything. Using him for his own intensions wasn’t such a bad idea though.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Herding asked Koran with great amusement even though he just had told himself that it looked like Koran had everything under control. He could tell that Koran was already stressed.

“Yes, sir. Orcs are here…some Haradrims,” he replied weakly looking at Herding. Herding could tell by the way that Koran looked at him that Koran indeed, disliked him. Maybe even as much as Herding disliked Koran. Wasn’t it ironic? “You did not tell me the whole truth, did you Captain?” Koran then said sternly. “Oh, clever boy”, Herding thought with a great smirk. Of course he hadn’t told him the whole truth. However he didn’t reply to this until Koran once again faced Herding with the very same question. “Liar? Is that what you claim me to be? A poor condemned liar ?!” Herding then said harshly. His face expression was very much changed from the earlier when he had a huge evil grin surrounding his face. Herding was good at these things; twisting things around, and Koran probably knew that too. Koran said naught, although his face expression change too all of sudden as he was surprised by Herding’s reaction. On the inside however, Herding laughed at the man standing in front of him.

“You are indeed more impudent and daring than I though you were,“ Herding than continued. It looked as if Koran was getting angry and very much annoyed as he knew that Herding was playing evilly with his mind. “We’ll continue this little chat later maybe,” Herding said, while the thought of an injured Koran appeared in his head. He grinned evilly. “Now, get that force ready or you will regret it,” Herding then said finally, beneath his clenched teeth. Indeed, he had been doing this so often that his jaw was feeling somewhat numb.

“I can’t wait,” Koran said, while spitting on the ground. Herding could hardly resist the laughter, evil as it was, to burst out. He felt satisfied as he’d won a great battle. Yet again he’d managed to play with the poor man’s mind, with great success as well, he concluded. He heard Koran raising his voice towards the amry; “Let’s move!”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"Get yourself ready: I want forty to fifty orcs ready to come with me and take the elves. Catham, get fifteen of my Southrons and of the Falhik tribe together. Ehan, get my sword. We're going to see the elves..."

Ehan grinned at the words. We're going to see the elves. We're going to see the elves! Oh, he had waited so long to hear the words. Running from his seat the young man darted about to find his Captain's sword. Where is it? Where is it? Ehan could hear the other Southrons preparing. When he finally found Koran's blade, Ehan could not resist twirling it and stabbing it into thin air, as if he were fighting some invisible opponent. The way the young man moved and the look of glee upon his face caused others in camp to stare a him, but Ehan hardly noticed the strange glances.

When he had found Koran again, the older Southron seemed preoccupied in making sure the numbers he had ordered were present. Ehan waited patiently, his eyes darting to and fro as he waited for Koran's attention. When he finally recieved the desired attention Ehan gave Koran his sword, hilt first. Koran nodded his thanks and turned away, continuing his count of orcs and Southron men.

"If it is not too bold, Captain," Ehan started, eyeing the small group Koran had ordered to assemble. "I must say that I think we should have gotten more of our own kind to go with us. I do not trust the creatures."

Ehan's words were lost in the clatter of armor and the grunting of soldiers as Koran made an order and the group suddenly began to leave the camp.

[Kransha]

Ahead they trudged, relatively slow at best. Many were lagging behind, at the wispy tail of the unshapely column that dragged itself across gently sloping land. Some slumped, kneeling in the dirt to pant, as if the journey was some more strenuous activity. Yes, they had started only as the morning’s light pierced nightly clouds and the shroud of pale, dappled blackness that peered at all sleeping beings like glittering eyes through the twisted branches of tall trees, had not yet begun to recoil from the heavens, but they had slept deeply, or should have. Many yanked they’re wretched, deformed legs over easy terrain, possibly trying to falsify some acting injury so that they might be excused. Of course, their captain would rather slit their gasping, rasping throats than let them sit and plant their barbaric muzzles in the earth to intake puddles of water that had materialized there. That captain trudged, with a little more vigor than the rest, at the head and front of the mellifluous serpent which wormed its way towards the sight were its miniscule prey awaited it, unknowing and unready. How grand a day it might be, if the serpent struck with enthusiasm and power, but, alas, most of the serpent’s scales had withered wearily.

“They don’t want to go, ye know.” Urkrásh said, piping in quietly. He would’ve been reluctant, under most conditions, to say anything to his master without being spoken to first, but today, Thrákmazh the Mighty seemed subdued somewhat, his single eye darkened, vague and filled with swampy murk, as if it had been tainted by some rank substance overnight. His brow sagged, his arms, usually pulled up at his side as if ready to strike the next thing that cocked an impudent eyebrow at him, were hanging limp, weak and lacking resolution, swinging from side to irresolute side. One hand, though, bore a great, sharp object in it, his gilded scimitar, clutched diligently in the grip of gnarled, rooted digits. His lingering eye, slithering to and fro in its ragged socket, turned to peer at Urkrásh.

“Because they’re all fools,” he snapped darkly, tightening his grip around the surprisingly cold, smooth feel of his weapon’s, “herded beasts who don’t want anything. That’s why they don’t want to go.” Urkrásh, ever faithful, though oft encouraged not to be thus to such a vile and malicious orcish fiend (even considered so by those who followed him) nodded his head without the slightest thought or hesitation. “Yes, Thrákmazh.” He murmured; a glum, bare expression on his face. He continued nodding after the gesture was made, shaking his head rather dumbly up and down and trying to keep up with Thrákmazh, who was persistent in his quicker speed. The orc captain was scowling brutally, his mind continually running over his frustration at his own men’s apparent lack of purpose, as he’d orated in a fiery rant to Urkrásh less than a sunrise ago. Now, as usual, he was more than ready to make another example.

“But, they’re a-goin’ now and half of the rats’ll be dead under Elven blades before the night has come.” He bellowed, a noise which surprised Urkrásh so much that he skidded to a halt. Thrákmazh’s volume shot up, raising an unwholesome octave, and his dank tone resounded through the ranks so much that tremulous shudders could be heard as an aftershock. The other orcs rushed around the two as Thrákmazh halted, turning angrily on his hopeful lieutenant. “Ye know what they think? They think they’ll be doin’ all the fighting! Indeed, and they’re wrong. I swear I’ll gut ‘em where they stand if any run, those bloody cowards!” The words of the last statement were viciously roared into Urkrásh’s face, who staggered involuntarily, and another unanimous shudder overran the ranks of orcs.

“They want motivation, sir…” squeaked Urkrash daintily, “you can give them that.”

“Motivation, ye say?” Thrákmazh snapped, half incredulous, turning his shoulder to Urkrásh, “An orc doesn’t need motivation. An orc needs a sense of what he ought to do, for there is only one thing an orc ought to do, and once an orc grasps that he won’t need to question anything as long as he lives. Being a thrall of the Great Eye is a miserable thing, Urkrásh, but if you make somethin’ of it, see somethin’ in it, all will be clear. There’s only one thing you can do, and that’s serve with all the loyalty, with all the zeal, with all the strength in yer bones and the steel in yer sword. You’ll never be free of yer service, and there’s no consolation in anything else, so ye might as well show who you serve that you’re better at serving than everyone else, and ye can get all the pleasure out of it too.” Urkrásh, looking into the solitary, lonely eye of his master, saw an all-too familiar, faint glow of sickly yellow, yearning to be released from its cage under a wrinkly lid. “The master tells me to kill, I kill, and I’ve learned to like it. If those orcs knew what fun they’re was to be had…”

As his master’s voice withered, faded, and eventually died down into a raspy breathing, Urkrásh raised a finger of suggestion. “They’re scared, Thrákmazh, and tired.” Thrákmazh turned to him, glaring fierily at first, his gaze and face sharpened like the rusty dagger that hung in his armored belt, but suddenly settled, and he cackled with furious, bombastic madness in his voice. “TIRED?” he roared, questioning the sky, rather than his servant. “SCARED? And the Great Eye will give ‘em a break to rest they’re poor little feet?” Again, he looked down, his head swiveling to scan the mounds of orc-flesh moving as waves on the sea would around them. His eye narrowed, shriveling and shrinking into a single gem, twinkling evilly where it sat, and he began to walk forward, towards the front. “I’ll give ‘em a rest.”

Suddenly, he shot forward, plowing through the ranks, his blade up at his side and his clawed feet leaving deep imprints in the ground that looks as if they wished to simmer and suddenly burst into flame, to show the path he’d taken, In mere moments, he’d cleared most orcs, looking past them to the men who walked weakly in another clump not far off. He cackled again, slashing the air before him and turned towards his orcish brethren, his voice swelling to a magnificent roar which boomed like orcish thunder. “PICK UP THE PACE! ANY MAGGOT WHO CAN’T MATCH MY SPEED’LL BE A MEAL FOR MY SWORD!”

And they listened…amazingly well.

“We’ll have those elves begging for mercy, lads!” He cried, again his tone overwhelming the ranks, “We’ll have ‘em groveling on the ground, and those men will still be leagues behind.” For the first time, there was a very bleak murmur of reluctant approval. “The glory of this is going to us and us alone!” Again, another murmur came, and soon enough, more murmurs, many uncomfortable, most impartial, or so it seemed. Thrákmazh didn’t care, not in the slightest, for he was caught up in his purpose, the one he spoke of. He was going to taste elf blood this day, and his men would with him, else they’d be slain with the foul elves and laid in gore alongside them. He ran, and continued, not pacing himself, letting the rest lag behind, the sounds of their panting, sharp intakes of breath beating in his ears and shaping themselves into war drums, signaling his coming victory, a majestic and wonderful herald of blood to be spilt.

“They can’t…match your pace…sir.” muttered Urkrash in between his own pants, trying feebly to keep the speed himself, “…You know that…Not all of ‘em.” He looked back, his head bobbing as he ran, to the smaller group of men who’d assembled for the mission, who were now trailing far behind. They were looking to the orcs, dismissing their new speed as a burst of dark adrenaline, he supposed, but again, this was a fact that didn’t matter to Thrákmazh, who still ran…and ran…and then, very suddenly and unreadily, stopped.

Since the company of orcs was trying to ‘match’ Thrákmazh’s pace, they halted very abruptly when he did, many stumbling awkwardly, tripping over each other and sliding head first into the dirt. They pushed up again, taking the opportunity to collapse, muttering constantly. A new din of angry conversation filled the air, but Thrákmazh’s sword-hand flew up menacingly, and they all stopped. They watched, with a strange, animalistic anticipation on their face, as Thrákmazh’s hooked nose sniffed the air several times in slow, cautious succession. As a new, unsettling silence settled, Thrákmazh turned to the troops he commanded, his next tone as shrill and small as a whisper. “There’s something in the air.” He faintly said, more words which traveled as a rippling wave would across the bustling mass of now silent orcs, “…Smells like…elf-flesh…” he turned away from them all, “They’re close.”

Again, a fire seethed in his eye, and his rusty blade was up.

“C’MON YOU WORMS! MOVE!”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The Sun brought no comfort to Ambarturion, for the dark thoughts of the night cast their shadow of concern about his heart still, and Caranbaith’s condition was no better. Coromswyth tried to comfort both master and student by pointing out that it was no worse – indeed, a remarkable think after the young Elf’s exertions of the day before. Megilaes was drawn and pale with concern and his eyes kept going back to his brother. Ambarturion had to snap at him several times to ensure that the watch was kept while he and Coromswyth readied themselves to leave. As on the day before, Caranbaith insisted that he was strong enough to walk, but Ambarturion would have none of it. “You said the same yesterday,” he barked, “and by noon you were unable to keep your feet. Today you shall be seek the help of your brother and the lady, for we must be over the River before the Sun is no more than a third of the way through her journey.” He hoped that none of them knew how difficult this would be. . .they were still too far from the safety of the far shore. For the first time he thought of turning South and returning to Lorien, but the knowledge that they were being hunted was too great. There were enemies approaching, and they would soon cross the River and seek to prevent their flight to the Green Wood. Should they try that route, they would find themselves encircled and in the open before nightfall. Their only hope was to make for the cover of Mirkwood with all the speed that they could.

“Come,” he said, helping Caranbaith to his feet. “We must hurry.” He looked at Coromswyth and felt the gentle pressure of her mind upon his own. He acknowledged his fears to her, but did not elaborate upon them – it was enough to know that they were in danger; she need not be burdened with the hopelessness of their situation.

They moved through the grass of the Vale as quickly as they could, with Ambarturion and Megilaes keeping to the front and scanning the horizon to the south-east. As they went they could both feel the presence of evil pressing in upon them from that direction, like the feel of a fire upon their foreheads when their eyes were closed. Ambarturion was tempted to seek shelter from the despair in his memories of Doriath. When his student had taken the watch last night he had sought that same refuge, walking through the protected realm that had lain within Melian’s Girdle, and hearing again the song of Luthien before her betrayal with Beren. Even as he walked in the light of the day once more, feeling the growing terror of the land all about them, his feet were once more drawn to follow the paths of his youth, and he could feel upon his cheek the light touch of leaves that never fell, and the scent of flowers now long vanished beneath the waves filled his nostrils.

It was Megilaes’s sudden cry that awoke him to the grey horrors of the present. His student had stopped dead in his tracks and was staring away to the south-east. Ambarturion followed his gaze and saw afar off, upon the very edge of the horizon, a black smudge upon the land. As he gazed at the stain, it resolved into the shapes of two or three score orcs and Men, racing across the Vale and directly toward them. How the servants of the Enemy had found them he did not know, but he did not have the time to ponder this. They had forded the River and were upon the western bank. Had Caranbaith been in good health, there might have remained yet the possibility of escape, for as tireless as orcs and evil Men might be, the Elves of Lorien were yet fleeter of foot. But Caranbaith was in no condition to run, and Megilaes would never leave his brother to the torments of the beasts that now approached. Nor would Ambarturion.

He turned to Coromswyth. “My lady,” he began. “My students and I will not flee before the enemy, but there is no need for you to die at their hands. It would be best if Lorien knew of this incursion. If you leave us immediately and run but a little west of south you may reach the Golden Wood ahead of the orcs. If we are lucky, they might even dispatch some of their number to pursue you, and we three might be enough to defeat those who remain, and you can escape your pursuers in Lorien.” He knew that his plan was almost entirely hopeless. But even more hopeless was the idea that Coromswyth would abandon her companions, particularly Caranbaith.

Marvellously, the lady smiled when she spoke. “No, Ambarturion,” she said. “I will not flee. There is little hope that I could escape the enemy, and that would only deprive you of another sword when they come upon you. Let us seek a defensible place to prepare for the attack.”

Ambarturion was surprised and greatly impressed by this response, but he was careful to control his reaction, saying only, “I see, my lady, that you come of warrior blood yourself. Come! If I remember these lands aright, there is a small hill not a mile from here. It is neither so high nor so well protected as the hill we held against the goblins of Moria, but it is steep and the land about it is clear. We can at least use the advantage of height to fell some of our attackers with our bows before they are upon us.” Coromswyth nodded, and Ambarturion called for his students to follow. They ran almost due north until the saw the hill before them. It was indeed not very high, but it rose steeply beneath their feet. While it presented no challenge to the Elves, the orcs would be hard pressed to scale its sides at full speed. When they reached the summit they turned about and looked out across the Vale of Anduin toward the black stain of their enemies. They were shocked by how much closer the orcs and evil Men had come in so short a time.

They readied their bows in silence, for there was nothing to say. All they could do was wait.

[Arry]

Gromwakh took advantage of the sudden stop to have a little look-see at the terrain. Flat for the most part and out in the open, no trees for the Elves to sneak under and disappear. Some small, rolling hillocks, and there to the northwest a taller hill. Grom shaded his eyes with his great hairy hand and peered at the steep-sided mound, or so it looked from this distance. Gauging from his memories of the foothills about the northern Misty Mountains he knew this was deceptive. It would be a hard climb at the all out pace One-Eye had been setting for them - he could already imagine the Orcs with their armour clanking, weapons grasped firmly in hand, having a hard time gaining a foothold. Worse yet, the approach to the hill was wide open, save for what appeared to be a tall area of undercut that seemed to wrap round the lower east to north edge of the hill's base. The Elves, for the most part, would have a clear view of the army’s approach.

‘I don’t see that big shiny blade we heard the one big Elf has,’ whispered Snikdul, his eyes following the direction of Gromwakh’s gaze. No blade held high by the awesome Elvish warrior glinted in the morning’s sun; no lightning issued its sizzling warning as it shot from the nearly mythic fighter. ‘Bad news, though,’ said another of their fellows, thrusting out his great ruddy lips toward the hill. ‘Looks like they have bows.’

Gromwakh spit outward watching the gobbet of spit arc a bit then fall quickly toward the dirt. ‘No wind, either down here and there either, he said, noting the loose hems of the Elven tunics did not billow out like pennants in a breeze, but lay flat on against their bodies.

‘Who brought the shields, like I told you?’ asked Grom, motioning the group to gather round him. Five of them unslung the thick, wooden planked barrel tops they’d got from the salted pork barrels and four had the very large iron lids from the big cooking pots. ‘Good going, boys! The rest of us that don’t have a shield will stick close to a pair of you. Snik’ll keep his eyes on the sky as we get near the hill; let us know when the arrows start flying.

The little group followed Gromwakh’s lead, positioning themselves about three quarters of the way back in the ranks of Orcs and Uruks. Snikdul scratched his cheek and squinted back toward the hilltop as they wormed their way a little further back in the ranks. He blinked his eyes a few times, then pulled on Grom’s sleeve. ‘Are there really only four of them up there? Or do they have some hidden away from us, all sneaky-like?’

‘I’m hoping that four is it,’ Gromwakh snorted in a gruff voice. ‘And it’s that Uruk lot should be sneaking about . . . to the other side of the hill while the main part of us draw their attention.’

His eyes fixed on the rusty blade raised high near the front of the company, he heard the voice of his less than beloved leader rallying the troops . . .

“C’MON YOU WORMS! MOVE!”

The foot of the hill loomed nearer as they thumped along . . . giving way at long last when they had reached it to the inevitable, and sometimes daunting, angle of repose that would bring them to the hilltop’s prize.

[Durelin]

The Mirkwood scouts immediately took a strategic position to observe the army as it prepared itself to march. Watching the servants of Sauron leave their camp was unsettling. For the elves it was sickening, and easily roused their race’s characteristic rage of immortals. The orcs and Men alike scarred the Earth with their defiling wastes that were left along the way to wherever their Master sent them. The worst of what they left were the bodies of rocs, slaughtered by their own kind or their ‘allies’. Those were left to decay under the sun and moon with unnatural slowness and foulness. Not even the carrion fowl of the skies, dark creatures all their own, would touch a dead orc carcass, even a freshly dying one. Still, they taunted those on the ground, as they did the dying, and even the dead. It never mattered to a carrion bird, as they knew that any that they welcomed would hear them even after their eyes failed to see. And so their laughter filled the air, and they perched restlessly in scattered trees, or poked around on the ground, carefully avoiding the kicks and swats aimed at them. Others circled in the air above, seemingly wrapped up in the energy of the moment, the bustle below of foul creatures, performing a ritual long since reserved for a dawn such as this.

The chaos that the elves observed among the camp made it almost impossible for them to distinguish a separate group gathering to make their own march. But a Man’s shout was heard clearly, full of anger that he did not wish to suppress, instructing a group to march while the rest of the army milled around, awaiting enough organization to arise among them so that they could move, as well. The independent troop separated itself from the rest, consisting of both orcs and Men. They seemed to move with a strange earnest, looking forward to their destination. And wherever their march would end, Calenvása knew that his scouts must follow. He turned to look at Thorvel, who crouched nearby him, letting his eyes pass between watching the army and watching his Captain, obviously awaiting the order to follow. It was the correct action, Calenvása knew. This was what had worried them since their journey had begun. Was this the attack plan beginning to unfold? It certainly was strange that the majority of the army seemed to be remaining where they were.

The Captain raised his hand to gain everyone’s attention, as the elves were slightly spread out and their focus was on their enemies. They moved closer to Calenvása so that he could whisper his orders. “We follow this special force to their special end.” Thorvel smiled slightly, as he always had, enjoying his Captain’s sense of humor. But he quickly removed the grin, remembering that he was angry with Calenvása. And he knew that the elf had reason to be angry, if not exactly at him. These were frustrating days, and they would only grow worse. Targil seemed to realize this, as well, and he only nodded grimly before leaping to his feet and being the first to begin the real chase. There was something about this situation, something in the air that cried out a need for haste.

Calenvása rose quickly to follow Targil, as did Thorvel. But Lómarandil rose slowly, strangely not bothering to be in the company of Targil, and seemingly unaffected by the feeling of need. He was the only scout that had not come to recognize the importance of what Thorvel had heard that first sleepless night. Calenvása stopped and looked at the young elf, and did not have to tell Thorvel or Targil to keep moving. He remained calm and quiet, yet cold, when he spoke. “Lómarandil, you have been slow to follow orders for some time now. If there is a reason for this, I wish to hear it. And even if there is not, I wish for your company.”

“And my company I will give, if my Captain wishes it.”

Calenvása had thought his voice had been so very cold, but he had been greatly mistaken. Those words stung, and left him numb. And so they would run in a silence in which urgency screamed.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“Hold until they are upon us,” Ambarturion cautioned his students. “We used many arrows in our battle with the goblins, and must take care not to squander what we yet possess.”

“They have shields,” Coromswyth said quietly. “And they know how to use them. The Men in particular seem to know how to protect themselves.”

“Yes,” Ambarturion agreed. “All the more reason to wait until we have clear targets to shoot at.”

The orcs stormed the hill first, with the main body of the beasts making a full frontal assault. It was as Ambarturion had known it would be: the expendable orcs would come at them first, to reduce their stock of arrows and tire them with combat, while the more powerful Uruks and Men would attempt to approach them from the cover of the hollow upon their flank. It was an obvious strategy but an effective one – it is what he would have done in their position. There was little time to speak, and not much to be said, but Ambarturion sought to give his students what aid he could before the battle was joined. “Do not throw away your lives in fury or despair,” he told them. “Remember that you are warriors of the Golden Wood and the equal in might to at least a dozen orcs. Remember as well all that I have taught you. Fight with patience and in an even temper. Think of where your blows will do the most harm to your enemies and aid to yourselves. Watch for each other.” He did not remove his eyes from the approaching enemy as he spoke but he could feel their sober response to these words. He wondered what Coromswyth was thinking, but dared not distract his attention from the trial ahead.

The orcs rushed up the hill, their cries becoming roars of blood-hatred as they neared the Elves at its top. When they were twenty paces distant, Ambarturion give the order to loose, and at his word the four leading orcs fell. As quick as thought they restrung their bows, and four more fell, but the mass had come much closer. A third volley killed three, for Caranbaith’s arrow had missed its mark, but it was enough – the orcs, tired by their run and in terror of their losses, faltered. Ambarturion dropped his bow to the ground and drew out his sword. “Laurelindórenan!” he cried, and his voice rang across the land like the silver trumpets of Fingon. “Auta i lome!” And like a bolt of white light from the starlit sky of Elvendom his sword flashed in the sun as he ran at the orcs. They stopped their advance entirely, in dismay of his fury, and some looked as though they might flee, but their Captain, a great hairy brute with but one eye, drove them forward to meet the headlong rush of the Elves.

The red mist descended before Ambarturion’s gaze, and he forgot his own counsel as he met the beasts upon the hillside. His sword rose and fell and two orcs were immediately slain, their black blood staining the offended grass. He rushed forward, slaying orc after orc as he ran, caring nothing for his safety and paying no heed to the cries of his students and of Coromswyth behind him. The fey temper that had come upon him in the battle with the goblins descended once more, and he roared with inchoate rate and hatred and he swept the head off an orc, and the legs from beneath yet another. The orcs came upon him in a mass, but he beat them back, yearning only to reach their Captain and destroy him.

Ambarturion had no hope that he would prevail. Already his charge had been stalled, and the orcs were pressing in about him ever more closely. Driven beyond the terror of his blade by their hatred of his race they threw themselves at him recklessly. His run had carried him far beyond the aid of his companions and he was soon encircled by enemies. Still he fought on, and still he killed the orcs, but all the time that he did so, he knew that the more powerful Uruks and Men would be upon them soon, and then all hope would surely be lost. At last he struck down the last two orcs that stood between him and the one-eyed captain. He rushed at the orc with his blade singing about his head and dripping black gore, but his attack was met and rebuffed, again he spun and drove at the monster, batting aside his ragged blade and slashing at his neck. The orc, however, was cunning and quick and stepped aside from the attack. Now, however, he was off balance and easy prey to Ambarturion, but it was too late, for the enemy had pressed in about him in a tight wall and he was soon separated from the captain by an impenetrable wall of steel and leather.