Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Alaksoron]

Osric had just finished poisoning his own arrows and was sharpening his sword when Veryadan sat up. Osric watched him carefully, as he tried to sit up and failed, as Luinien helped him rise to a seated position. Or more truthfully Osric watched the bandage he had made. Veryadan talked for a moment, but Luinien put some poppy in his tea and presently fell back asleep.

Osric sheathed his word, waited for a moment untl he was sure Veryadan was asleep, and gently checked the bandaging. Tarondo smiled, bemused, as he did so. Satisfied, Osric rose, bending his neck so his head wouldn't brush the top of their makeshift shelter. He headed for the exit.

"Where are you going?" Tarondo demanded. "It will be dark soon." Osric replied levelly. "I am going to find my horse." Tarondo gently explained that there was almost no chance that his horse would return, even if he hadn't been eaten by the Orcs. Tarondo sounded sympathetic.

Osric listened patiently, then returned as evenly as he could manage, though his gaze probably gave away some irritation. "Shadow is a trained warhorse. I know he is alive. You will see." Osric was gone before Tarondo could say anymore.

Osric was out a grand total of perhaps a quarter hour. He returned, a satisfied, triumphant grin on his face. Shadow was trotting behind him. Even he looked giddy. Osric walked right past them to where the other horse's were and tethered his horse.

[Nuranar]

When Osric turned around Tarondo was standing before him, not a foot away. "Come here," he said crisply, and walked past the horses out into the dark. Osric hesitated for a moment, then followed.

Tarondo led the way around the edge of a towering boulder away from camp. "When we met in Rohan you asked to join our errand for the King. You said that you were greatly indebted to him and wished to be of service. Our errand is now in grave danger, and instead of assisting, you are further imperiling it." His voice was low-pitched but sharp, his words biting.

Osric flushed angrily, opened his mouth, but Tarondo would not give him an opening.

"By leaving camp on an errand for yourself, you endangered everyone left behind. You would not have troubled even to tell anyone, if I had not stopped you.

"You were thinking only of yourself and what you wanted. Did you not even consider finding the horse of Aidwain, which fled with yours? What about Veryadan? That man may die. He, above any of us, needs a horse.

"I want you to understand this very clearly: I am leading this errand. As the leader, I am responsible for ensuring that we work together. If everyone does as he pleases, those orcs and trolls will wipe us out.

"Thus far you have been a valued companion. But I expect you, as I expect everyone else, to follow my decisions. Tonight you did not. It must never happen again."

Osric met his gaze belligerently, tauntingly. But Tarondo did not look away, and soon Osric's eyes fell.

"Go back to the fire." The cold command in his voice left Osric no escape. He stalked back, sullen and silent.

Tarondo stood alone, back in the darkness beyond the boulder. Luinien stepped out of the shadows and moved to his side. "He's not happy."

Tarondo grimaced and shook his head. "Of course he's not. I would have preferred to leave him alone. But after the position he put me in, I had no choice. Veryadan's life - all of our lives - are worth far more than his self-love."

"I'll keep an eye on him," Luinien said softly. The brother and sister stood silent, side by side in the windless night, listening, thinking.

Luinien gave a sudden low laugh. "It just occurred to me," she said in reply to Tarondo's inquiry, "that Osric didn't bother to offer me any poison for my arrows. I wonder why?" Again her laugh rippled out through the night.


Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir sat with the others as they discussed what to do. Thoronmir was not seriously injured; the orc's hook had pierced the skin but hadn't affected the deeper areas a whole lot. It had been treated with healing herbs and then bandaged, and Thoronmir was definitely going to be fine.

However, the others were not as lucky. Veryadan in particular was severely injured in the battle and could die if he wasn't taken somewhere where he could get help soon. The party had decided to set out for Rivendell, which Thoronmir had reasoned was too far away, but the road to Bree was probably cut off behind them. They would have to try for it anyhow, regardless of distance.

Thoronimir had been talking to the man he had saved earlier, Andas Loudewater. They'd gotten to know each other fairly well by this point. Andas had told him about his home life, how his wife had always yelled at him until he had left on this journey. Thoronmir in turn talked of his life, the battles he had fought, and how he had become the leader of a sizable group of Rangers in the Hills of Evendim. It seems that he'd encountered Loudewater several years ago, when the Ranger had been on a patrol and had caught Loudewater as a child playing much farther away from home than he was supposed to be.

Osric later left to find his horse against Tarondo's orders, and Thoronmir noticed the Elf calling him away so the two could speak privately. As the Ranger was poisoning the last of his arrows, Osric returned with a dour expression on his face, Thoronmir could tell the man had been reprimanded rather harshly. He decided not to ask Osric about it and went to sleep for the night. They would have to leave the next morning.

[Envinyatar]

It was Aidwain who took the last watch before morning. The campfire had burned down to a few smoldering coals and the others were all drowsing in the small camp when Veryadan called softly to the Elf. ‘The sun is nearly up, I see,’ he said raising himself slowly onto one elbow. ‘There is enough light, I think, for you to look for our horses.’ He grimaced a little as a painful spasm gripped his side. ‘The first two Trolls panicked them, as I recall. And they went running back down the track up which we came.’ He pushed himself up further, leaning his back against the flat face of a large rock. ‘I think if you find yours, mine will be near. He’s the sort who likes to stick with his companions.’

Aidwain woke Silruth, saying he would be back directly. The horses, he thought, had probably gone back to their previous camp, across the road a short ways, among the shelter of the trees. Tarondo had awoken by then and took the watch himself, sending the other two Elves on their errand.

It was an hour later when they returned, leading Veryadan’s horse back between their two. They had indeed been down by the old camp, near the little creek where the low growing bushes along the streamside still had a few wizened berries clinging to them.

The companions were all up when they returned. The fire had been put out, a cold meal taken in haste. Veryadan’s bandage had been reinforced, a binding made tight about it to allow him to sit upright on his horse. Aidwain had dismounted from his own horse and given Veryadan a leg up, so that he might mount more easily. By the time Veryadan had settled himself in his saddle, a fine bead of sweat had broken out along his upper lip and his face had turned quite pale. A new fellow, whom Veryadan had not met, rode up alongside him. Andas, he introduced himself as, Andas Loudewater of Bree. The man’s lengthy introduction of himself kept the Ranger’s mind focused on the unfolding of the story and off the discomfort whenever the horse’s gait jostled him.

+^+^+^+^+

The company kept to the East Road as they made their way toward the Last Bridge. It was wide enough for them to ride several abreast of each other, and the view to each side of the way was for the most part unobstructed. Enough so, that they could keep a wary watch for any enemy who might pursue them. With several short rest breaks on each day’s journey, and a late afternoon stop time, affording a long night’s rest, Veryadan was able to muster the strength to keep going each day.

It was on the second day, when they had just entered that part of the road that made its way between the low wooded, rolling hills to the south and the flat plains to the north with their scattered thickets of oaks and maples that they had the sense of some menace following closely along behind them. The watches were doubled that night as they made their camp and settled in for an uneasy rest.

[Primrose Bolger]

Broga sported a makeshift eyepatch over his left eye – an old piece of leather from one of the pouches they’d gotten when they’d raided the Whittleworth’s for gold. A piece of thin cording, appropriated from one of the Orcs packs, served to secure it round his lumpish head. Walking about in the dark, he’d discovered was difficult with only one eye. Distances were hard to tell, and several times he’d stepped down hard in a depression that was deeper than he’d thought or banged his toes on a rock that was higher. Grimm, of course, had hissed at him to keep quiet; they were supposed to be sneaking up on the camp.

They lumbered toward the little camp, trying to stay upwind from the horses. And trying also to make as little noise as possible. That is, until they drew near the picketed beasts.

‘Is it time now?’ asked Broga knife in hand. ‘Cut the rope, eh?’ he whispered as they arrived at the tree to which one end of the picket line was tied.

‘Wait til that fellow marches by with his bow. And keep real quiet til you can’t see him no more,’ Grimm returned. The two Trolls retreated a bit and hunkered down behind a rocky outcropping, their eyes peeking over the top at the horses. The sentry came and went. Broga and his brother crept nearer the line. The wind shifted for a moment, and the horses, nervous from their previous encounter with the Trolls, began moving restlessly at the dreaded scent.

Broga cut the line with an upward thrust of his blade. Snatching the large iron pot he’d placed on his head like a helmet, he beat upon it with the metal pommel of his knife, making a deafening racket. Added to that was the loud yelling Grimm had started. Both brothers ran after the horses as they fled, herding them in the direction of the other pair of siblings.

At a sign from Grimm, Broga broke off his horse chasing and headed back to the pre-arranged rendezvous with the Orcs. From their vantage point among the trees, the unwholesome alliance watched as the men and Elves struggled up from sleep and attempted to deal with the escaping equines.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

As the horses rumbled into the distance Arrald limped through the dark toward the camp of his enemies. His wounds still smarted terribly from the battle and his puny eyes blazed with hatred at the thought of the she-elf. He longed to feel her crumple beneath his club. . .

Behind him Dim stumbled in the dark, but Arrald was too focused on the task at hand to shush him, so Dim shushed himself. Arrald stopped and waited by a large rock. He rubbed it gently and chuckled to himself. "Yas," he drawled with small-minded glee. "This ought to do just nicely; just nicely indeed!"

"What will do, brother?"

Arrald wiped a drop of saliva from the corner of his mouth. "It will do to crush the limbs of a pretty little Elven maiden, me lad," he chuckled. "Those there horses as Broga and Grim have scared away are important to these invaders. Without them, see, they have no hope of getting away from us. So they needs to go after them."

Dim nodded. Then said, "I don't understand."

Arrald sighed quietly, wishing for the patience to deal with his slow witted brother. "Well," he began, "when they come running past this here rock, we're going to push it down this bank toward them. There are all those other nice rocks and boulders and dead logs, and we should be able to start quite a nice little avalanche. I should think that at least one or two of the invaders will have a very nasty surprise when they run down this way. . ."

Dim nodded once more. "Now I understand brother. I'll help you push it all down on them, smack!" and he clapped his hammy hands together in token of what would happen to their quarry.

"Yes, yes, that's good, but rememeber -- if that Elfy-girlie goes after the horses wih the rest be sure to watch for my signal. . .I'll want to make sure that this here boulder falls right on her pretty little head!"

[Nuranar]

Tarondo awoke instantly when the racket broke out, hardly needing the terrified whinnies of the horses to know what had happened. As he buckled on his sword, a movement across the encampment caught his eye. "Hold it!" he snapped at Menecar, about to pursue the stampede. "What is it?" he demanded of Luinien, who came dashing up from watch on the far side.

"Trolls," she gasped. "They cut the picket line and stampeded them off to the east. Thoronmir says no one's out there right now."

"We need to get them back!" Menecar insisted, worry creasing his brow.

"We will. You come with me, you and" - he glanced around the circle - "Silrûth. Everyone else stay here. Do not leave until morning, but don't wait for us, either. This could be an ambush, or we may need to go a long ways. We can find you. Luinien is in charge until I return."

Without another word he strode away from the fire, Menecar and Silrûth behind him. Luinien broke the silence first. "Aidwain, will you take the rest of my watch? I'll wait up until morning and perhaps scout around a little. The rest of you had better go back to sleep until your watches."

Aidwain left, and slowly the camp settled down again. Luinien sat, wrapped in thought, by the dying embers of the fire. Finally she rose and went out into the night.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Menecar volunteered to follow the horses straight along the path they took, while Silrûth and Tarondo shadowed him on either side. They slipped silently through the rocks and trees some distance from the path, keeping up with his brisk walk.

Tarondo, on the north side, had actually outdistanced the Ranger some fifty yards when he heard a rumbly murmur directly ahead. Instantly he froze, then crept noiselessly toward the sound. Soon he discerned words as the voices carried more clearly. And they were definitely Troll voices.

"Are they here yet?"

"No. Be quiet."

One second passed.

"Why don't they hurry up?"

"I told you" - interrupted by the first.

"Somebody's coming!"

"Where?" Tarondo thought he could see a darker shape move up ahead, straining down the dark path for a glimpse of the approaching Ranger.

"There's only one, brother. Is it her?"

"Naw!" the second growled, disappointedly. "It's too big. But let's get it anyway. Come here. Now... heave!" Grunts and groans from ahead. Tarondo had heard enough.

He stood up and dashed to the road, running to cut off the Ranger before he reached the danger point. "Menecar!" he shouted. "Menecar, stop! Off the road!" Behind and to his left, hoarse Troll-bellows heralded the rush and crunch of the boulder as it left its bed. "Silrûth, get back! There are Trolls, starting a rockslide!" In a flurry of dead leaves he slid down onto the path, directly in front of Menecar. Grabbing the Ranger, he hurried away from the road, angling back to the west. Behind them a growing roar heralded the approach of the slide...

[Kransha]

“C’mon. Lemme kill ‘im.” whined Búbkûr, a grimace maligning his already grotesque features. He was tired of listening to the rumble of commotion that issued from the trees beyond his reach. The trolls were doing their duty, of course, but that did not mean that he had to be pleased with the progress of the ridiculous plan underway. It was not his style, this hit-and-run harrasment of the enemy. He preferred head-on engagement, simple, blunt, crude, barbaric combat.

“Show some patience, will ye?” Gráthgrob snapped back, irked and cross, “This is a gradual process, one that takes time.” He was, as always, the voice of cold, ruthless orcish reason, which was not exactly to Búbkûr’s liking. The other orcs, though, worshipped his oversized brain, a fact that severely nauseated Búbkûr. He had never wished for intelligence, or the gratuitous gift of pretty speech. His own tongue was a fine tongue, and a tongue that suited him fine. Knowing big words and how to properly use them did not impress Búbkûr, and he thought it ought not to impress any other orc. As the orcs nearby, squatting, sitting, kneeling, and reclining on the forested earth, nodded in agreement, Gráthgrob continued. D’ya want to have fun with the fools, or just plain kill ‘em?” He was pushing his luck, assuredly, but Búbkûr was in no mood to get physical, or overly emotional about his opinions. Bâzzog had doubtless placed his affiliation with Gráthgrob, and thus, inadvertently, defeated anything the Búbkûr could think up.

“I’m quite partial to killin’ ‘em, actually.” The other orc retorted, wittily, for him. He grinned in an oafish manner, looking away to conceal the expression, as he considered the cleverness of his comment, but his moment of mental glory was severed and abruptly beheaded by a quieting growl and words from his commander, Bâzzog, who was peering darkly through the gnarled, low-hanging tree branches at the opposing camp far off. “Quiet!” he roared, though stifling his thunderous bass voice and is rippling, throaty undulation, “Ye want to wake the very dead with yer voice, glob? You’ll rouse the Elves and the tarks, that you will.”

This annoyed Bubkur further, but he thought back to the trite specifics of his wishes. His eagerness was fueled primarily by anger, and a want for vengeance. He’d never been as vilely injured by any man as he had been by that foul ranger. In fact, the most grievous incident and wound he’d experienced did not come from a Dúnadan, thus making the injury he’d been dealt all the greater to his easily inflatable ego. He was, within, filled from his bulky head to his talon-tipped toes with mad, incendiary rage at the nameless Ranger. This had been long considered since the skirmish at Weathertop, and afforded Búbkûr no little amount of grief and anguish, though only the kind of fiery, molten grief that an orc can experience.

“They’ll be up anyway, soon ‘nuff,” the lieutenant grumbled, sitting again, “…Jus’ lemme kill the one tark: the one who gave me this.” He indicated, coldly, the wound he’d been issued in the last combat, which now bore a ragged, tattered cloth bound across it tightly, stifling the flow of black, near-acidic fluid. “Lemme fill my hook up with his flesh and then ye can do what ye want.” He clawed and raked the air in illustration, but Bâzzog waved him down again. “Ye can have ‘im later,” he responded, unemotional and void of real feeling, “when the time is right.”

“It’s the bloody right time now! Sha!” Búbkûr cursed loudly, springing to his feet and sweeping his rusty hook hand in a simple arc, “If we don’t get to ‘em, the bloody ologs’ll kill ‘em!” Bâzzog turned, nearly swatting at him in his rage, and the mere look in his eye stabbed through Búbkûr, and the orc crumbled back into his seat feebly. “Worm!” Bâzzog spat, “The trolls couldn’t kill a paralyzed ox. They’ll just soften up the goodies for us, they will.” Búbkûr was, obviously, subdued by the statement, but he was determined to resist another defeat, and so, after his captain had glumly turned, he struggled to his feet, with a meeker air, and waddled over to the gangly orc bowman, Kransha, who stood erect in his usual place, somewhat distanced from the clump of orcs at this fringe of camp. Kransha’s calculating eyes were occupied, but a couple of rude pokes in the arm alerted him. Búbkûr, thinking of a vague, but workable possibility, posed a question to the seemingly mute uruk.

“Kransha, you figure you can hit one if’n ya get in a tree or somethin’?”

Eventually, Kransha nodded.

“See?” Búbkûr exclaimed, turning and yelling excitedly to Bâzzog, “‘E could hit ‘em! ‘E could kill ‘em as easy as those trolls! We oughtto jus’ let ‘im stun ‘em, or wound ‘em, or somethin’ and we can have ‘em all to ourselves!” Bâzzog spun again, moving, despite his rugged bulk, like a shadowy wraith borne on the winds, and flitted right up to Búbkûr, to within an inch of his flat face. Shocked, Búbkûr staggered and slipped into the dust with a heavy thud. “Pushdug,” the orc captain rasped, “o’ course ‘e can hit ‘em. But, if ‘e does it, we can’t ‘ave no fun. Now then, sit down and shut up. When they cross the Big Bridge, we can hit ‘em. Then ye’ll get yer chance. Ye can have all the tarks if ye really want. Kransha and I’ll handle the Elves. If all goes well, the trolls’ll get killed in the fray, and we can get back to Bree-land.”

Búbkûr nodded dumbly, questioning his own action, and scooted back into his place. After the outburst, the camp seemed dejected, and many eyes fixed on Bâzzog, each pair set before a different thought, a different contemplation. Some might have even been entertaining the possibility that Búbkûr had the right idea. Their voices dwindled, like the withering light in there eyes, and they turned their minds and words to other things, speaking in morose, conspiratorial whispers. But, Bâzzog did not seem content with their inaction. Suddenly, his dank grimness turned to a sickly merriment, and he swiveled and trounced forward and back, past his troops. “Don’t be down, lads.” He said, a smile twisted onto his face, and gleaming teeth peeking out of his mouth, “T’night’s a good night, with a sky of red, the kind that Gundabad was under. We’re in luck, boys, I assure ye. Let’s ‘ave a song fer the night, fer they’ll be blood in the mornin’.”

[Primrose Bolger]

While the fun of the night’s adventures was not to be denied, especially not to His Malevolance, Bâzzog, Grimm and Broga were growing restless. And hungry, very hungry. There had been no raids in the past few days, no lovely sheep, or goat, or stray creature of the four legged or two legged persuasion to roast on a spit or boil up for stew or just gnaw on raw. Broga had hoped to drag one of the Elves off as a prize from their last encounter, but he’d been denied this toothsome delight; his poor reward being a poke in the eye with an Elven arrow, instead.

‘I wants food . . . great hunks of meat . . . not anymore of these Orcish, dried-up travel-meats,’ grumbled Broga from under cover of the trees. Grimm’s belly rumbled loudly in the night, drawing snickers from several of the Orcs standing near. Snickers turned to squeals as Grimm grabbed up one of the creatures, grinning wolfishly at it. ‘I’m so hungry, brother,’ he crooned to Broga, ‘I could even eat one of these nasty tasting bugs!’ He clacked his great, snaggly teeth at the whimpering Orc and heaved it up into the branches of one of the nearby trees. Broga, a wicked gleam in his eye, reached out toward another of the Orcs, all of whom then quickly scattered well out of the grasp of the Trolls.

‘What say we get on down the road, like the Chief wanted,’ Grimm whispered. ‘Find us something fresh to eat.’ Grimm motioned for his brother to follow. Broga’s brow beetled. ‘The Chief?’ Grimm nodded, pulling his brother toward the eastern perimeter of their little stand of trees. ‘Little sneak attack, remember?’ Grimm prompted, his arm linked firmly with his brother’s. ‘The bridge . . . just before the Shaws?’ Broga’s face had gone blank; no flicker of recognition for these plans shown in his eye. He shrugged and followed along beside Grimm. No use in trying to dredge up facts that had leaked from his brain. He trusted his brother - If Grimm said it was the Chief’s plan, then the Chief’s plan it was. And besides . . . the thought of fresh meat caught along the way had set him drooling. Visions of marrow filled stag bones quickened his pace.

The brothers kept well off the road as they ran along. To their left and now just a bit behind them were some Elves and men haring after the spooked horses. The last of the rocks that Arald and Dim had pushed clattered down ineffectively to a resting place behind them. Broga and Grimm could hear the thumping of the other two Trolls as they ran from their ambush site. Arald, it seemed, had been thwarted in his attempts and was bellowing out his frustration. Grimm wondered aloud if those two would manage catch up to them. Four Trolls would mean more than one deer would need to be taken.

He was pondering this question as he ran along, when the jarring sounds of Orc voices rent the night air. Broga shook his head and urged his brother to an even faster pace. ‘Can’t stand what passes for Orcs singing,’ he snorted. ‘Like two polecats tied in a bag, what with all their hissing and yowling like.’ Grimm laughed at his brother’s assessment. ‘And those noises they always throw in at the ends of verses – like some buzzard choking on a day old skunk. No proper rhymin’ at all. Gives me a headache!’

In a low voice, Broga sang out a few lines from an old Troll ditty. Grimm grinned and joined in, the cadence of the verses making their feet fly.

Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
Done by! Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by . . .

-----
- from The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, ‘The Stone Troll’, J.R.R.Tolkien

[Saurreg]

Somewhere upon white cliffs, a small green tortoise is thinking about flying…

But eight hundred miles and several time zones away, Loudewater was sitting cross-legged and creating chicken scratch with a twig in hand. It all happened too fast for the simple farmer’s mind to fully grasp the development of things. He was starting to think that perhaps tagging along with the Gondor’s finest was perhaps not the highest item in his to-do-list. But when the huge and impossibly stone-faced Tarando stood before him, there was nothing else to do but to agree with all terms under the withering stare of glaring elven eyes.

”Louderwater!”

“s,”

”You will travel with us, do you hear?”

“s,”

“You will do exactly what I say, yes?”

“s,”

“Good. Now take off your pants…”

Of course the above conversation never took place, but the farmer was very sure that if he did not agree to stipulated terms of treaty (or capitulation), the elf was going to put those huge powerful hands around his scrawny throat and squeeze just to see if eyes of Bree farmers’ eyes pop out from their sockets if the applied pressure was about right.

Old stone face wasn’t around. He, the incredibly tall elven amazon (whom Loudewater quickly decided has a “do-not-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-squeeze-till-your-eyes-pop” demeanor) as well as Thoronmir’s younger companion (a pleasant chap) had gone off to find out what happened to some of their mounts.

At least killer had the sense not go bolting around at the slightest spook. Either that or the mule was too dumb.

Loudewater felt eyes upon him and looked up from his doodling.

“Loudewater,” a mellow voice intoned across the fire. It was Thoronmir, the ranger who saved him.

“Yes sir?”, queried Loudewater meekly.

“Firstly, you need not address me as sir. I did not ask you to do so and neither does current circumstances warrant for it. Thoronmir will suffice,”

“Yes sir… erm I meant Thoronmir,”

“And secondly, do not think unkindly of us my friend. I can tell from the way you brood, that you are starting to feel unhappy with the development of events. Tarando wishes that you join us only for your own safety. The roads as you’ve seen for yourself today are no longer safe. Rest assured that once the situation permits, you will be allowed to return home unmolested and unharmed. This I pledge on my honor as a ranger of the king,”

The ranger gave Loudewater a wane smile,

“Trust me my friend.”

Loudewater looked at Thoronmir and could not help but break into a smile of his own. He was struck by the ranger’s sincerity and knew that he wanted to trust the man wholeheartedly.

“Yes… Thoronmir,” Replied the farmer awkwardly, “I apologize if my behavior has been rude and insulting to you and… and your companions. I trust you… friend.”

The ranger smiled again and this time there was genuine warmth.

Loudewater threw the useless piece of twig away and suddenly felt his stomach rumble. The pang of hunger made Loudewater remember that he had not eaten for an entire day. He looked towards Killer’s saddle and was relieved that his bulging fanny pack and flask were still firmly secured. Loudewater got up, made his way to the mule and removed the said attachments. He then returned to the circle around the fire and announced to all those who were still awake,

“I erm… left me house with some provisions to sustain me on the way. Seeing that nobody’s in the mood to gather or hunt, or that it’s even possible under such circumstances, I’ll be more than happy to share.”

The Rohirrm Osric whom Loudewater learned also played a part in saving his life, had returned to the camp. The farmer beckoned the newcomer to join him as he sat down, emptied the contents of his bag and proceeded to pass them around to anyone interested in good nature.

He was tempted to go and shake the very badly wrecked Verdayan awake violently so that he could eat (a wounded man needs to sustain his strength even more, no?).

[Alaksoron]

Osric sat beside Loudewater, in a foul mood. He accepted the food gratefully. Delving into his saddlebags, which he had fortunately brought in before the trolls bolted the horses again, he produced a few flasks of ale and passed them around.

Finishing his meal, Osric took out his whetstone and started sharpening his knives. He made small talk with Andas as he did so. That fool Tarondo had gone prancing off just after attempting to correct Osric, but they were going to have a talk, when he returned.

[Nuranar]

The slide had rumbled to a stop in the rough ground just on the other side of the path. Tarondo and Menecar found Silrûth waiting for them. From the sound of it, the Trolls, foiled by the failure of the rockslide, were not in pursuit. But that was no reason to wait around. Wordlessly the three ran on through the darkness.

The horses were huddled in a hollow scarcely a thousand yards further. Riding their own mounts bareback, they led the rest in a wide circle to the south. The land seemed alive with crashings and creakings, as if all the Trolls of the north were coming down upon them.


The eastern sky was turning grey when they reached camp once more. Not until he dismounted did Tarondo see Thoronmir, standing motionless against the trunk of a twisted tree. "How has it been?" he asked as Silrûth and Menecar rode up. Tiredly the three led the horses toward the erstwhile picket line.

"Not a sound since you left. I made your sister get some sleep, about two hours ago."

"You did? Good for you." Tarondo surveyed the land, shadowed and vague in the beginning light. "Those Trolls are still about, and they're planning. There are orcs, too. Silrûth and I both knew it, although we never saw them. I know the horses are tired, but we need to leave as soon as there's light enough."

Thoronmir looked at him critically. "The horses aren't the only ones that are tired. You need to rest. Come on, I'll call you in an hour."

Experienced campaigners, Menecar and Silrûth were already snatching what sleep that they could. Tarondo smiled ruefully. "You win."


By the time the sun rose above the mountains, the companions were in the saddle and several miles down the road. Stampedes and rockslides? Tarondo thought. We can handle that. If only they don't get any more ideas...

Still ahead of them lay the Last Bridge, their halfway mark. But beyond it, the Trollshaws.

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Here’s our path,’ cried Grimm, motioning the others closer. ‘Can’t hardly see it, brother,’ grunted Broga, who had grown tired of their long hours of running. Two deer only they’d seen and those small does. ‘No time for cooking,’ he’d been told. ‘Got to eat them on the fly. We’re to be ready when the Chief drives the men and Elves to us.’

Arald and Dim peered down the faint and overgrown track the Grimm had spied. Choked with fallen stones and trees it was, but they could tell that at one time it had been much used. It was a wide path, really, though the low growing grasses had crept in upon its edges. Someone or ones, strong of arm and heavy feet had made it. Old trees had been cut or pushed over, and large rocks had been split in two or heaved aside to make the way.

Down the track and through the dense fir trees they lumbered until they came at last to the stone walled foot of a hill. Grimm hurried ahead, halting as he reached a door hanging crookedly ajar on a great metal hinge. ‘This is it,’ said Grimm with a satisfied grin. ‘Now to see if the old buzzard’s home.’

‘Harry!’ the voices called out; one of them yelling into the dark, littered cave, the others bellowing about the camp. ‘Wonder where he’s got to,’ Broga muttered, following Grimm down through a thick wooded slope to a clearing a little ways away. Three Trolls the others could see – one was stooping while the other two stared at him. ‘What’s ‘e bendin’ over for?’ asked Dim, craning his neck to see. Arald inched forward, his great foot stepping on a downed branch. Crack! The snapping sound echoed in the area but Trolls in the clearing did not move. ‘Must be deaf!’ Dim said. He frowned as Broga chuckled. ‘ ‘ere! what’s so funny?’ said Arald wondering if the three Trolls they were spying on were of the hospitable sort.

A great rumbling voice startled the four lurkers from behind. ‘They’re deaf alright, and stone to boot, poor sods. Kilt by some wizard afore the war. Now what are you four doing in my little bailiwick?’

Grimm came forward and made the greetings for the group, reminding Harry of their distant relation. A few questions from Harry resolved the truth of the blood connection for him and he invited the four to share in a large pot of mutton stew he had going at his little place further along near the creek. Rested and well fed, the four Trolls invited Harry to have a bit of fun with them. They spoke of how the Orcs were driving some men and Elves to the bridge and how they had promised to harass the small group from the east while the Orcs pressed them from the west. Grimm looked up to see where old yellow face was in the sky. ‘In fact, if we amble back to the clearing where the Stone Trolls are, we can find ourselves some good places to swoop down on the blighters.’ Harry was none too sure about working with Orcs, but Grimm just shrugged, saying, ‘They get in your way, just mash ‘em.’

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Harry elected to take up a position atop a large rocky formation that stood to one side of the clearing. There were plenty of loose boulders strewn on its surface that he intended to rain down on the foe. The four other Trolls hid in the shadows of the thick stands of fir that ringed the area, spacing them selves about the clearing.

Now all there was, was to wait for the Orcs to drive their quarry to them . .

[Kransha]

The twanging of bowstrings resounded and the whistle of arrows, rending the wind and air, resounded through the dank corridors of the fir forest. From the thickets and ample cover of the furry shrubs in the forest, uruk archers rained down an assortment of narrow, jagged bolts onto the company of their opponents. Before, beneath, and beside them rang the clang of hoof against earth as the enemy group’s horses bolted and panicked, though they were soon set under control by their riders. The riders galloped swiftly from the open and into the checkered shadow of the trees, concealing their silhouettes from the orcish archers. But, the archers persevered, firing frantically into the woods. They did not lose their organization, but maintained order, and fired in the direction of the horse’s neighs and maddened whinnies, their arrows puncturing the hanging branches and rustling the higher bushes. Arrows, tipped with liquid red, stabbed harshly into the soft earth and cracked asunder the stones that lay by the wayside with their strength. Many bolts pockmarked the path of the riders, filling up the earth where the tracks of their horses were printed mere moments after they passed by, gallivanting forward at great, hurried speeds.

“Fire! Fire!” Búbkûr’s voice continued to speak, crying out in its raspy, thick tone that burnt the ears of those who heard it with its vileness. Not disposed to ranged weaponry, Búbkûr had busied himself with the exercise of leaping up and down, to and fro, and brandishing his hook profusely, stabbing and hacking in the supposed direction of the enemy. Hotly, he jumped forth from the trees, jabbing forward and back, as the nine orcs crowded around him fired a single, unending volley, a hail of arrows falling from their crude, short-bows. Some, who were not apt with bows, were armed with other weapons that could be shot or thrown. Two had a small supply of crude javelins, short hunks of wood with sharpened tips that fell gracelessly and lacked accuracy, but would be deadly at close range. Two more of Búbkûr’s nine bore crossbows, probably stolen and not of orcish manufacturing, for they were more lithe and comely, though they had been tainted with stains of blood and mud by the orcs who bore them.

Not too far off, on the other side of the trodden path that the enemies were taking, was the troop commanded by Kransha. Bâzzog, who had again not deigned to engage in combat, had split the force of twenty-five uruks that was to corner and lure the opposing force into a trolly trap into two distinct parts. One, consisting of ten orcs, including Bubkur, was the melee unit, technically, whereas a group of orcs who had been trained specially by Kransha had been put under the command of their silent educator. They were providing the more precise, and efficient archery from the cover of the trees. That company numbered fifteen, to Bubkur’s ten, which was a point that made him mildly irate, but did not distract him. He was busy enough thinking about what he would do to that tark-dug who’d dared to hurt him when he got his hands on him.

“Keep them down, boys!” cried Búbkûr, his fervency still fresh and full, “Fire low!” He maneuvered to the side, and his section of the orcish troop moved gradually with him, edging towards the destination they had been assigned. They were drivers, meant to direct the tarks and Elves to a designated locale, one where the trolls, who now lay in wait at the ready, could overcome and subdue them with relative ease. In addition, the orcs would be able to spread their forces and herd the fools right into the area, so they’d be hopelessly surrounded. The very thought of this cruel but satisfying action brought a grim smile to Búbkûr’s wretched face, and he licked his lips, balling his one hand into a tightly clenched fist. With a number of gestures, he pointed his men towards the clearing where the trolls bided their time. He caught obscure glimpses of the other troop of orcs, who were still raining fire down on the orcish quarry.

“Thrakul!” he bellowed in the Black Speech, his voice carrying through and over the dense underbrush to Kransha’s company, and then turned to his own men. “You four,” he said hastily, indicating the two orcs with crossbows, and two with bows, “keep firing. The rest of you, get moving. Drive ‘em to the clearing.” The four remaining, as well as Búbkûr, turned tail and ran, dashing recklessly through the forest, past various woodland obstacles, attempting to head off and herd the Rangers and Elves, and their mighty-voiced mounts. They surged toward the clearing, where slivers of vague light from above penetrated the shade of the forest, and the dusty beams shone down on a trio of figures, who stood stock still, their outlines blazoned against the darkened greens and browns behind them. Búbkûr ignored to still figures, though, and concentrated his weak mind at the task as hand. He crowded his own men, who put up their ranged armaments, save for the two javelineers, who turned their weapons up in their grasping, wrenching arms and waved them as stabbing spears. The orcs poured forth, with the hail from the other orc troop raining on their foes before them.

“Take down the horses!” roared Búbkûr, “Attack!”

The orcs, not mounted, ruptured their ranks and dove at the braying steeds. In the first moments of the direct combat, one of the orcs was kicked full in the face by the iron-hard hooves of a horse, and, bleeding and twitching fitfully, the first casualty rolled limp into the dust beneath a weeping shrub. Only slightly irked, Búbkûr carried on. The company was not yet in the clearing, not yet near enough the trolls. Búbkûr, as his men charged forward, followed by the four archers from behind, still firing without aim, turned his head towards the outcropping and slopes where Kransha’s orcs were perched and cried out, “Find Kransha! Gimbata!” at the faces he saw poking out from between swaying branches, slipping into his own tongue again as the command flew out of him. Moments later, the arrow rain had increased, and the bolts grew in accuracy. In a flash, one horse of the many had gone down, riddled with arrows. As his eyes returned to the fray, Bubkur recognized the rider as that tark who’d injured him.

Before he knew it, his legs were carrying him in huge bounds forward towards the man as he rolled from beneath the empty ruin of his still flailing steed.

At this moment, the second troop burst through the trees, and the battle began in earnest. From behind the Stone Trolls, and the forested objects opposite the orcs, five trolls issued, roaring madly and gleefully as they fell on their prey. The battle moved too swiftly from the trolls to the opened clearing as orc, Ranger, Elf, and Troll clashed at the central point. The arrows abruptly stopped whizzing, and their swift sounds were replaced by the loathsome cackles of orcs as they strove forward. One of Kransha’s troop, a surly fellow with a curvy knife and a shield that looked as if it might be have been a table-top once, tackled the Rohirrim from his horse, and the two wrestled in the dirt as the other orcs closed in, with trolls a-clobbering on the other side of the field. The battle had begun…

And, up on the sloping hill from whence the orcs had come, stood Kransha, searching for a target…

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir urged his horse faster. The orcs had come out of nowhere and were now gaining on them. He had just reached the huge petrified trolls in the clearing when his horse fell to the ground, dead from several arrows. was in serious trouble. His horse had been killed off and was pinning him to the ground, and he was now in the middle of the Stone Trolls facing off against a big orc, the same, in fact, who'd fought him earlier at Weathertop. The orc, violently enraged even by orcish standards, raised a gigantic curved butcher-knife of a sword over his head and swung. It hit the ground right next to Thoronmir, who barely managed to twist away in time. With a lot of effort in a fairly short time, the ranger pulled his long knife loose from under the horse's body and jammed it into the orc's foot, who howled in pain and rage. Thoronmir got out from under the horse during that brief interval and turned to face his attacker, who had just pulled the knife out of his foot. Thoronmir swung at the orc with his sword, but the stroke was blocked by the orc's falchion. Thoronmir tried to duck away, but the orc managed to hit Thoronmir in the side with his hook, knocking the wind out of him. Suddenly, the orc was hit by an arrow as Menecar dashed onto the scene followed by Andas Loudewater. More orcs appeared, and Thoronmir managed to get back his strength, pick his knife back up, and fight. He slew two who were trying to get at Loudewater, using the three stone trolls as cover before turning back toward the huge orc who, if it was even possible, was even angrier than before. Menecar tried to tackle the orc as Thoronmir swung his sword, but at the last second the orc flung Menecar off him and ducked Thoronmir's swing. Thoronmir looked and saw that Menecar had crashed headfirst into one of the stone trolls, probably dead. Thoronmir, in grief and rage, hit the orc so swiftly with his sword that neither one was aware of what had happened. The orc staggered backward, blood oozing out of a gaping wound in his stomach. He ran at Thoronmir in a murderous rage, not knowing anything except that the ranger must be killed at any cost. Thoronmir ducked and rolled to the side out of pure instinct to avoid the orc's rage. The orc, however, couldn't stop his momentum and plunged at full speed into one of the petrified trolls. The weathered stone behemoth rocked back and forth from the impact, then toppled over, crushing the huge orc along with several others of his kind.

Thoronmir got up, turning to fight the still-numerous orcs. Suddenly, he saw one on a nearby hill, taking aim with his bow directly at Andas Loudewater.

"Look out!" the ranger said, pushing the farmer to the side. The arrow from the orc's bow, meant for Loudewater, instead scored a direct hit on Thoronmir's left arm...

[Nuranar]

Tarondo's horse, maddened by the darts of the orcs, had carried him past the clearing where the stone trolls stooped. Hurriedly checking the animal, he wheeled and plunged back into the fracas. Tarondo had rarely fought on horseback before. Although he had a considerable advantage over the dismounted orcs, it took all his skill to control his terrified mount. All his faculties were focused on riding and striking at the orcs that rose up before him.

An orc, trying to even the odds, flung itself forward, wooden spear aimed for the horse. Just in time Tarondo parried, splintering the weapon. Even as he lopped off the orc's head, he heard a dull thud. Glancing up as a flicker of movement caught his eye, he saw one of the statues move. An instant of bewildered disbelief, then Tarondo spurred his horse... But that instant cost him dear. A huge arm, broken on impact, ricocheted off the ground and struck the horse broadside.

The force of the impact threw Tarondo to earth. Rolling over, he grasped for his sword and scrambled to his feet. Abruptly Thoronmir staggered into him, an arrow in his arm. "He's good!" the Ranger gasped. "Up there - he has a bow."

"Let me at him!" growled a rough voice in his ear. Osric stood at his elbow, spattered with orc blood.

Tarondo looked up the hill and saw the dark figure of an orc, looking for another target. Even as Tarondo sprang forward, Osric on his heels, the orc saw him. Tarondo saw the gleam in his eye as he sighted down the arrow for one instant. Even as his mind told his feet to dodge, he knew it was too late.

Just as released the taut string, a Troll-flung boulder sliced the air between them. The next instant something struck Tarondo hard just above the knee. The joint buckled immediately and his momentum slammed him into the hill. Osric rushed past without a glance.

Then the pain hit, biting and clawing, as if the arrowhead were burrowing in with malevolent energy. Clenching his teeth, Tarondo grasped the shaft and wrenched the arrow out. Swiftly he tore cloth from his tunic and bandaged the wound. Even as he stood, leaning on his sword for support, his eyes turned not up the hill but down. Where is Luinien?

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan’s only thought was to cleave his way through to the other side of the clearing. He fought as he could from the saddle of his mount, slashing savagely at the Orcs who darted in with their jagged edged swords. Several had scored glancing blows against his boots and one bowman had driven an arrow into his thigh. He was wearying. The twisting and turning from side to side had torn open the gash in his flank; he could feel the blood beginning to seep from the saturated bandage and run down his side.

Two Orcs went down beneath his blade as they rushed him. Another rushed forward, slashing Veryadan’s horse hard across the chest. The horse reared, finishing off the Orc under his sharp hooves. The Ranger saw a small opening in the ranks of the attackers and kicked his horse hard in the flanks. He’d almost made it to the far side when some large missile hit his left shoulder and knocked him from his mount. He clung to the sword in his right hand as the force of the blow made him skid along the dirt on the clearing floor. He pushed himself to an upright position, just in time to see one of the Trolls bring down his horse with a blow from his large club.

As he bent to rip the horse’s leg from its shoulder, the Troll’s back was to Veryadan. Mustering what strength was left to him, the Ranger charged the Troll, his blade leveled at the back of the creature’s leg. He drove it in, forcing it deep with the weight of his body behind it. The Troll roared at the pain, his leg buckling beneath him. With a blind blow at the man behind him, the Troll sent Veryadan reeling back against the unyielding leg of one of the Stone Trolls, the man’s sword clattering from his hands as his body came to an abrupt stop.

[Saurreg]

Loudewater hit the ground face-first and took a mouthful of dried leaves and dirt. He spun around and discovered that Thoronmir was injured – the shaft and feathered end of an arrow sticking out of his arm. The ranger was learning against a large stone outcrop, face turning deathly white and sweating as he fought hard to catch his breath.

Loudewater scrambled onto his feet and rushed to his injured companion’s side.

“Thoronmir! You are wounded!”

There was nothing much the panicky farmer could do. He could dress little cuts or create slings for broken arms, but to assist one who has been injured by a dart of war was beyond him. Loudewater was gripped by a sense of lost as he looked around for the other riders, hopping that someone had seen the incident and was coming to their aid.

But that was not to be. The ambush was far greater than it was at Weathertop and every single rider was fighting desperately for his or her own life against overwhelming odds. As Loudewater looked about terror-struck, he saw the pathetic corpse of Thoronmir’s young companion – Menecar, face down and lying motionless. There was a gapping wound on late ranger’s head where fresh blood poured out profusely surrounding the body in a crimson pool.

Through the din of clashing blades and demonic war howls, Loudewater’s hearing picked out deep grunting that was getting louder and louder. He looked in the direction where the sound was coming from and saw to his horror that a huge orc was bounding towards him and Thoronmir. The beastly humanoid was getting closer and closer with every movement of its greatly muscled limbs and the deadly glare of its feral yellow eyes filled him with a sense of dread.

Loudewater shrieked in terror as he back stepped clumsily and crushed into the wounded Thoronmir who grunted in pain. Loudewater turned back and saw the brave ranger grimacing in pain as he valiantly attempted to step forwards and engage this new foe.

It came to him uninvited and unexpected when Lenny taunted him…

The orc came closer and as he did, it raised a huge black scimitar and roared triumphantly,

It came to him on the morning after and infused him with great happiness and hope…

There were new orcs who had found their nerves under this new leader and there were also advancing, with less confidence but nevertheless, still advancing.

It deserted him at Weathertop and left him witless and timidly again…

“Loudewater! Get behind me!” Thoronmir commanded as he mustered his strength to overcome the poisonous barb. The orcs were getting closer, some were flanking out to the sides. Loudewater and Thoronmir were like fish caught in a closing net.

And now it’s back with a vengeance…

“NO!” Loudewater roared in a voice that was not his own. Pushing the injured ranger back, he leapt and placed himself before the orc and its intended prey.

The great beast came to a clattering halt and faced the farmer hesitantly. This was an unusual prey. A prey whose eye’s known shone mad with a maniacal fire.

“Get back you brute! Or… or face the fiery of Andas Loudewater, man of Bree!” stammered the farmer excitedly as he drew his dagger out from its sheath. The blade, Loudewater noted with some satisfaction, seemed to glimmer with the faint quicksilver.

“Luurrggwarger… luurrgwarger?” repeated the mystified huge orc silently. It body suddenly convulsed uncontrollably. Suddenly, it threw its mane covered head back and howled with hysterical laughter. It was laughing at Loudewater’s name. The rest of the lesser orcs joined in. They started chanting his name in jest.

The hood of Loudewater’s cope covered the eyes of his lowered head. The dagger hilt held so tightly that the farmer’s hand was trembling.

“Do you think that’s funny brute? Do you think my name is funny, beast? DO YAH, YOU PIECE OF DEAD MEAT! ARRAGGHH!!!!!”

Loudewater leapt forwards faster than he ever recalled moving before. By sheer inertia and surprise he crashed into the huge orc and knocked it over. With uncanny reflexes, he actually got the better of the orc and sat on its barrelled chest in a schoolboy pin. The thrashing orc tried to push the farmer off him, but adrenaline gave Loudewater a burst of strength and he continued to pin the orc under him. Sensing that it’s doom was near, the great orc did what its kind could only do under such circumstances.

It whimpered.

But fate has dealt the orc a cruel deck. For here was not Loudewater, the gentle farmer from Bree. This was Loudewater the angel of death. This was Loudewater struggling with a bad bout of midlife crisis.

“Whimper? You brute?” asked Loudewater sardonically in an unusually calm and quiet voice,

“It doesn’t matter, because today is a very good day to die. Remember this day well beast, FOR IT HAS BEEN YOUR LAST!”

With that last shout, Loudewater raised his dagger high and with all the fiery and strength he could muster, plunged it into the face of the beast. The immense blow split the bulbous nose of the creature in half and drove through the skull, crushing dense bone with unusual strength. Bearing resistance to the tip of the dagger suddenly reduced and the farmer found himself being able to drive his blade further in with ease. All the while, the orc’s body thrashed in its death throes about like a marionette whose strings were being jerked about. The dying body went into uncontrollable spasms and started defecating as it lost control of its bowel functions. Strong paws grasped at anything they could get a hold off and found Loudewater’s thighs and even then their strength faded and finally went limp.

As loudewater finally wrenched the dagger from the puncture he created, a jet of black ichor emitted from the cavity of the skull splashed onto Loudewater’s face, covering him in orcish life essence. Loudewater licked at the hot steaming liquid and smiled. He relished the taste.

Like hydraulic pistons, the arms of Loudewater continued to pull and plunge his dagger into the smashed head of the orc. Loudewater laughed as he continued the mutilation.

[Esgallhugwen]

The unsettling silence was broken by the swift wailing of arrows. Their horses grew mad with horror as they raced into the trees.

As a flurry of devilish orc arrows was loosed upon them the enemy set upon them in raging fury. Already the battle was being lost, as horses fell alongside their brave noble riders.

Falma reared breaking the neck of a slimy black rampaging orc. It didn't halt them for a moment, heaving grunts were heard before rocks and boulders were seen flying through the air.

As her companions were tossed about like play things of a reckless child she was nearly un-horsed by a creature howling with glee. Her sword quickly saw to the problem dismembering the head from the body.

Still another came flying at her, black sword in hand, her horse shrieking desperately trying to kick at it. A fleeting thougt of using her bow was extinguished, too close its too close, she frantically swiped at the orc with her blade, taking a slice out of his arm.

Though it cried out and backed away in pain, the orc seemed all the more enticed to take the Elf down. Yet again the orc came at her brandishing his curved sword, this time he wasn't so fortunate, the Elf cut the sword from his arm the hand still clinging to it; Falma in a rage picked up the nasty tasting orc with her mouth and whipped him into the air trampling him when he came wailing back to the ground.

Silrûth raced about her hair flying out behind her like a golden banner, frantically trying to find her companions through the debri and shouting. Two Stone Trolls had fallen and she could only fear the worst for her friends when Aidwain leapt by still on his horse.

She could not help but smile at his fortune.

Silrûth thought she heard the clear call of Luinen's voice, her attentions were turned to Tarondo who was galloping back to get Thoronmir. Her and Aidwain quickly turned their horses onto the enemy and engaged them as best they could.

With every stroke another orc was forcefully brought down by the skilled Elves, with every stroke they were slowly brought closer to escape.

[Saurreg]

Loudewater got off the gravelly path bruised and sore. The second ambush had unnerved poor Killer so badly that it reared, threw his master of its back and bolted in the direction of the fords in blind terror. Poor simple beast never made it – cruel orcish barbs founded their mark in Killer’s girth and the mule crashed and tumbled into the side hedges with a sickening thud.

Loudewater grimaced with pain as he attempted to get on his feet when a humongous troll killed by Luinien crashed onto the ground not far from where the farmer was, earth shaking tremors sending the loose-limbed farmer sprawling again. Loudewater cursed at himself and at generally anything that came to his mind. The day was turning out to be more interesting than he had hoped for.

Loudewater got up again in even greater pain and was rewarded with the view of a miserable-looking orc standing before him. The orc seemed to be a little smaller and bent with age than those that Loudewater have seen before. It’s grey skin was incredibly wrinkled and spotted with blemishes and molds. Unkempt patches of grayish white hair dotted its head and the thing seemed to be missing teeth – lots of them.

Loudewater never knew that orcs could look so old or rather, could live this long.

The wizened old thing appeared to be mesmerized by the bloodshed and chaos going on around it that it did not notice the farmer from Bree until the moment the latter got up. Shrieking with surprise, it spun to face him brandishing a pathetic looking scimitar that has seen much better days. The beast’s movement was not fluid and it appeared to be extremely hestitant and uncomfortable confronting a foe of another race.

For his part Loudewater was in no mood to fight any way. The novelty of killing died soon after the battle of the Trollshaws and as of then, the dirty and tired farmer simply wanted to make his way to the fabled dwelling of the elves in one piece as soon as possible. A combat was not high on his list of things to do. Nevertheless Loudewater introduced the orc to his own dagger.

Both gladiators stood facing in crouched positions waiting to pounce on the other as soon as one made the wrong move, but as both combatants were so reluctant to fight (one was unused to using its brawn than its brains and the other was just to dogged tired), both simply stood at their spots not moving.

This is ridiculous… Thought Loudewater as he shifted his weight on the balls of his feet. The tensed orc yelped and readied itself, mistaking that the farmer was about to make his move. Loudewater could clearly see that his opponent was just as unwilling to fight he was. It seemed that a compromise could be reached. Loudewater tried,

“Hey you!”

The nervous yellow eyes continued to stare in attention.

“Do you understand what I’m saying buddy?”

The orc gave a sharp quick nod of its head which surprised Loudewater. Whoever thought parleying with an orc was possible?

“Look here, you don’t want to fight me and I don’t want to fight you either. So let’s just call it quits. I am going to count to three… Do you understand one, two, three? Good! And we are going to step back slowly and turn away from each other. Understand?”

Intelligent eyes continued to stare at loudewater intently even though the orc nodded his head quickly, almost eagerly even.

“Good, one…” begun Loudewater as he started to countdown. But even then the orc was starting to retreat. It did not really bother Loudewater that his opposite was not adhering to the stipulated terms of agreement – the faster he was rid of it, the better.

“Two…”

Just then the huge troll slain by Tarando crashed onto the ground and its huge wooden club bounced and ricocheted across the battlefield. Young and nimble orcs leapt out of its way as if they were engaged in a game of “dodge that club” and the huge heavy weapon continued its path straight towards the old orc who was so focused on Loudewater that it failed to see it coming. The club smashed into the wretched creature and took it along for the rest of its journey, leaving behind a trail of black orc ichor and bits and pieces of bewildered orc.

Loudewater raised a surprised eyebrow to the unexpected freak occurrence.

[Primrose Bolger]

Look just like ants, don’t they?’ whispered Broga, watching the Orcs pour in to battle the men and Elves. Grimm grunted and rose to his feet, motioning for his brother to follow along. He had spotted a likely looking target – two men on a horse and one looked wounded, from the way the man behind him held him upright with one arm.

The wounded man’s companion spoke a few words in the other’s ear. The wounded man, bending low over his horse’s neck wrapped his fists tightly in the mane. The other man had gotten down from the horse and given the beast a whack on the hindquarters, sending it flying through the melee of blades and clubs, toward the water. On foot, now, the man had drawn his blade and now stood back to back with one of the Elves. Orcs ran, tripping over the fallen of their own number, after the wounded man on the horse.

‘That’s our prize!’ cried Broga. ‘I want that horsey for supper, I do!’ He galumphed after the Orcs, scattering them right and left as he swung his club.

Grimm left his brother to the crunching and crushing of Orc bones and ran after the escaping horse and rider . . .

[Alaksoron]

Osric stood back to back with Tarando, fighting off Orcs and covering each other. A troll lumbered into the battle, and then another, but Osric was quite busy with the Orcs. Tarando dashed off as a troll attacked Luinien, carving his way through the impeding Orcs.

Orc's fell left and right from Osric's blade, and corpses soon began to pile up in a circle around the thin Rohirrim man. Concentrating, he thought of nothing but killing. This was a much larger force than they had encountered before. The sword might as well have been part of his hand.

Osric noticed two more trolls appear. And he noticed something else. Orcs were beginning to avoid him. Good.

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir was in no condition to fight, yet he had to try nevertheless. The ranger rode into battle, but stayed mostly on the outskirts with his bow, firing from a distance at the orcs, whose numbers were too great for the weakened ranger's arrows to do much good, even though he must have slain at least three. As he saw the trolls coming, he knew that this was not going to be good. The orcs had rallied around their leader, who appeared to be wounded but not injured.

Thoronmir would not die without finishing what he had set out to do. He fitted an arrow to his bow and urged Luinen's steed forward. The orcs' arrows flew around him and blades nearly chopped his head off, but Thoronmir kept coming, too fast for the orcs to do enough damage. He released his bow at point-blank range, and knew the arrow had hit the mark. The orcs' leader had taken it and was now gasping for breath. Thoronmir's task was done. Suddenly, though, a large club knocked him out of the saddle onto the ground. He tried to fight, but the world was now swimming around him. He was losing consciousness.

[Esgallhugwen]

Silrûth had purposely lagged behind in order to prevent the Orcs from gaining too much of an advantage if they were to come from the rear. But that wasn't the case and as they rode on she became all the more suspicious and cautious of the foreboding in her mind.

The red rock walls rose up to meet them she was reminded of the sun before they left Bree, she was reminded of blood.

To the North they came, a filthly current that contrasted too sharply with the glimmering silver river.

With the reflexes only capable in an Elf she nocked an arrow and drove her heels into her horse sending the mare head long into the fray. With a speedy delivery the golden arrow found its resting place in the forehead of an Orc that dared to get too close to Luinen.

Falma's hooves thundered across the ground crushing one or two Orcs not nimble enough to get out of the way. Her target was chosen and she would not relent.

An arrow already stinging him thanks to Luinen, the thick black ooze known as Orc blood was trickling down his dark hairy arm. Quickly taking preference over her bow she grasped the handle of her sword.

Unsheathing it from the leather scabbard she swung fair enough at the squinting black creature only to come up short scalping him instead. The Leader yowled out in anguish clasping at his head, but he soon was overcome with rage snarling and spitting at her.

The black blood was dripping into his ferocious yellow eyes, he knashed his teeth and swore at her in his inaudible tongue. He made a daring slash which barely grazed her leather boot, she took her foot from the stirrup and knocked him in the head with a swift kick to the jaw.

He was sent reeling, but sadly Silrûth's luck was not meant to hold out, an Orc arrow had found its way into Falma's right flank, the horse screamed and reared unexpectantly. Silrûth toppled from her mount, Falma raced off towards the Ford after Veryadan.

She cursed to herself as she steadied her legs preparing for foot combat. The Orc smiled fearlessly, "so the little She-Elfie has gone and lost her horsey", he glared at her the blood tinting his yellow eyes.

They ran at each other simultaneously effectively countering eachothers blows. But as she sliced open his left arm, he struck her just above the hip on the right, Silrûth grunted in pain, the wound was not life threatening but it stung badly.

Her left hand quickly covered the wound trying to stifle the bleeding. For her brief moment of bewilderment had passed a second arrow was now protruding from the orcs rib cage, her eyes widened in disbelief as she caught sight of Thoronmir.

He was soon dislodged from the saddle by the heavy swing of an oncoming Troll. She cried out but was tackled to the ground by the gasping Orc.

He grabbed her by the hair and started to bash her head into the ground, as her vision began to cloud and blur she reached for her boot, and there hidden within it was a cunningly sharp dagger. Silrûth through her dizziness missed his throat and instead penetrated his abdomen.

A sharp gasp escaped his lips as he rolled over onto his side, they both lied there choking for air despite the chaos that swept about them. It was Silrûth who rose first despite her heavy swoon, she wobbled to her feet and gained her balance with the help of her sword.

Unsteadily she suantered over to the heaving Orc and raising her sword, in one swift motion she decapitated him, "too good of a death for you!" she countered before edging off towards where Thoronmir's body lay. Her hope was that a horse would be near by to make a quick escape with Thoronmir's body intact.

Where is the Bree Farmer?

[Saurreg]

Loudewater shoved aside two little orcs and got behind their leader who was about to slay Thoronmir with a skull-crushing blow to the head. Almost without thinking, the farmer drove the tip of his dagger into the base of the orc’s head and twisted it. The orc gave a cry of pain and collapsed dead. But as it fell, the dagger broke and left Loudewater weaponless.

Discarding the useless hilt, Loudewater reached out and grabbed the still body of the ranger and feared the worst, but Thoronmir was still warm and Loudewater could see that he was still breathing weakly. Smiling to himself, Loudewater gently laid the head of the gallant ranger on the ground and borrowed his sword. Drawing the heavy blade out of its scabbard, the farmer turned around and faced the inevitable.

The orcs have regrouped and were encroaching slowly, pointing their sharp weapons menacingly at the odd-looking farmer whilst baring sharp fangs and growling. There was no escape this time– not unless he abandoned Thoronmir, and that was something Andas Loudewater was adamantly set against. He would try and deliver Thoronmir from danger, or die trying.

Just then a silhouette appeared to the left of loudewater’s peripheral, the farmer looked and saw that it was Silrûth, the other female elf. She was also badly injured but still holding her ground defiantly. At least now Loudewater knew he wasn’t alone and he felt his spirits rise a little.

Loudewater shifted his weight and readied himself. Who could have thought that hen-pecked Andas Loudewater from Bree would die fighting orcs, hundread of miles away from home, along side the best fighters of the land.

“If only Helga and Prand could see me now…” He whispered to himself softly.

The enemies drew closer and closer.

[Envinyatar]

There was a fire in his side as he bent over the neck of his mount and clung tightly to the horse’s mane. The wound had completely reopened, he could feel the blood run in thick rivulets down his side. He was dizzy, his thoughts slow. He wound his hands tightly in the mane and focused his mind on a single thought.

Cross the river . . .

His mount flew over the long flat mile that led to the ford. He could hear the sounds of the battle grow dimmer, though he wondered if that were just a trick of his increasingly foggy mind. He groaned as the horse’s hooves struck the uneven ground, jolting him cruelly. The water was near, he could see the silvery band draw closer, the currents splashing against the streambed rocks, sending up small white capped waves and feathery spumes as it beat against the larger rocks.

There was a booming echo that swelled behind him, a rhythmic heavy slapping that trailed in his path. Daring a look behind, Veryadan caught sight of a Troll . . . no two, Trolls hurrying toward the river, hunting, drawing closer with their long strides. Their gazes were on him, great threatening hulking creatures, and he their prey. The horse had already smelled their presence, needing no urging from his rider. His long neck stretched out, nostrils flaring as he galloped into the broad expanse of water; stride impeded only by the height of the river as it hit him well above the knees.

Warily, the Trolls entered the River, their great feet and legs stirring up the waters as they surged forward. With each stride they seemed to gain confidence as they doggedly pursued the Ranger.

The waters grew shallower as the east bank neared. Veryadan felt the quick heave and surge of the horse’s body as it left the river and struggled up onto the stony path. The Ranger clung tighter to the horse’s mane as it climbed the steep bank at the river’s edge. He had made it across the Ford.

At the top of the bank, he halted for a moment, bringing his horse about. Across the river he could still see the Elves, men, and Orcs engaged in the chaotic action of the battle. Closer still were the Trolls which pursued him, they had reached the shallower waters of the east bank. A few more strides and they would be clambering up the bank. Veryadan’s horse was winded; his sides heaving from the exertion of the flight. He could feel the trembling of the creature’s muscles beneath him. Pushing himself up as straight as he could, Veryadan drew his sword, preparing to make once last stand. The faces of the Trolls were now near enough that he could see the leering grins on both their faces.

From behind, the deep cries of some host urged their mounts onward. Veryadan’s heart sank at the prospect of more foe behind. But the looks of surprised dismay, turning to terror, on the faces of the Trolls made him turn his head. And there came Aidwain, spurring his horse toward him, followed by a small company of Elves and Rangers. Fifteen greyed-eyed riders, their weapons already drawn, their faces grim as they looked across the river. One of the Rangers spoke low to Aidwain, who nodded his head in reluctant agreement.

‘Come, Veryadan,’ said the Elf. ‘You are given into my care by your fellow Rangers. Let me lead you to the stone bridge that crosses the upper bend of the river and thereon the short path to The Last Homely House.’ Aidwain reach over to take the reins, but Veryadan waved him away with what strength he could muster. ‘Leave me. I know the way. No foe will pursue me in your wake. Ride to the aid of our other companions.’ He put his hand on the Elf’s arm. ‘The foul Orcs will overwhelm them if you do not reach them soon.’ Aidwain hesitated for a moment, but Veryadan had already begun to urge his mount down the path and away from him.

Aidwain trailed the ten Elves and five Rangers who had already entered to ford and were speeding west across it. The two Trolls who had menaced Veryadan had already run off, their escape taking them down the river to the south and there into the woods that lay along the western bank. No need to pursue them, Aidwain thought. They were running in a panicked manner, away from the battle.

The tide of battle turned as soon as the mounted company of Elves and men burst onto the strand and bore down upon the Orcs . . . blades slashing and deadly arrows finding their marks . .

[Kransha]

Gráthgrob was dead, or rather; he had disappeared into the fray, and came out a pile of orc body parts thanks to an ill-aimed troll club. Bâzzog was now doubly injured, with two arrows in him as he charged. He’d fallen, but persevered as a proper; brute of an orc ought to, and continued to saunter, at a less sprightly pace, forward, towards the thinly-spread ranks of the enemy. He was lumbering about, almost drunkenly, with a disorderly entourage bumbling over the earth in front of and behind him. He managed to yank out one of the two offending arrows, but got no farther than that before he was again engaged, this time by a She-elf from afar. In the midst of the muddle of battle, Bâzzog was lost to the orcs, assimilated onto the other side of the field. Many continued to doggedly believe that he would be victorious, but he was too far from his own troops, and was already gravely wounded. He was no match for Elf-kind, not that day. So, it was not a great surprise to anyone when his severed head, mouth hanging limply open and his blackened tongue lolling out, was discovered in a shallow ditch later.

From that point forward, Bâzzog’s personal battles were his own business. Kransha, as usual, was scoping out the field, in disarray, searching for a target, a mark, or anything he could shoot. With both Gráthgrob and Búbkûr dead, the orcs had become confused over time, and some were routing, but the heavy numbers involved were still able to overwhelm the opponents, despite all their hacking and slashing and erroneous combat techniques. Kransha himself, one eye pursed and the other squinting delicately, meandered in a careless fashion, his fingers tightly constricting around the cold wood of his bow and the bolt fitted to it. He tried to hone in on an adequate target, but the plane as it sloped into the river was clouded with battle’s mists. He had managed to salvage a bow from the last skirmish, though it was not as proficient as his last, and he was not yet accustomed to it. He would have to find a close target, one who was not moving too fast, too nimbly, or too erratically. At long last, he found one.

The gangly orc recognized this one. It was the leader, probably, who he’d put an arrow into at the Battle of the Stone Trolls. He could only reckon that the man he saw was the leader, out of his complex figuring over the length of several minor skirmishes. The fellow had a commanding air in him, not one of a grand general, but of a captain of men all the same, and struck Kransha as the sort of man who might lead an expedition of sorts. Squinting further, Kransha leveled the jagged shaft balanced on his hand and nocked to the bow at the unnamed man, searching for precision and the perfect moment, waiting with distinguishable orcish patience for him to be completely vulnerable. Suddenly, the man’s eyes fell upon him, and widened momentarily as he continued to rage through orcish lines. Realizing that he had no time to spare for aim or concentration, Kransha loosed the bolt from his bow. It soared, like an aimless shaft of light, or dark, over orc heads and at the man. But, the enemy leader was quicker than Kransha had assumed, and Kransha’s aim with the new bow was flawed. The shaft nearly fell short, and the man simply had to maneuver lithely to his side and break into a mad dash towards the opposing orc. Kransha now knew he could not fire again, for the time it would take for such a motion could dearly cost him. Somewhat dejected, his dropped his empty bow to the ground and ripped out his two red-stained blades, not hesitating to shoot off from the ground in a head-on sprint.

He charged, and the two collided at a central point between them, frantically flurrying their blades. The force of the first collision threw both combatants back, and they staggered for a fleeting second, before Kransha lunged. As he fell on his prey, the man dodged again, swinging his leg and shoulder about to the side so that the orc pouncing fell instead upon rocky ground. As quickly as his skeletal pair of legs could carry him, Kransha flung himself back as the man’s sword pierced the earth three times in succession, drawing nearer to him each time, but never reaching the orc form, since he leapt out of the sword’s stinging path each time. After the third mighty swing, Kransha stabbed forward, but his blade was knocked aside and retaliated to with another series of flourishing arcs by the enemy sword, one of which cut a swath through Kransha’s shoulder. The orc grunted, a bubble of bracken blood bursting from his lips as thin rivers of reddish-black welled up and ran down over the orc’s chest. Only annoyed, Kransha picked up the pace, his efficient movements turning to a hammering rain of heavy bashes dealt onto the man. The enemy parried, but could not dodge around the assailing orcs, and was forced to take each maneuver on the chin, almost literally. He backed up, towards the river’s immediate banks and past orc, man, and elf alike as they tore about the field.

The battle between the two quickly grew harsher, and both poured a greater well of their energy into it, each sustaining wounds that grew heavier in weight and number as time passed. Kransha was stabbed twice in one arm, and was dealt a great wound to his hip. The muscle burst and blood coursed over his flesh and leg, causing his steady, swift movements to become ragged and disconnected as it became harder for him to stand. One of his arms swung, more disjointed, and his grip on that arm’s weapon was loosened by a foul mixture of sweat that secreted his rough palm and warm blood that now covered his hand. The orc was the very model of bloodshed, a portrait of battle’s wrath as he became himself more erratic and less connected with his usual profound tactics. The man, on the other hand, was bashed about himself a great deal. Bruises and stab wounds soon found a home on him, the brunt of a punch from Kransha’s steely hilt gave the man a great wound on his forehead, which pulsed with painful energies and caused the man to slow his pace as well, his senses swimming and his agility dulling. Still, though, both warriors were equal in their combat.

That situation was abruptly ended when Kransha got the upper hand. One arm’s limpness could be used to an advantageous end, as he discovered. Numbness has distilled in his limb, but it was now unfeeling, and so he had leeway to flail it madly, without fearing for his arm’s safety. Several times, the arm itself struck the man, dealing him bruises, but also several times did the blade, practically hanging from the arm’s stiff fingers, slash across the man’s chest, drawing more thick blood. With a groan of stifled pain, the man collapsed backward; onto the hard ground, clutching at his wounds were they lay and his sword fell ignobly to his side. Kransha, not even able to comprehend the fact that he might, in truth, win, bore up both his blades into his hands, aiming down at the man, and plunged them down, ready to impale the fallen figure and nail him to the ground. Both of his weapons fell simultaneously, shooting downward, but the flesh they yearned for was not found.

The man beneath him, ignoring his wounds, sprung upon his legs and rolled again, pulling himself away from Kransha’s falling weapons. Just as they had before, the pair of long knives dug into the dirt instead of into man-flesh. Kransha did not notice until he heard a vague windy whistling from the patch of earth to his side, letting his grip on both weapons slip away, and his dangling arms, numb and useless through and through, fall to his side. He turned, half in awe, half in confusion, and half in anger, to see the man swinging his sword in a huge arc. The blade flew like a warm summer gust of air on a cold day, and then rested, hovering in mid-air, opposite of where it had begun.

At first, both warriors were breathing hard, standing stock still in their places. A second after that, Kransha’s chest stopped heaving, and then drifted away from the point beneath it. Slowly, the orcs upper half fell away, and all of Kransha above the torso clattered noisily onto the ground. After the passing of a moment, his two legs had crumbled in the opposite direction. The man did not linger over his kill, and quickly leapt over the two halves of the orcish whole, not tarrying to aid those who followed him...

The orcs were now in full disarray...