Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[piosenniel]

Durelin's post

As leaves were disturbed in the underbrush of the forest, a cold finger came down to touch Calenvása’s skin and run down his neck. The drop of dew had clung to the leaves well into the morning, hiding from the sunlight of the early morning. The elf forced himself to remain still, though a tremor threatened to run through his body and his hand desired to brush away the itchy stream of water. As he had come to learn after years of practice, becoming someone else was the only way to escape feelings. Calenvása let his mind focus on what his eyes observed, and let it free to view the scene from whatever direction it wished. It of course was impossible for his mind to literally wander freely; it felt so odd only because this was true serenity.

What his eyes observed through thick growth and scattered branches and leaves hanging down into his line of sight was, in particular, a rather large orc garbed in an assortment of leather armor that still left quite a bit of dark skin bare sit and sharpen a huge slab of metal that was obviously thought of as a sword. Not two feet away another orc stood; and another; and another. It had been quite some time since this many dark creatures had been gathered in one spot. In this case, their numbers were so great that they had to gather outside the forest. Because of this, Calenvása could not get close enough to see how large a force was actually gathered here. But his eyes proved keen enough to tell that this was an army, and one comprised of thousands of orcs…

A flash of gold far away before him and to the right caught Calenvása’s eye. An army comprised of thousands of orcs…and southrons, and, as always, easterlings, too. A more sophisticated type of armor could only mean that evil Men were a part of this force as well. That was to be expected, of course, if this force was meant to carry out specific orders. These specific orders were one of the most important things to be learned from observing this force. For now, though, the most specific Calenvása wished to get was what this army’s destination was.

Calenvása decided to break the serenity and turn his head slowly to each side. He could see the elves that crouched beside him and behind him in the underbrush. They had been intently observing the movements of every single creature assemble among the swiftly clearing trees on the edge of the forest, but Calenvása’s slight movement had brought their eyes to him. Slowly bringing his hand up where it would be visible to all around him, he motioned to them and gestured behind him. They would need to meet to discuss their observations and decide on a plan of action.

One by one the elves moved deeper into the forest, deeper into the cover of the trees. Calenvása waited quiet and still for several minutes to make sure that he was the last to move. All the while his thoughts tried to piece together any clues he might have seen, going through the pictures in his searching for any information that was not obvious. All the while he could only wonder which route the army would take. Would they head north, to attack the part of Mirkwood still held by his kindred? Or would the army head east and south, to the Golden Wood, a sanctuary of beauty and home of his brothers?

It had been several years now in which the darkness had been growing, and the role of Calenvása and these elves as scouts had become of dire importance. Much rested in the hands of Calenvása, who had been given command of this scout troop or Mirkwood. He wished with all his heart to help Mirkwood fight back against the Shadow, but he could not help but be discouraged, especially with the image of thousands of orcs assembled just outside the boughs of his home.

Finally feeling that he had given his comrades enough time to make their way a safe distance from the creatures that so tainted the forest, he carefully made his way through the underbrush still in a crouch, and sheathed his belt knife as he did so. He had felt safer with it in his hand as he kept his eye on that orc sharpening his sword.

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Arvedui III's post

He always liked this time of day best, and a thrill ran down his spine as the rest of the scout troop crouched among the shrubs and underbrush. The uncouth sounds of metal and iron shod moving in unison and the familiar but slightly harsh sounds of a force breaking came, filling him with mingled excitement and dread. This was a hunter's dream, this abundance of game. And yet, it was also quite disturbing that a troop he could not see the end of was moving near Mirkwood. His blue eyes flickered from one orc to another, not lingering on the grime and blackness of their arms, armor, their very skin.

Targil lithely rubbed the grey pommel of the dirk that hung by his side, taking care to make any noise in the dewy morn, grinning quietly at the prospect of the hunt to come. Well, if the captain thought it well to hunt. There was a great many of the foul creatures, but Targil had learned long ago that a good elf was worth at least twenty orcs. Perhaps he was being far too keen, and mentally berated himself for jumping to conclusions again. Whatever Calenvasa thought best to do was what he would do. Yet, of all the officers he has served with, that one was the most pensive. It tried his nerves sometimes, but most of the time the captain was right, so Targil was grateful for the exercise in patience.

A figure with golden armor passed and joined a party of about ten other similarly clad forms, apparently forming up for drill. Targil frowned. Orcs were one thing, but men were an entirely different matter. Now he gave up any thoughts of a hunt this morning. It would be folly to go after such a large party, he finally realized. His brow knotted in frustration as he sensed this troop of orcs and men were far beyond his area of expertise. So much was lately, it shouldn't have surprised him. If orcs and men were marching together, the reason for their marching had to be great, and so too must be their numbers. The group they had spotted today was probably naught more than a detachment in a host far more vast. The thought sent chills down his spine.

Quiet suddenly, he sensed his captain moving, and quickly looked over to see what was happening. Calenvasa glanced briefly around at the small band he commanded, and then motioned to withdraw further into the woods. Targil couldn't have been more grateful for the respite from the tenseness of the underbrush. He turned and tread softly back, making sure to give distance between himself and the other scouts. Relaxing and trusting his ingrained sense of stealth would protect him, Targil glanced back toward the vanishing camp, fear now being replaced by apprehension. He stopped, crouching between two roots, and looked to his captain, and then around at the others. All of them glanced nervously around at each other, each elf not daring to brake the silence, wondering what was to be done about the day's discovery.

Targil only hoped one of them knew, for he surely did not.

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Firefoot's post

The Orc army was illumined in the late-morning sun - but not him. He was crouched in the dense underbrush of the forest, hidden in the shadows and invisible to all save the other Mirkwood scouts nearby. Careful not to make a sound, he crept forward and slightly to the right to get a better view of the Orcs he was watching. Cold hatred gleamed in his gray eyes. He reached up and fingered the feathered end of an arrow in his quiver. It was of no use at the moment, but later... then the Orcs would die, pierced with arrows.

Thorvel refocused himself on what he was supposed to be doing: observing the Orcs. The army stretched away in both directions, and from his vantage point he could not see either end. He had never seen so many in one place before. Smaller bands of Orcs, those could be dealt with relatively easily. But this? They had no facts as to what the army was planning on. Thorvel didn’t, anyway. So what are we going to do about it? he wondered. Fight them off, of course. Defeat them. All of his senses revolted at the sounds of thousands of Orcs all arguing in their uncouth languages and the clank of metal on metal.

As he turned his head away to the right, the large group of men garbed in golden armor caught his eye. Southrons! They were only slightly better than the Orcs, in Thorvel’s opinion. If at all. They were better fighters, too, not like the Orcs who delighted in and knew little more than killing. Suddenly the significance of this hit him. They must have some kind of great cause to be gathered together in such a way, and he wondered at that. They obviously had no intention of failing in what ever it was.

He supposed then that their first goal would be figuring out what the army was going to attempt. Were they going to attack his home in Northern Mirkwood? Or would they go after nearby Lorien? Either way, he was determined to fight them to the death.

It wasn’t long before Thorvel perceived his Captain moving in the stillness of the forest. He looked back around to Calenvása on his left and saw the other scouts doing the same. Calenvása lifted his hand and motioned for the scouts to retreat deeper into the forest to their meeting place. He saw some of the other scouts moving slowly away into the forest, disappearing even from his keen Elvish sight. He turned and followed them stealthily away, curving out to his left in order to maintain his distance from the others.

Thorvel came upon the other Elves and stood against a tree. His muscles were tense and he was at attention, aware of everything that was going on. His face was hard and his chin was set firmly, and his eyes, though flecked with uneasiness, held a smoldering fire. He took note of the other Elves waiting around. All of them were on edge, ready for anything. The final stragglers wandered in, and last of all came Calenvása. Thorvel considered him a bit queer, but he trusted that Calenvása could come up with a solid plan against the Orcs. The silence was complete but for the sounds of the forest around them. He almost spoke, but thought better of it. He could express his opinions later, after the Captain had said his piece.

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Hama of the Riddermark's post

Lómarandil was hidden under a carpet of leaves. Seeing Calenvása raise his hand, he slid backwards slowly and crawled on his stomach out of earshot of the orcs, then he stood up to a crouch and ran as fast as he could, his light elvish feet making little imprint on the leaves and twigs beneath. Reaching a clearing he sheathed his two knives that he had kept drawn since the orcs had been sighted. He kicked a tree in disgust, “Foul creatures! Utterly worthless hunks of meat!” he spat the last word out with bitterness as he turned to face Dol Guldur. “Damn Morgoth to the deepest pits of misery for creating them!” he said with a sad look on his face.

He sat down and took his bow off his back. He took out a knife and began to carve a design onto it. He smiled as he saw all the others he'd carved over the years. This time he cut out the shape of an orc, incredibly detailed, and carved an arrow going through its head. Chuckling he stared into the woods. He heard a faint crunching sound, like a clumsy foot breaking a twig...

Lomarandil was gone in a flash, up a tree. He looked over and saw an orc, closely followed by two others. Lomarandil smiled as he heard them start to talk, listening intently for any more information.

"Bloody trees!" he heard the orc say, "I hate them, I hate elves as well...stupid bloody animals." Lomarandil couldn't supress a grin as he heard the orc say this. He raised a single eyebrow in mirth, as the orcs continued to talk.

"We gotta stay 'ere for a while." a second orc said. "Them elves mustn't know that we aren't attacking them here." a second orc grunted loudly, "Yar, stoopid elvish tarks can't know we goin' for tha' uther wood, tha' big one!" he said, obviosuly pleased with himself for making this deduction. Lomadrandil nodded slowly. "They are heading for Lothlorien..." he said quietly...

"Hur?" he heard an orc say, "I heard something, stoopid tarks hiding in trees..." he looked up and started to turn in a circle, scanning the treetops for the elf he'd heard. Failing to find him, he grunted loudly and turned back, shouting at the others to follow. Lomarandil breathed out heavily. That was close...he dropped to the ground when he was sure the orcs had gone. Silently he made his way to the designated meeting place, as he entered the clearing he saw the others. "Mae govannan." Calenvasa announced. Lomarandil nodded and walked up to the group...

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Amanaduial’s post - Koran Cenrbyt

Koran Cenbryt brushed at a curl of dark hair that crept from behind his ear as he leant over his pack, checking for anything he may have forgotten and running over in his head the route that the army would take. West verging a little South from the North side of the fortress, towards the Wood of Golden Leaves, where...

This was not by any means the first expedition he had been on, and neither was it one that he especially wished to be involved with; but, ironically, it was the one that would probably be most important in the future. The young Haradrim warrior shook his head wryly at the thought, his hand reaching to the beaded necklace he wore, feeling the delicate carving of the flame on the central bead. ’I won’t let anything go wrong…the Cenbryt clan is mine, mine by right, and so it shall remain, no matter what my cousins plot and scheme together…

Koran was not against the rest of the clans, of course: such a thought would be foolhardy, especially when his was waning so much, especially in the last few weeks and months – his cousins, although set to gain his clan for their own, were nonetheless slowly eliminating by sending off on foolhardy missions many of the older warriors who were close to Koran. At this rate, if Koran as to fall, they would inherit a clan without any warriors left! Still, although it was of course a diplomatic move that he saw the sense in, Koran nonetheless felt uneasy about the mission – there was something not right, something that was being hidden from him in all this, even though he was commanding the separate force that would then split off from the main army. That would, of course, include orcs – he curled a lip slightly at this. He detested working with them – he steadfastly believed beetles to have more intelligence than the filthy Uruks. And when he was actually meant to be commanding as an equal with one of them…he shook his head again bitterly. If my brothers were still alive…

“Koran Cenbryt?” The words made the warrior look up to see a younger man standing nearby, at a respectful distance. He rose from his crouch to be level with him, squinting against the sun from the high outpost. The man looked to be several years younger than Koran, and had a surprisingly boyish face, although it was currently all seriousness. As Koran rose, wiping one hand on the back of his trousers, the younger man touched the back of two knuckles of his right hand to the centre of his forehead - a respectful salute. Koran inclined his head - the man was obviously not his superior then, although he still didn't know who he was.

"I am Ehan Fazian," the man continued by means of an introduction. "I will be joining you in the force that splits off from the main army and we will, I gather, be together for most of the journey."

Koran nodded again. "Koran Cenbryt," he added, just to introduce himself personally, although the other obviously knew who he was. Ehan grinned suddenly. "Not a man of very many words, hmm?"

Koran, surprised at the casual tone and phrasing, raised an eyebrow, and the other man raised his chin very slightly, defiant if it came to it. Then he grinned. "If we are to fight together, you may think differently by the end," he replied, his voice soft but more friendly now. "Come, we must join the rest of the force - I suppose you know the route already?"

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Aylwen's post

"Come, we must join the rest of the force - I suppose you know the route already?" Ehan relaxed visibly as the man called Koran began to speak in a more friendly manner. The younger easterling let did not hide his amiable expression anymore, though he had already begun to wonder how well his personality would match Koran's. Ehan feared the worst, perhaps a head-on collision and clash between Koran's persona and Ehan's light-hearted simplicity. Still, Ehan pulled himself from the short look into the future and back into the present where he knew his head always belonged, and decided to cross all bridges when he got to them.

"Of course I do, sir!" Ehan cried gallantly, drawing his rapier dramatically and pointing it in the direction of the pathway that led down to where many easterlings had set up camp. Where the orcs were, Ehan did not know, but the thought intrigued him anyway. Seeing such ugly monstrosities brought rise to the blood-thirsty warrior in Ehan, despite the disappointing fact that these 'ugly monstrosities' would be on his side in this whole expedition. What a shame...to think how much fun I could have slaying those things. But there are other enemies. Snapping out of his reverie and realizing that he still stood motionless with his rapier held in the air, Ehan chuckled, embarrassed, and continued, "Yes, right. Onward!" and sheathed his sword.

Ehan led Koran down the path that went downward from the slight hilltop they had formerly been standing on, even though Ehan realized that Koran must have known the route as well. Trying not to kick up dirt on the excursion to the campsites. Ehan looked back once to see Koran looking off into the distance, and the young man wondered if Koran was in another time and place. When the two reached the bottom of the rocky, dusty hill, Ehan turned to face Koran once again. This time, the man hit Ehan with a question before Ehan could say aught else.

"How many has your clan sent with you?" Koran asked, looking at Ehan momentarily before stealing a glance at the sturdy men (and some women) behind Ehan, all the warriors from different tribes and clans.

"Well...I would imagine close to five and ten men...or, well...maybe almost twenty men and women. You know, the Fazian clan has rather strong-minded and strong-bodied ladies, as well. My sister-" Ehan stammered at first, but what should have just been a simple answer turned into a lengthy explanation. When Ehan noticed that Koran didn't seem to have much time for stories, Ehan quieted. "Yes. Well, I would say fifteen strong men and women come from the Fazian clan."

"Right. Good," Koran mused, a light smile playing on his lips.

This is going to turn out to be very interesting...Ehan thought. Yes, I can tell already.

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Orofaniel's post

The rays of sun hit Herding in the face. He spit and looked down. His eyes needed some time to get used to the light before he looked up again. It wasn't hard for him to imagine a world without any light, not just a little. The thought was ever tempting, he figured. Maybe it would come too pass? he thought as he got up. He smirked. His hand moved to his forehead and he then removed his yet black hair that was ruining his vision. Now it was clearer.

The sight that met him was the usual; Haradrims. He didn't like the look on their faces, but he knew that they were excellent to use for his own purposes. And since he, himself was a powerful Captain everything was perfectly fine. Although Herding was a cruel man, he was respected by his followers. Well, after all, it was expected of them to respect their Captain. He moved slightly from his spot and he noticed that a Hardarim was now walking towards him. "Captain," he said as he approached him. His face was slightly miss formed (probably from earlier battles), and his voice was harsh and unfriendly. His armour was dirty and slightly too big for him, which made him move slower than usual Men - It wasn’t hard to spot. "Who will lead the force that splits of the main army, sir?" He asked now sounding a bit friendlier than before.

Herding looked at him for a moment. "Koran Cenbryt, will lead them, if I remember correctly," he said stiffly even though he had no difficulties remembering who was going to lead them. His voice inflicted nothing but jealousy. Herding was jealous indeed; he had hoped that he wouldn't have to stick around with these foul men for eternity, but it looked like he would, even though he wanted to or not. "Why do you ask such a question?" Herding asked suspiciously. "No reason, sir," the man said and was about to turn away from Herding. But of course, such an answer wasn't acceptable with Herding. "I want a real answer!" he said sternly and looked at him with great disgust. The sweat from his forehead was now pouring down his face. He used his hand to wipe it away. The man looked astonished by what the Captain had said, since he didn’t mean anything is specific by the question. He kept quiet for a moment.

"We, me and the others in the camp, were just discussing it, that’s all, sir," he forced unwillingly. He was also sweating now. It was probably because of the big armour he was wearing, but Herding wasn't certain. Herding didn't want to discuss the matter anymore so he raised his hand and told the Haradrim that he was free to go. "Thank you sir," he said calmly and bowed.

Herding was left alone again as he watched the Haradrims slowly awakening from their deep sleep.

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Kransha's post

One cold eye, a narrow slit set deep into the bare skull of the eye’s owner, scanned the tranquility and peace around them. The eye, though icy like winter frost, bore a shrouded fire behind it that glowed like a dying ember, still persistent enough to glow with pale and sickly light. The limpid orb moved from side to side, over viewing the surrounding area, the eyelids that held it narrowing further each time the looker saw something that displeased him. His single dark pupil would focus and shrivel into a precise dot as it scoped out the undesirable object obstructing his line of sight. The hill of Amon Lanc was devoid of trees, a piece of barren rock and earth jutting up from the forested plain of Mirkwood not too far from where the orc squatted contemplatively. From that hill spurted Dol Guldur itself, the malevolent fortress, its reaches stretching upward into the cloudy sky and its shadow looming over all things nearby. Unfortunately, some trees, though in their final days of life, still stood at the bottom of the hill.

Like many other of his kind, Thrákmazh hated trees, even the broken, dead ones. He hated all trees, every solitary leaf, arching branch, twisting root, and wooden knothole, everything about them. There were too many blasted trees in Mirkwood and Thrákmazh had long dreamt of taking a sturdy ax to all of them. As he knelt, rough-skinned knees creased beneath him, he could almost here the snapping of splinters from great trunks and the whistling in the wind as each column on natural beauty plummeted from its niche in the earth and crashed into Mirkwood’s rich soil. Slowly, the uruk’s hand lowered, the gnarled branches jutting from his dangling hand, which some might call fingers, and his jagged-nailed digits dug thoroughly into the dirt, closing slowly and drawing a handful of the crumbling substance out, lifting it into the air and letting stray particles slide out of his ruthlessly clenched fist and back onto the ground.

Slowly standing, Thrákmazh’s fist tightened around the dirt, stopping the meager slippage. He stood fully, still hunched over as he took a step forward, letting all the crumbs of earth fall. He was surrounded by others of his species, still lingering and talking in tense whispers in the dirt, just below the vaguely looming mound of the hill of Amon Lanc far off. They were slowly gathering, with the reinforcements of wretched men in the service of the Lidless Eye who had camped on the dusty, forested plain some unknown distance from the fortress of Dol Guldur. It was to be a great force indeed, rivaling many armies rallied in the Misty Mountains and the South, but still not as great as the grandest of Sauron’s hosts. To Thrákmazh, it was merely an event, an event in which he could shed all the blood he wanted, ever standing out from the blind, raging hundreds of orcs who swarmed into this foully shrouded clearing of what had once been Greenwood the Great, on the slope of Amon Lanc. They were to depart shortly, heading from the place that very few of them had ever considered calling home to the detestable woodland home of the Elves, Lorien, which Thrákmazh had already fantasized about razing to the ground, severing every one of the grandest trees from their hold on Arda and setting flame to the land. At this shadowy thought, he grinned, lips peeling back grotesquely. He let the rest of the gripped dirt loose, opening his palm to the ground as he began to speak aloud.

“This earth lacks something” he growled through a mouth of dagger-like teeth, his raspy, deep voice resonating like the hiss of a serpent and the croak of a toad as its volume slowly swelled. The other gurgling uruks, perhaps fifty who heard, turned to him, his cold and grim tone too recognizable to many of them. Thrákmazh, as if he hadn’t noted that their deep-set eyes had turned to him, continued with a kind of excited sobriety, “…It lacks the seasoning of blood…This soil has gone too long without tasting death upon it.”

At this, the other orcs nodded in agreement, some smiling horrible smiles, other simply acknowledging his ‘correctness’ about the matter. Many responded with orcish jubilation, thumped their hands and weapons on the earth to signify their support. Those orcs sitting or reclining sluggishly out of earshot still picked up the brief reverberation, and answered with thrilled grunts and roars of their own. Thrákmazh’s grin widened murderously, but it was brimming with an unusual self-satisfaction as he continued pacing, kicking up the dust. Making these melodramatic tirades against the foes of Sauron was a gimmick, one that furthered his persona. At first, it had been a morale booster, which was something the conniving uruk was good at, but soon enough the habit swelled into a method of casting a new façade over himself, which made him all the greater in the eyes of those around him. He could cultivate his persona, re-inventing it daily, and bring more eager young orcs to him seeking advice on who to slay elf scouts, or to ambush patrols from the north, all because of the pseudo-epic mythos he’d allowed to spring up. The orc captain did not care for glory, but the feeling of hearing orcs behind him and only him, comparing the number of kills they had to his own, heaping praise upon him for things he new to be false, but still filled him with that same satisfaction of knowing that, to a world of villains, he was a hero. As he paced away through the ranks of resting orcs, seemingly countless in their number as the dotted the innards of Mirkwood, he feigned serious contemplation as he shot a roving glance back at the orcs behind.

Some of these, Thrákmazh knew; orcs who’d followed him for a longer length of time than these new recruits, who seemed to be spilling into Mirkwood these days, but Thrákmazh didn’t care. He had orcs to do the will of the Eye, and he had himself to issue those commands that the Eye required. He had all he needed in Mirkwood, all he needed that his masters in Mordor would ever give, and was content as long as he could still kill men and elves and dwarves as the monotonous days passed. One thing he did not need, or want, were the foul things that had infected Mirkwood…men, Easterling men, suddenly spurting up from the ground like those confounded trees. They had mostly populated this camp, were the army was preparing, and more came by the second. Their forces were not as great when compared to the numbers of the uruks, but they were formidable all the same. They had gathered in camps that speckled Mirkwood, mostly centered on a single camp where the weak mortal clans were congregating.

‘Too many filthy men.’ snarled Thrákmazh mentally, breathing harshly like a furious predator after his prey has eluded him. ‘When this is over, and we have the blood of the elves on our blades and our bolts they can fall too. The Great Eye has no need of traitorous mortals in his service. Slaying them would be a service to Lugburz.'

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Alatariel Telemnar's post:

Urkrásh stood, looking upon the Dol Guldur, waiting for his next orders. Staring at what was left of the trees, he pictured them in the back of his mind burning, despite they were barely living. Orcs chopping at their roots, hacking them down, and setting torch to them all. All that he wished to do was of such, burn the trees and kill those who don’t. A glint entered his red eye at the thought. He looked down upon his own limp right hand, and growled to himself in hatred of them. Urkrásh wished to hack and burn them all down, every last one, from the root to every green leaf. Imagining them burning, Urkrásh stared.

He turned his attention back upon his master, who smelled the dirt, ‘This earth lacks something,’ Thrákmazh growled, as he rose slowly, causing the other uruks to look upon him: his voice was very recognizable among them, ‘…It lacks the seasoning of blood…This soil has gone too long without tasting death upon it.’

The uruks nodded, as did Urkrásh, others grinned. He had gone through too few battles, but still enjoyed the smell of blood, and awaited to smell it again. Urkrásh smiled to himself, showing teeth rotted and mostly black.

Urkrásh watched him as he paced through the lines of orcs, pondering to himself. Always alert, always waiting for orders, Urkrásh was. He nearly followed him, but didn’t, and stayed put firmly in his spot, shifting from one leg to another every so often. Life seemed to be going his way, Thrákmazh treated him well, keeping him under his protection, and in return Urkrásh has become his slave. Now he would get to see more of battle, and hopefully please his master.

Looking back upon what was left of the trees again, he pictured not only burning them, but what their task really was. At that Urkrásh smiled again. For as much as he hated trees, he still loved to kill. Urkrásh paced his eyes over the hills. While he waited, his mind wandered off once more, cutting down, hacking into pieces, burning. Every so often looking back at Thrákmazh to see if there was anything he could do to help.

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Arry's post:

‘I heard it was old One-eye going to lead most of us this time.’

Gromwakh muttered something unintelligible in return as his ratting companion, Snikdul, nattered on about the rumored plans for the upcoming battle. They were down in the depths of the cellars and passageways beneath Dol Guldur. Hunting was good down there, the rats plump from the horde of foods stored for the use of the fortress’ little army. The small burlap sack the two Orcs had dragged down with them was filled with tasty morsels . . . some of them still squirming.

‘You gonna stand there and talk while I do the work,’ Gromwakh growled, casting a nasty look at his companion. ‘Think you can talk your dinner to death, do you!’ he picked up a clump of mouldering dirt and threw it at Snikdul.

Silence and the scrabbling of the two-leggeds after the four echoed in the dim, dusty recesses of the main storeroom. Unable to help himself, as he methodically wrung one of his catches’ necks, Snikdul found himself speaking again. ‘Well whatta ya think of that?’ he asked, continuing on, as if there had been no pause.

‘Think about what?’ rasped Gromwakh. ‘One filthy Uruk’s the same as any other. It’ll be “Scum do this!” and Scum do that!” and ours’ll be the backs that bleed when the whips are laid to them.’ Gromwakh looked up, glaring as Snikdul Shhh’d him. He chucked a squealing rodent against the stone wall for emphasis. ‘Stop your sniveling! Whatta ya going on about? Think the stones down hear have ears? Think again!’ He waved a stiff rat’s body over his head, pointing it up toward the top of the hill. ‘All them high-and-mighties are somewhere up there making their plans. And it’ll be our snaga-hides the nasty Elf-blades’ll be cutting on the front lines.’ Snikdul wiped the back of his arm across his dripping nose, giving a resigned shrug to his companion’s comments.

Gromwakh motioned for Snikdul to follow him down the dirt tunnel. Their shuffling steps were muffled by the loose dirt of the floor as they loped along. Dried, twisted roots from the few trees still clinging to life on the hill poked out here and there from the tunnel’s roof – snagging the hapless hunters on the head as they passed. Just before they reached the steps up to the surface, Snikdul spoke up again. Another observation had bubbled up to the surface of his thick stew of half-formed thoughts.

‘Hey . . . I heard something about that man-Captain . . . Herding they called him. Clever, he is . . . he hates them southern pushdugs much as we do. Snikdul snorted with laughter. Gromwakh grunted and slung the rat sack over his other shoulder. ‘Quiet now. We’re here at the top. Filthy walls do have ears up here . . .’

The two Orcs slunk low, half hidden in the shadows afforded by the scraggly bushes and the rough-hewn sides of the fortress. They kept their eyes on the ground before them, fervently hoping no one would notice their passage.

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle's Post

The light of midday cast Ambartrion’s shadow before him as he strode easily through the long grass of the Vale of Anduin. The party had left the eaves of Lorien in the morning and as always happened when he walked in the outside world, the dull reality of it settled upon him like a fine ash. The trees that stood in clumps about the plain were naked sticks that clung to life in a chill and desolate landscape, little different to him than the Brown Lands to the South. There came to his keen ears from time to time the falling cry of desperate birds and the rush of troubled waters over impertinent stones. He sought the solace of memory, moving in his mind across earth that seemed more real than the solid ground beneath his feet. More and more had he done so of late, to the point where the few companions that he allowed to join him in his journeys outside the Golden Wood became concerned that he was withdrawing from the waking world of Middle-Earth to a point where he could not, perhaps, return. And, indeed, he was always reluctant to leave the lands of memory and rejoin the fallen and stale world of the present reality, and was often curt with those who called him hither.

This time it was his student Caranbaith who called him back. With a light touch on his master’s shoulder, the youth pointed to the distant horizon saying, “If I see aright, the Mirrormere lies before us, and we are heading a bit west of north. Do we not take the long way round to the Woodmen of Mirkwood by this route?” Ambarturion sighed at the youth, impatient with his question. Megilaes, Caranbaith’s brother and also student to Ambarturion, caught the manner of their master’s reaction and quickly held his tongue.

“Your eyes do not deceive you,” he replied quickly. “There is great need of haste put upon us, but these lands are dangerous and we must take what care we can. I intend to lead us somewhat west of the Anduin for a day before turning toward the River. There is a place two days’ march from where we shall stop this night where we can ford the waters and then strike north and east to the Woodmen.” Caranbaith nodded quickly and fell silent before the manner of his master. He and his brother had been in his tutelage for only a short time, barely one lifetime of mortal Men, but in that time he had found his master to be impenetrable in many ways. On some days he would answer their questions with patient forbearance of their youth, gently instructing them in the ways of war. On days such as this appeared to be, however, he resented any intrusion to his thoughts and would quickly put down any attempt to interrupt his inner life. Sensing that he would say no more that day, the brothers fell back to walk a few paces behind their master.

Ambarturion turned once more to his thoughts and was soon lost in the groves of Doriath even as his feet continued to pick out their careful way toward the mountains. He did not turn to Coromswyth where she rode. He had opposed her desire to ride on this journey, for horses were difficult to house and feed, and could be both seen and followed more easily across the wide open spaces of the vales that they must cross. But she had been insistent and he had deferred to her in this simply to avoid further discussion. He did not speak with her that day, for he saw no need of unnecessary words with her. Their route had been discussed and decided upon, so what need of conversation would there be before nightfall? And thus did the company proceed through that afternoon. Ambarturion strode along out front, his pace never slackening or changing, his eyes fixed straight ahead, alert to all possible danger, but unseeing of much that passed before the eyes of the others, lost as he was in the world of his youth. Behind him followed Coromswyth and his students, who diligently swept the horizon with their keen eyes as they had been taught, ever vigilant against the threats of this uncertain world.

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial’s post - Coromswyth

In the dismal setting of the Vale of Anduin, the sun beat down wearily upon the company of elves as they made their way through the long grass, the three at the front on foot and one, a woman, at the back, riding a grey stallion. A dry, lazy wind blew across the plain, ruffling the long grasses through which they strode and ruffling the stallion’s coat so a thousand different colours showed, sunlight playing across the crest of a wave. The stallion’s rider smiled slightly at the beauty of such a simple thing, then glanced backwards again at the path they had taken, her sharp grey eyes taking in everything. Like the pair of brothers who walked behind their master, Coronswyth was slightly uneasy at taking this route. It was some way longer than the more direct route possible. She waited intently, her eyed on her hands as they smoothed down the horse’s coat around it’s shoulders, as she listened to Ambarturion’s answer to his pupils.

“There is great need of haste put upon us, but these lands are dangerous and we must take what care we can…”

Coromswyth nodded slightly, satisfied, as she listened to the master’s reasoning. It had been the answer she had expected, of course, as it was what they had discussed, but she was curious as to Ambarturion, and to his pupils. The older elf was mysterious, so stern and proud, and Coromswyth had barely exchanged a few word with him since they set out from Lorien that morning. In fact, come to think of it, she mused with a slight bemused smile, she hadn’t actually exchanged a single word with him since they set out. But his dark grey eyes said all that they needed to: every time he looked at her, they fairly seemed to radiate disapproval. The elf smiled to herself: she wasn’t as yet sure of why exactly Ambartution disapproved, but was fairly ready to bet it would be because of her openness to other races – she had heard of Ambarturion, although she was not yet personally acquainted with him. He shared the view of many of the elder elves among the Galadrim: he wished to leave Middle Earth to whatever fate awaited it and it’s people. After all, Coromswyth added dryly, The Age of Elves is passing. Why should the elves defend the coming of the Age of Men?

There was both bitterness and gladness in the fact that the elves would soon need to leave Middle Earth, and Coromswyth was not sure which she felt more definitely. She had travelled far, and had seen some things that made her almost think that Men deserved the doom Sauron had in store for them: but then, what of the rest? Not all men were evil: they were weak, like children in their headstrong ways and instinctive manner, and children should be looked after, not scorned for their inevitable mistakes. And she had not seen nearly enough of Middle Earth: in a thousand lifetimes of men there would not be enough time for that. Maybe if she could just keep hold of a few more of them…

“My lady, are you keeping well?”

Caranbaith’s soft, courteous question brought Coromswyth back to reality and she looked down at the elf walking beside her, nodding. A swathe of black hair fell across her cheek and she brushed it back lightly. “Aye, thank you,” she answered, smiling at the elf. He nodded, inclining his head to her formally, before returning to walk ahead with his brother. Coromswyth watched them, a wistful tinge tinting her gaze. They were more than one hundred years younger than her brother had been when he had been ambushed with Celebrian on the Redhorn pass, and Ambarturion was to them what her father had been to Merydhan – their teacher, tutor, guide. Indeed, Ambarturion struck her as being like her father: a distant, proud figure, stern, wise and strong. Why, with their grey eyes, fine bones and black hair, she and Ambarturion even shared their beauty. How ironic then, she mused, that their opinions differed so greatly with respect to this beautiful Middle Earth.

Watching Caranbaith and Megilaes, she sighed slightly, unsually melancholy. They were younger than her brother had been when he had passed to the Halls of Mandos, but in the time between their age and his, who knew what would happen? For the elves do not have so much time left any more…the sands of time are running out for us, I fear, and the hour glass is almost empty...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The distant glint of Mirrormere flashed across his eyes, awakening him from his memories. He was, at first, almost disoriented by the sudden return to reality, but he recovered himself before his students noticed the lapse. Ambarturion wondered, somewhat anxiously, if Coromswyth had seen it. I must take more heed to myself, he thought sternly. More and more of late do I surprise myself with the awakening…as though I were in truth still in Doriath with the golden leaves above me, and the song of Lady Melian about me. He shook his head once, hard, to drive away the lure of that memory, and stared ahead across the vale.

Their route had brought them to precisely where they were supposed to be, despite his waking slumber. The westering sun was just touching the heights of Celebdil and the reflected light from its snowcaps was glinting upon the distant jewel of Mirrormere. They had taken a slow arc as they moved, changing from the north-westerly route they had begun so that they were now headed almost due north. They had passed the first southern spur of Fanuidhol and would soon come about so that its mighty shoulders would be fully on their left, blocking their view of the lake that marked the beginning of the Dwarven realm of old. Ambarturion hastened his step somewhat, quite unconsciously. He had chosen their route to avoid the dangers that came from Dol Guldur in the east, but their road had brought them perhaps a bit too close to the gates of Moria. The goblins that haunted that realm now had been repulsed, but still they presented a danger to any who ventured through this realm without the protection of daylight.

Seeing that his master was once more with them, Caranbaith quickened his pace until he strode at Ambarturion’s shoulder. He did not speak, but waited until his master wanted to acknowledge his presence. In a much shorter space of time than he had come to expect from him, Ambarturion spoke, answering the question in his pupil’s mind as though he had heard it spoken aloud. “The goblins of Moria will not attack us upon the open plain; not even at night. They dare not show themselves outside their realm in any size of force, for fear of our reprisals. Remember how we paid them for their intrusions when they pursued the Fellowship into the Golden Wood.”

Caranbaith nodded and said nothing, but his brother Megilaes said what was in both of their minds. “They will not send out an army, Master, but there is risk of a smaller band of marauders, is there not? Ever do they harry our borders, spying upon us and doing what small mischief they can.”

Ambarturion was silent for so long that the brothers feared that he would not reply at all. In truth, he was weighing his response carefully, for he greatly feared that their words would prove true. All this day a slow feeling of foreboding had grown upon his heart, and as the shadows of the mountains crawled out across the fields toward them they cast a dark warning upon his heart. “You are right to be wary, Megilaes,” he replied with studied calm. “But if we are beset by marauders I have no doubt that we will be able to drive them off. The goblins of Moria are still reeling from their losses and have been greatly weakened – otherwise they would have joined the forces of Dol Guldur in their attacks upon us.” As he spoke he heard Coromswyth ride up where she could hear their conversation, and he frowned lightly, refusing to look at her. He strode on with the horse at his back, but the lady would not be put off. He began to wonder if she too had felt the shadow of peril that seemed to hover about them.

“Ambarturion,” she said softly, “I do not doubt that you are your students are more than able to care for us should we be attacked by a rag-tag band of raiding goblins. But if there is danger of a more organised assault, should we not take counsel for that while the sun still shines?”

Ambarturion stopped and turned toward the lady. Tall as he was, he had to look up quite a way to where she sat upon her steed. He wondered if she had insisted upon bringing her horse in part for this very reason. “What counsel is there for us to take, my lady?” he said courteously. “We are far from our borders and night is approaching. If we turn back now we would not be safe in Lorien before dark. And if we tarry here too long we will not reach the safety of our first camp.”

It was Coromswyth’s turn to frown this time. “I hope indeed that we will find safety there,” she said, “for I do not like the feel of the wind that comes to us from Moria. It is chill, and deadly.” Ambarturion did not reply, for what was there to say? He too felt the danger in that wind…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They pressed ahead more quickly throughout the rest of the day and reached their campsite as the sun disappeared behind the Mountains, plunging the whole Vale of Anduin into dark. The valley of the Mirrormere now lay five leagues to the southwest, and the eaves of Lorien from whence they had departed this morning some twelve leagues to the south. Ambarturion led them all up a small hill and into a copse. All about the hill the land was empty save for a few scattered bushes, but the trees atop the hill grew in a tight ring about an open space, as though they had been planted as fortifications. Within the ring of trees was a small hollow with a firepit in its midst and a store of dry wood beneath a shelter of woven branches. As darkness rose from the land around them and closed in over their heads they sat about the firepit and ate a simple meal of lembas and clear water. Nobody spoke and they did not light a fire.

In the far west, the sun sank beneath the horizon, and night fell on the Vale of Anduin.

[Durelin]

Moving with care, it took Calenvása long, suspense filled moments to make his way to the clearing that had been designated as the scouts' meeting place. His heart pounded in his ears as he kept his eyes glued to the ground that his feet trod on. He kept low, and he felt a constant fear that the forest green did not hide him from his enemies. And all the while, his mind went through all that could result from being seen through the leaves or being heard by the snap of a twig beneath his feet. Mainly, he thought of what this meant in accordance with his position. He was supposed to be a leader, and when the leader failed, the consequences could be so much higher. Calenvása was all too vividly aware of what lay in his hands as 'Captain'. He continually scorned this name, but it was official, and so there was little he could do. What he did not realize, though he scorned, he remembered his responsibility, if he did not handle it too well. Now, he worried most about endangering his comrades. Perhaps he had not waited long enough before moving?

All his worrying was brought to an end upon finally entering the clearing. He looked upon the members of his scout troop, the elves under his command. There was young Targil, whom Calenvása knew was a skilled woodsman, and most likely could be a very skilled leader. Calenvása was not sure what Targil thought of his leadership, but he knew that he could trust the elf. And Thorvel, he knew, he had gained the trust of, and he certainly trusted his comrade himself, but he could not say anything of Lómarandil and be sure. He did not doubt too much that the young would follow his orders, but Lómarandil was so very young, and Calenvása could not see himself putting much trust in the boy, sadly. And how much trust the boy put in him…

“Mae govannan,” he said as if he was surprised to find them all here, and smiled. All smiled slightly, but only Lómarandil clearly smiled at him. Calenvása then let his thoughts lighten, taking his mind off the question of trust. He did not need such a matter becoming tangled up in the troop’s mission. The important fact was that they all fought for the same reason and toward the same goal. They fought for Mirkwood, and perhaps for all the free peoples of Middle Earth, and, more importantly, they each wished, with varying passions, to face the evil that threatened the land. This had come to a personal level and grown to be an overwhelming shadow that could not be ignored by the elves when the fortress of Sauron returned to Dol Guldur in 2460. At least, this is what had spurred Calenvása into ‘serving his King’, though he liked to think of it more as serving his people. He, for obvious reasons, did not let this be known to others.

Calenvása’s eyes traveled to the sky, and, without having to shield his eyes, he looked upon the sun. “We remained hidden in the trees, only yards away from our enemy gathered in strength, for over an hour, with only one small disturbance.” He glanced knowingly at Lómarandil, still with a small smile on his face. Then he turned his gaze upon the three elves that sat and stood before him, and his face grew grave. “Little can we know from this hour, long though it may have seemed, but there is always the obvious to take into account.” He paused for a moment, and, bringing the different images of the army into his mind, he studied them as he spoke. “There were Southrons and Easterlings among the orcs. Two kindred of men, and orcs – a variety that could be used to the army’s advantage, or to our own. And there are already large divisions, as can be seen by the separation of the camps, the tents of the men and the crude fires of the orcs.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Calenvása had been watching Lómarandil, and the young elf had seemed rather impatient, as his Captain spoke. Now Calenvása turned to him, feeling that anything more he needed to say would be better said after more thought, and more information to ponder. “Do you have something to report, Lómarandil?”

The elf nodded, and Calenvása watched his face grow set as he prepared to speak aloud to the troop. “I heard the orcs near to where I watched the army speaking, and I discovered the army’s route. They are to attack Lorien.”

Calenvása nodded thoughtfully, knowing that this fit. He doubted that the army would have gathered north of Dol Guldur, and on the edges of the forest, if they planned to attack Mirkwood itself. Did they see Lorien as the greater threat, then? Calenvása had been surprised that this information had been discovered so soon and so easily, but he realized that there were so many other questions that needed to be answered, and some that he had yet to think of to ask. This news had stirred Targil and Thorvel, it seemed, and the Captain let Thorvel speak next, curious at what the skilled elf had seen and recognized as important. Calenvása’s own mind worked, and he began to realize that there were so many images in his mind that he had failed to recognize the importance of, and others that were now of little importance at all.

[Arry]

‘Careful, Snik! Step lightly now! Those Uruks have got themselves all worked up over something . . . and we wouldn’t want them working it out on our hides, now would we?’

Gromwakh held his game bag with a tightly clenched fist. Hung over his left shoulder, it bounced heavily against the small of his back with each step, throwing his gait a bit off. Snikdul had drawn near him, his right hand gripping his stout iron bar. With surprisingly light steps for such ungainly looking creatures, they eased past the company of Uruks. A moment of rank fear brought them to a sudden halt when one of the brutes cast his red gaze their way, throwing back his head to catch their scent. ‘Mountain maggots!’ he growled at them; then, dismissed them with a toothy sneer as his leader said something which caught his attention. The two Orcs slipped quickly behind a clump of thorny bushes and hunkered low until they felt safe to move on again.

‘Close ‘un, that!’ whispered Snik as they started off again. ‘Hurry up!’ rasped Gromwakh back at him, one bulgy eye keeping track of the Uruk group. ‘I don’t plan to share our catch with the nasty blighters.’

The small band of Orcs they belonged to was on the fringes of the great army, tucked away beneath the sullen canopy of some darkling, twisted trees. Thick layers of dark leaves, new barely discernable from the dead, held back the sun’s rays, affording the Orcs a modicum of respite from the hated light. Mottled twilight it was that prevailed in the little copse . . . smoky twilight, rather, as a few of the band had started a little fire in hopes of a hot meal soon to come.

And come it did with the arrival of Gromwakh and Snik.

Skinned, spitted, and charred, the rats provided a tasty bit of meat for the hungry Orcs. All washed down with swigs of brackish water from the nearby stream. A little later, as several flasks of Orc-draught were passed about and the fiery liquid had set their bellies glowing pleasantly with its fire, the company discussed the rumors they had gleaned that day from other groups. Snik offered his comments on who would lead them, and many faces turned sullen at the mention of One-eye. ‘Him! . . . hunh!’ swore one, following up his assessment of the Uruk with a glob of spit toward the dying fire. The embers hissed and popped in protest of the sticky missile, and others of the group looked furtively about as if the great Uruk and his followers might be leering over their shoulders.

‘Best we just keep close to the shadows when we can,’ said Gromwakh, echoing the unspoken thoughts of many of his companions. ‘Out of sight, out of mind so to speak.’ A number of the Orcs nodded as he went on. ‘Do our job quick as we can when the big push starts. Give them the glory. Leave the foul swine and the fouler Men to finish off the cursed Elves.’ He raised his chin, pointing toward the northwest. ‘While we make for the dark ways beneath the mountains . . . and home.’

There were grunts of support for this little speech as it came to its end. The last of the firelight glinted off the ragged, yellowed fangs of the Orcs, their dark lips drawn back in ghastly smiles of approval.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Coromswyth nibbled lightly at the end of her lembas, not feeling particularly hungry: there was something in the atmosphere of the plain that made her uneasy. She looked around surreptitiously, taking in the area they sat in: the tight trees made it useful in several ways, of course - an enemy would never be able to attack on horseback, any large force would have to break down and so couldn't hurl elves with their full force, and even the trees were of a sort that would shed leaves all year around, to dry up and stop any force from approaching silently. It was not too small, either, allowing space to fight if it came to it, and gave an advantage for defence, especially for archers, as it was on a hill, and the copse would provide some defense...

But then, archers, if they managed to moved through the trees or with extra stealth - or maybe if a sentry guard was not vigilant enough in the depths of an uneventful night - archers would be able to get into place entirely surrounding the elves at the centre. And those leaves, shed so usefully to stop attackers, could be the undoing of those they were attacking if they needed to retreat down one side...and Coromswyth knew, from the loss of half of her family, that retreat should not be underestimated, no matter how cowardly it may seem: for there is nothing much noble about a girl waking up one morning, alive with some dream she wished to share, and realising, as she had done every morning for a lifetime of men, that her twin brother will never be able to share it with her...

Coromswyth paused suddenly, freezing, then slowly finished her mouthful and looked straight up into Ambarturion's grey eyes. "How long have you been watching me, Ambarturion?"

"For as long as you have doubted my judgement, my lady," came the cold reply. The older elf did not blanch as Coromswyth addressed him, and he still radiated a sort of paternal disapproval. He thinks me beneath him for my years... "You doubt...why is it that you doubt this place?"

"I am sure I misunderstand, Ambarturion..." Coromswyth began carefully. She saw no sense in angering Ambarturion with explanation of her misgivings about this place: there would be no point, for she had no wish to dent his considerable pride. And besides, it was not a bad spot - had she thought that, she would have said so, for too poor defence, even in such a simple journey, could cost their lives, and more.

The other elf shook his head jerkily, angrily, but didn't say anything for a few long moments. The elf woman watched him without speaking, the silence growing awkward and cold in the oncoming night air. Eventually, Coromswyth rose, stifling a sigh as she did not want to provoke Ambarturion, and crossed the open space between the trees to where her horse was tied to the low hanging branches of one straight trunked, regimented tree. The stallion gave a soft, low whinny of pleasure as she approached and lay a hand on it's muzzle, murmuring softly to it as she ran her long fingers down it's muzzle tenderly.

The lengthy silence continued to stretch until Ambarturion eventually spoke. "Why did you insist upon bringing that beast along?"

Coromswyth looked over at him in surprise, eyebrows raised, then opened her palm and allowed the horse the last of her lembas. "I am sure you have some ideas why..." she replied softly, not looking at the elder elf.

"Aye, maybe." His reply was spartan and cold, telling Coromswyth with more eloquence than words could have managed how he felt about it. She smiled very slightly to herself. Possibly he guesses it is merely spite, a will to go against his wish...or that I did it so that I may have some high ground above him, maybe? How foolish and frivolous you must think me, Ambarturion, that you think I can only voice my ground in a few feet of horse!

"Maybe?" she prompted, teasingly, smiling a little more. "Ah, Ambarturion - please, I shall not doubt your judgement if you do not doubt mine. For after all, yours has proved fine as yet - I make no criticism upon your choice of resting place." She traced her fingers down the horse's neck gently, weaving an invisable pattern of leaves through it's fur, then gave it a final pat, smiling into the horse's eyes. Crossing the open space once more, she caught Ambarturion's eyes once more: the elf did not look away, but Coromswyth wished he were a man of more words, for what wisdom or debate he might impart from the fire and consideration that had settled hand in hand in his eyes. A mystery indeed and one, she thought with a little mischief, that she would take pleasure in unwravelling.

"Goodnight, Megilaes, Caranbaith," she said softly, her voice velvety as she nodded to each in turn. They inclined their heads to her, then to their master, before departing wordlessly to their sentry posts, their golden hair seeming to glow slightly in the darkness, silent spirits to sit as sentries for the two Ambassadors. Turning to Ambarturion, Coromswyth smiled, courteously and gently rather than with mischief or mockery. "Good night, sir Ambarturion."

He paused for a second, then looked away, preparing to sleep. "Sleep well, my lady," he replied, and Coromswyth was pleased to hear no rebuke in his voice as she had feared. With a pleasant sigh, she rested against the tree nearest, settling her back against it's trunk as she crossed her arms and fell to dreams...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The shadowy forms of the sentinels moved through the trees with such quiet stealth that Ambarturion doubted that any but one such as himself could see them. The brothers were young, but he had trained them well and they knew how to move in the dark so that they would neither be seen nor heard. He sniffed at Coromswyth’s fears of being surprised by any manner of beast: there was nothing alive that could find its way past two whom he had trained. The moon was sinking toward the mountain tops, casting the last of his feeble light, while above the copse the light of Earendil shone down so bright that it cast faint shadows. Ambarturion sought comfort in sleep and dreams but they eluded him. He was a creature of action and movement, and while he found it easy to lose himself in memory as he walked, always the enforced stasis of night left him anxious. This night, his unease was provoked both by the chill of apprehension that had settled upon him and by the knowing, half-mocking words of Coromswyth.

He had misjudged her somewhat; he had thought her incapable of reading him so well, and she had surprised him when she so easily found him questioning her spirit. He had begun to see that he reminded her of someone – someone whom she admired and respected but with neither intimacy nor passion. An older brother perhaps, or the lord Celeborn. He shrugged his shoulders beneath his cloak to drive away the thoughts of her and settled his head back against the trunk. He fell into sleep, but his eyes remained open and gazing upon the Flammifer.

He was awake and on his feet before Megilaes had crossed half the distance between them. He had been asleep for only three hours but the darkness had deepened to pitch with the moon’s setting. The Star still shone, but he had moved behind the screen of trees that was now their only protection from what came toward them up the hill. Seeing that his master was awake already, Megilaes went to wake Coromswyth and bid her prepare for the onslaught.

Trusting the immediate protection of the lady to his pupil, Ambarturion joined Caranbaith upon the shallow lip of the hollow and followed his gaze into the west. “How many have you seen?” he asked.

“At least two score. They are trying to cover their approach in the brush, but the light of the Mariner has shown them to me. They must have been lying in wait for us since we arrived, however – they began to move the instant the moon disappeared.”

Ambarturion’s eyes scanned the ground before them, taking in the situation at a glance. The lady Coromswyth’s assessment of their position’s strategic potential had been accurate. Had they been surprised by the enemy there would not be much hope. Thanks, however, to the keen eyes of the brothers the advantage was now theirs. Ambarturion spoke quickly, issuing orders. “They are many, but still too few to surround the hill. They will attack on no more than two sides, if they have wit enough; it is more likely that they will come upon us in a body, hoping by the force of numbers to overwhelm us quickly. I do not see that many of them are armed with bows, so we must take full advantage of that. Get your longbows and conceal yourselves in the trees – but take care that you are no more than six paces from one another!” The brothers quickly obeyed him, Caranbaith bringing Ambarturion’s bow to him where he stood. As Ambarturion readied his first arrow he saw Coromswyth take cover and aim her shaft at the leading goblin.

Their enemy was close enough now that they could easily make out the heavy stamp of their foul feet and the harsh clatter of their armour. They were indeed goblins of Moria, and as they came they spoke to one another in their debased babble. They hesitated for a moment at the foot of the hill, but at a command from the rear of the column, they rushed up its slope. Ambarturion waited until they had closed to half the distance of the slope before loosing his shaft. At the same moment Megilaes and Caranbaith loosed as well, and were quickly followed by Coromswyth. All their arrows found their marks and four goblins fell. The band let out a howl like a pack of dogs and raced toward the trees. The Elves fired again and again, more quickly than the eye could follow, and soon at least a dozen more goblins lay dead upon the clean grass. But then the party was beset by the monsters, and they were obliged to draw their swords.

Ambarturion easily sidestepped the first wave of assailants, and with an almost lazy slash of his sword, he sent one of the goblin’s heads toppling through the air. His blade glittered white in the starlight as it danced and wove about him, and soon two more goblins lay dead. He felt a danger to Caranbaith and whirled in time to see two goblins pressing their attack at his back. Ambarturion leapt over the nearest goblins and drove his sword through the back of the largest beast besetting his pupil. The other turned but fell to join his companion.

The initial shock of the attack was now over, and Ambarturion looked about for the others. Coromswyth and Megilaes stood together against their foes and dealt out death on all sides. The lady’s skill in battle surprised and pleased him – she had clearly been trained by a master. The goblins renewed their attack, and he was soon wholly concentrated upon the battle once more. Goblin after goblin fell before him, but still they pressed in. He did not know how many were attacking them, and he did not know how many he had killed, but surely their numbers were more than two score?

A cry of pain from behind made him swirl, and he saw Caranbaith clutching his side as blood came forth from a deep gash. The goblin who had dealt it stood behind his pupil, his hideous face made more so by the devilish look of hatred that overspread it. The goblin raised his sword to deal the death blow, but Caranbaith was able to counter it before it fell. The effort, however, pained him and he stumbled and fell. Again the goblin came at his prey, but it was too late. Ambarturion had rushed to his student’s aid and before the goblin saw him coming, he the cold steel of Gondolin pressed through his heart and he fell without a sound to the earth.

To this point, Ambarturion had fought with mastery but reason. The sight of the young Elf’s blood seemed to set him alight with fury. With a cry he sprang at the nearest goblins and began to slaughter them with a grim smile upon his face. He took no heed to his safety, relying instead on the blaze of his rage to quell them. They looked upon him and despaired, for it seemed that one of the Eldar had fallen upon them, as in the days of old, and none could withstand him. Those who yet remained alive threw down their weapons and fled, gibbering in terror. Ambarturion pursued them to the edge of the hollow, slaying as he went, and soon the hill was bare of the enemy.

He stood panting upon the lip of the hollow for a time, allowing the cool night wind to cool his fury. He knew that Caranbaith was alive, but grievously wounded, and the knowledge stabbed at him more keenly than any orc blade could have done. As he returned to reason, he heard the low cries and moans of those enemies who had been wounded too badly to flee. Turning from the edge of the copse he walked amongst the fallen, coolly dispatching the survivors with his sword, heedless to the foul curses that they spat at him with their dying breaths.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel had listened intently to what Calenvása said. There was little that he had not already known or figured out; the only thing he did not understand was the little exchange between the Captain and Lómarandil. Clearly something had happened, and though he was curious Thorvel did not push it. It was the young elf’s news, however, that caught Thorvel’s interest.

“I heard the orcs near to where I watched the army speaking, and I discovered the army’s route. They are to attack Lorien,” said Lómarandil. Thorvel had mixed feelings about this. On one hand, he was glad that the enemy’s plan of attack had been discovered, but he wished it had been any other elf besides Lómarandil to discover this. Thorvel got along with Lómarandil all right, but he didn’t like the younger elf’s arrogance, and Thorvel supposed this would only add fuel to the fire. In addition to that, Thorvel didn’t trust him. Not that he trusted very many people, but though he appreciated Lómarandil’s skills as a scout, there was something about him that made Thorvel wary.

Thorvel was starting to get impatient to speak after listening to Calenvása and Lómarandil speak. He determined that he would be next, whether someone else had something to say or not. Then Calenvása turned to him, as if expecting him to speak. He stood up straighter from where he had been all but leaning against a tree; he could feel the other Elves’ eyes on him.

“I think,” he said, “that though we know their general plan, we actually know very little of what they plan to do. They’re going to attack Lothlórien. This tells us little; it was either that or Mirkwood. What we need to know is how they are going to do that. And why so many? And with Southrons? Is this attack somehow more important than the others that they have led? These are the things that I think we need to know, and if at all possible, the elves of Lórien should be alerted. If this huge army were to come upon them at unawares, I should hate to think of the devastating loss that would then most likely ensue. There must be some small way that we can help them.” There. He had said it. He had no personal ties to Lothlórien - he had never even been there - but the thought of an Orkish victory made his blood boil, whether against Elves, Men, even Dwarves. Orcs were Orcs, and he hated them.

He realized it was starting to get warm, and shifted slightly into the shade of his tree. He realized it was nearing mid-day already, and what were they doing but sitting here and talking. Discussing important things of course, but talking nonetheless, while the Orc army was out there. He hoped they would finish talking and take some action soon. He settled himself grimly and waited to hear if there was anything anyone else had to say, and what Calenvása would make of it.

[Durelin]

Calenvása acknowledged Thorvel's words as very wise, and would discuss them later. All of what the elf had just said would come into play once they began to discuss their next move. And Thorvel had spoken aloud what Calenvása's mind was trying to work out: the most important thing was to get to Lorien and warn them, wasn't it? To warn the King would do little good. It would take several days to journey north, and there were countless dangers that had to be faced in that route. And what could King Thranduil do? He had no army hidden up his sleeve. The elves of Mirkwood fought their own battles, and struggled with little hope. They could not help their brothers, even now. Though perhaps this scout troop could. Calenvása decided to disregard any thoughts of glory for the rest of his life, and nodded toward Targil next.

For a moment Targil hesitated in speaking, and he looked as if he were reluctant to say what was on his mind. He remained in his crouched position, his hands running through the gross as he thought. When he finally spoke, his words came slowly at first, and it seemed he was worried about what kind of reaction these words might bring. But then his voice hardened as he went on, and its tone showed that he felt strongly about what he said. "I find it strange that these tensions that you discussed, Captain, were risked in the plan of this attack. Would it not have been easier to control an army entirely of orcs, and yield a fierce mob? I wonder, as Thorvel does: why Southrons and Easterlings?"

Targil paused for just a second, and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lomarandil prepared to speak. Gesturing calmly with his hand and smiling at the younger elf, he gently quieted him. No one spoke, and all eyes were now back on Targil, if they had not remained there the whole time. He realized this, and seemed a bit daunted by this, but only for a moment. Calenvása watched slightly in awe of the young elf as he collected himself and some of his great surplus of courage. Targil's voice was strong and fervent as he continued. "I see that there is a need for Men in this mission. And the only difference I can find between Southrons and Easterlings, and orcs is in their minds."

Targil stopped again, and his eyes fell back to the ground, where his hands still played in the grass. It seemed he was finished. But Calenvása was not satisfied. He of course had several ideas concerning what the elf was trying to say, but he needed to know directly from Targil what he was saying. Calenvása thought he knew, but he always doubted himself, for good reason, or so he thought. "Forgive me, Targil, but I ask that you explain exactly what you are suggesting."

Targil's eyes shot up from the ground and he looked at his Captain. He looked exasperated. Calenvása then proceeded to sigh himself, and said, "I begin to see what you see, but my final vision may be very different from your own when it is formed in my mind. Or it may not."

Targil let out his own sigh, but nodded in agreement, or at least in acknowledgement. "I see more than a large attack force. I have reason to believe that brains are needed in this attack, and so there must be more to it than march and slaughter."

Calenvása practically shivered at those last words. 'March and slaughter' expressed what orcs did, so well and so bluntly. He would keep those words in his mind as a reminder. He hoped that they would appear in his thoughts whenever it was necessary for him to remember what he fought for and what he fought against.

As for the rest of the words, they confirmed the Captain's thoughts from pondering Targil's last words, but they looked at the situation from a slightly different direction. Calenvása's mind had been too set on details, and tried to fill in any holes. The problem was, it was far too early to be thinking in details. And filling in holes was not at all a good idea, for they needed the details to fill them in with.

Calenvása's eyes passed from Thorvel to Lomarandil. He knew Targil had no more to say, for now. The young elf was not one to be slow in thought or lengthy in speech. Calenvása then asked them all, "Is there more that is wished to be said? For we must soon pinpoint our next position."

[Amanaduial the archer]

"I hate them."

Koran simple, murmured statement made Ehan look across at the older man, slightly surprised at his matter-of-fact way of speaking such a bold statement. The Southron captain allowed his eyes, just for a moment, to dart deliberately across to the group of orcs not far away, illuminated in the pool of light from their fire, and as he did his eyes were vivid with constrained loathing. Koran leant forward over the fire, calmly turning over the pointed stick spit on which a few strips of heavily salted meat were speared, and his demeanour was so calm that the statement may have been disregarded - after all, most of the Southrons resented being classed with the orcs - their 'hatred' became every day. But when Koran's eyes darted up, there was no doubt that the serious looking captain had not made the statement lightly. His dark eyes held Ehan's for a moment, then he looked down again. Another sudden, vulgar whoop errupted from the group nearby and with his keen eyes Koran saw that the object of their play was alive - some small animal, a ferret or rabbit or the like. Ehan turned quickly to glance at them, the looked back. The good-natured boy grinned slightly, always one to make light of a situation. "Why so much?"

Koran shrugged simply, hastily, avoiding Ehan's eyes as he carefully removed the spit, the stick held with surprising delicacy between his long dark fingers as he pretended to concentrate much more. Inwardly, he berated himself. Fool, Koran, fool - what, you come to represent your clan and instead let this boy know your true thoughts... He had vowed not to let his feelings be known unless there was need for them to be, unless he was sure of his company - sure he had scanned them for sign of Ferach and Cortim's corruption. He was sure they would have someone watching him - and he didn't think it would be to check that their dear young cousin was keeping well and dressing warmly. There was no love lost between the cousins - it was not merely paranoia that kept them on his mind always, that meant he was constantly alert, listening to more than just words when people spoke to him. The clan of Cenbryt may have been a fading one, but it was a noble house of warriors, a formidable name among the Southern clans. Though it was hardly the style of the Haradrim, Ferach and Cortim would do anything to take hold of Koran's reins as the head of the tribe - a knife across the throat would do as well as any for them, that Koran knew.

As Ehan looked back to his food, Koran surveyed him surreptitiously under his long eyelashes, watching as the fire played upon the former's dark skin, lighting it at strange angles and making him seem older, more mysterious. He had spent the day in the boy's company, preparing for the long march, and was beginning to learn something of the boy. Boy always seemed the right word for him as well - he could not be more than six or seven years younger than Koran himself, but they seemed much farther apart, Ehan's merriness and almost simple accepting of situations making him seem much younger than he really was. In his world of a myriad greys, the concept of such a clear view seemed almost alien to Koran, and so made Ehan seem childlike. Yet it was also somehow refreshing. However, he also felt he owed his younger companion some sort of explanation.

"The orcs...they..." he trailed off, exasperated, not sure of the words. "They are untrained, unskilled, inhuman...I dislike fighting with a force with less sense than a domestic rabbit."

"Less sense? Oh, I'd say some of them came close to rabbit skills..." Ehan replied mock-thoughtfully, holding the remains of his strip of meat at a philosophical angle, a slight grin on his face. Koran grinned back, raising one eyebrow. "No, definitely, there is very little semblance between a rabbit and...that." He pointed his dagger sharply towards one particular orc, who was playing a game with his own knife, stabbing the spaces between the fingers. The two southrons watched this fine specimen of orc-hood for a good few moments, stabbing between his stumpy digits with reckless speed, then seeming surprised when, to the guffaws of his companions, the blade met his fingers. He did this a full five times before Koran finally looked away in despair, his lip subconciously curling in disgust. Looking back at Ehan, he raised an ironic, eloquent eyebrow. Ehan grinned back openly and nodded consideringly.

"I concede, Captain, they are..." he trailed off, searching for the right word, then gave a small laugh, causing Koran to grin as well. "But indeed, some of the Southrons have little training as well - and besides, no rabbit would have such sharp little claws," Ehan finished, wishing to justify himself.

Koran's face darkened and he leant back, half enveloped in shadow, spinning his fine, precious dagger absently between his fingers with unconcious skill. "Claws can attack both ways..." he murmured, watching the group.

"Hmm?" Ehan raised his eyebrows, and Koran was caught by the simplicity of his expression as he munched on a mouthful of food. He blinked a few times and shook his head quickly, his dagger coming to a halt between his dark hands to fit snugly into the palm of one hand more easily than any glove as he leant forward casually, his face clearing as the light illuminated it once more, out of the shadows.

"No...no matter, Ehan. Just musing. I am curious - have you served with orcs or uruks before?" The way the question was phrased seemed simple enough, but underneath it Koran was inquiring to other matters: such as how much fighting experience the young man actually had...

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Ehan blinked, and then squinted his eyes downward to his boots before shaking his head and looking back up to Koran. “Ahh, well, sir, I have not ever served with them. I must admit that I believe I would be embarrassed if I ever had, if you know what I mean,” Koran said naught as Ehan trailed off momentarily, and when his captain made no movement or acknowledgement of his statement Ehan blinked several times before clearing his throat to continue. “I do say, however, that I have indeed met with the creatures in battle. It was a great deal of delight and fun, I shall admit freely. When stabbed through, the squeal they make sounds rather akin to a wild boar…”

“I have rarely heard a person speak of war and battle in such a way,” Koran interrupted as shadow caressed his face while fire licked and flickered away valiantly in attempts to lighten where Ehan could not see. Ehan nodded, but did not speak. Koran finished consuming his slab of meat before turning his head to watch the orcs while speaking to the younger Southron. “Regardless of whether a warrior loves adventure and fighting or thinks nothing of it and only does it because it is his live… yet I have never heard sane warriors speak of their fallen enemy, relishing in their dying war-cry. Even if it was an orc.”

Ehan looked to his captain, wondering at his words. Surely Koran would understand the ruthlessness of battle and the ferocity of Southron clans. Ehan sighed, unsure of how to tread and reply after having been spoken to in such a way. For just a few, precious moments Ehan considered speaking softly and eloquently, but this inward attempt was lost and fleeting in Ehan’s mind.

“They were not quite war-cries, captain,” Ehan corrected, chuckling and drawing his rapier swiftly as he finished. The young man jabbed into the air violently, grinning while his eyes flashed. “And even still, I think that I have merely reached a point that every warrior reaches sooner or later, and I have just reached it sooner.”

“And what is this ‘point’, Ehan?” Koran wondered, and Ehan thought he could catch a hint of a smile on the older man’s face. Ehan sheathed his sword and proceeded to take a seat before the fire and just across from his captain.

“The point where battle affects you so much, and in such a negative manner that one must make it worth going out and risking one’s life for. The point in which adventure and fighting must mingle with fun and jest to make battle worth the blood and gore,” Ehan mused at his own words, almost surprised that they had come out of his mouth. “But perhaps that is silly. Still, even if it is silly, I will continue thinking it because it helps me survive. And, dear captain, whatever keeps me alive is fine for me.”

Koran sighed before standing out of the shadows. “Well, I just hope that you learn one day that real warriors do not go to battle merely to fight. Real warriors go to war and kill because of duty and honor.”

“Real warriors die first, I have learned,” Ehan replied, thinking of his sister and trying not to sound bitter to his captain. The young man was not sure if he failed miserably in the attempt or passed off his answering well to the intelligent and wise captain. “Despite, I had a question for you, captain Koran. Do you know when exactly we leave, and where exactly we are going? I know only that I am under your command, and that we go off in unison with the rabbit-minded creatures.”

[Arry]

‘Look!’

Snikdul raised his one eyebrow (the other having been lost long ago in an unfortunate encounter with an enraged Dwarf and a flaming pitchy brand) and nodded ever so slightly toward the men across the way. Gromwakh flicked his eyes briefly toward the Southrons’ fire, noting the composed, fixed mask on one of the men’s faces as he turned back toward the cooking of his own meal. The man’s movements were deliberate and calm, making the Orc shudder even more than the deep loathing that had flashed briefly in the man’s eyes.

‘They hate us,’ rasped Snikdul. ‘The stinking sons of sand rats!’ His long, knobbly fingers curled about the hilt of his blade with a hard grip. Others of the Orcs echoed his action, brutish hands bringing weapons to the ready. And one, feeling the bloodlust rise, brought his club down with a resounding thwack on one of the unfortunate cellar rats as it struggled to escape the sack which held it.

‘And that’s just what’ll be happening to you louts if you let your clubs and blades do your thinking,’ hissed Gromwakh as he kicked the mashed carcass into the fire. ‘They hate us alright . . . him especially, if looks mean anything . . . Nothing more than vermin to him. Just as soon see us dead, I think. Give any of ‘em half a chance and they’d kill us as easily as they’d stick the nasty Elves.’

The man had turned away from his brief perusal of the Orcs, his attention now seeming to be fixed on the young man near him. The yellow eyes of the Orcs about the fire narrowed to feral slits in the dark faces, a banked red fire licking at their edges as they gazed toward the Southrons.

A loud yelp from one of their own pulled at their awareness, drawing their focus away from the men. Several of the company sitting a short way off had been playing a game of skill – making wagers on who could make the most stabs and the quickest with a knife between his own splayed fingers. Extra points awarded if one did not cry out with the certain misses that always accompanied the game. The unfortunate contestant had lost, yelling out as he’d cut himself for the sixth time, and his fellow players hooted in glee at his misfortune.

Gromwakh laughed along with the others, even as he threw a rag to the losing Orc. The air of tension had dissolved for the moment, leaving the band of Orcs in what passed for good humor among their kind. The bleeding digits were slathered with some noxious smelling dark paste and bound with strips of the grimy rag. Another of their company had pulled out some dice, irregularly carved cubes of knucklebone with varying numbers of dots on the crudely smoothed surfaces. Pain was put aside as the losing Orc’s fingers curled round the dice and rolled them against the broad trunk of one of the trees. Two good throws and then a loss – the ‘bones, as they were called, passed on to the next eager player, and the next, and the next.

At his back, Gromwakh could feel the looming presence of the men across the way. We will have to be careful if we are to make it out of this one . . . he thought to himself. Men and Uruks both breathing their foul breath down our necks . . .

Then it was his turn. The dice passed into his hands. He rattled them together to the growing yells and jeers of the others. With a grunt he released them, his head cocked to one side as he watched them bounce off the tree in a rough arc . . . willing what little luck he might have to direct their outcome . . .

[Amanaduial the archer]

It was Koran's turn to be surprised now at the note of bitterness in Ehan's voice, although he made no comment upon the melancholy, wise-before-his-time statement. Brother, sister, parent? There are few Southrons now who can boast no losses to their family, and then, what is that to boast of? There was a silence between the two men as each struggled inwardly - Koran disagreed, but it would be insensitive to say so when it was obvious from Ehan's uncharacteristically downcast face that there was a reason for such an outburst. Maybe one day he would understand Koran's point of view - the captain understood, after all, what Ehan meant...

“However, I had a question for you, captain Koran. Do you know when exactly we leave, and where exactly we are going? I know only that I am under your command, and that we go off in unison with the rabbit-minded creatures.” Ehan broke the silence, shifting to lighter, business-like matters. Koran grinned at the reference in the last sentence, but couldn't hide his shock.

"You have not been told where we are going? Did your clan not tell you before we..." he trailed off, as the answer was evident from the boy's face. Shrugging, he explained. "Fair enough, I..." would have expected the soldiers to be told where they were going. He shrugged again, then smoothed a patch of dusty earth in front of where he sat, his legs crossed, and used his dagger to demonstrate a map, tracing out and pinpointing certain landmarks and the army's path. "The army heads West through what remains of Mirkwood on this side, marching until we come to the banks of the Great River. I suspect this shall take...say four, five days? Here, there shall be a split." He traced a sketchier, lighter line up along the banks of 'the Great River' which he had thumbed in the loose, sandy earth. Pinpointing this line with his dagger tip like a schoolteacher pointing to a diagram (although Koran would have known little about the comparison), he looked up at Ehan. "This is us. We split from the rest of the army, along with a small force of Southrons and, yes, some of the 'rabbits'-" he raised an eyebrow as he said this, a grin flickering across his lips. "-and attack from a more Northerly point. This means-"

"Wait...attack...where?"

Koran stared at Ehan, astonished that he hadn't even been informed of where they were attacking. But from Ehan's face, looking at the sketchy map, he guessed the bright young man had worked it out, even if he was not particularly wise in this area of Middle Earth. He sketched a few runes on the point of the map the two parts of the army were attacking. "Why...Lorien of course. We attack the elves."

[Kransha]

“Idiots.” Thrákmazh snarled beneath his breath, the final syllable terminating with a long, serpentine hiss as his single usable eye rolled sideways in its sunken socket. He was glowering over, though the gnarled windows of trees with patches of dappled sunlight coursing through their branches, at one of the many discontinuous bands of uruks that had congregated. A guttural, canine growl rumbled ominously in his throat as he got to his feet and took several steps towards the other group, placing an open palm on one of the trees and impatiently tapping his ragged talon against it.

“Bloody, stupid fools.” He said grimly, the digit beating faster, less rhythmically on the bark of the half-dead tree. “Yes, bloody, stupid fools, sir.” Chanted Urkrásh behind him, his voice comparatively smaller and less imposing, but equally gruff, as the dank tone of an uruk should be. The other uruk, standing partially hunched over in Thrákmazh flickering shadow, continually nodded, waiting for the opportunity to do something his master desired. Usually, Thrákmazh would’ve snapped angrily at his lesser cohort, but he was far too busy being angry with something else. As his finger tapped faster and faster on the bulky tree trunk, it began to steadily scratch off the bark as his solitary eye narrowed into a thin line of sickly color. The mountain orcs he was looking at, with fierce and frustrated intensity, actually had the gall to be entertaining themselves with foolish pursuits when the army was supposed to be preparing for organized departure. One orc had been oafish enough to stab himself accidentally, but was now concerning himself with a game of dice. It disgusted Thrákmazh, who’d never really thought much of other orcs, but was set upon the success of this attack.

The plates of armor strapped around his feet and legs clanking noisily on the grassy, earthy ground, he made his way towards the group of wretched uruks, who seemed totally unaware of his presence in the compact clearing. Blinking momentarily before his gaze steadied again, he ambled into the midst of the orcs, watching with a satisfied grunt as several of them turned and took notice. At last, his single, yellowy orb scanning the limited vicinity, Thrákmazh spoke, his raspy voice filling with a commanding air. “C’mon, you lot, we’ve got work to do. Not time for these…games. Get up!”

Most of them heard him, heads snapping sideways or backwards at implausible angles to see him. Several uruks spun around dazedly and managed to throw themselves onto their feet, ready and waiting for his next order. Some just crawled around and looked at him despondently, as if they had no idea what he was saying. Some just cocked their heads boorishly, shooting dumb glances at him, and some didn’t take notice at all. A venomous grimace forming on Thrákmazh’s face, he stalked over to two orcs who had not acknowledged him, one of which being the imbecile who’d nearly cut his own hand off and was now shooting dice across the clumps of dirt with a tattered rag used as a makeshift bandage to stifle the bleeding of his hand. Thrákmazh stood, looming over the uruk, his shadow cast like a dark cloud above him, and the brute didn’t even notice. Some of the other orcs were starting to become self-conscious, but Thrákmazh was heedless of their concealed whispers. “Did ye hear me? I said, NOW!”

Before the orc, or anyone else could react, Thrákmazh’s coal-colored fist had clenched around one of the bolts jammed into the leather quiver on his back, whipped it out, speared the orc’s open hand with it as he released the bone-dice again, and carried that impaled hand upward into the tree’s side. The orc yelped with pain, new and old blood intermixed from both wounds now coursing over his whitened knuckles and onto the tree bark. As the orc roared in agony, Thrákmazh yanked the arrow out, letting loose a brief spurt of dark liquid, and unsheathed the rusty, jagged falchion that hung at his side, driving it in a fearsome arc across the trunk of the tree and the orc who had been helplessly nailed to it a moment ago.

A moment later, Thrákmazh stepped back, plopping the arrow back into his quiver and sliding his dripping blade back into its scabbard with a metallic shriek. He looked down as the orc, a great gash cut across his chest at a diagonal, crumpled onto the ground in a twisted heap, jerking back and forth for a second before he went still and stiff. There was no sound from the other orcs except for the noisy panting of their breaths. Many jaws hung slack and faces were slated, but again, Thrákmazh dismissed it. Most of them had seen comrades slain before, and would not care to see more fall. He was not in charge of keeping them happy, it wasn’t his concern wether or not they liked him as a commander.

“Filthy worm,” he spat, kicking the limp corpse so that it rolled a few feet, “trying to get himself killed before the elves get to him.” He turned, looking up, as he wiped the remnants of the other orc’s blood from his own hand and the supply that had peppered his armor. “You maggots remember this; I don’t care how many of you I have to kill before you get the message. The Great Eye doesn’t stand for stupid brutes in his army who don’t know the difference between a tree and a rock." Some of the orcs looked around nervously, lumps building in their throats. "I’m in command here and I get the job of making sure none of you rats get out of line, or do anything that might hinder this mission in any way. Now, get yerselves ready, we’re getting out of here.”

Again, not waiting for them to react, Thrákmazh moved along, purposefully stepping on the body and crunching several useless ribs as he walked through the forest and mass of soldiers, gesturing to his self-styled servant darkly, who followed behind him dutifully and obediently, shooting disappointed glances at the orcs behind. “Come, Urkrásh.” He said quietly, “There are other matters to attend to here.”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Ehan's dark eyes widened at his captain's answer, simultaneously feeling amazed and startled at the information. Elves! Ehan thought happily in the dancing firelight as he thought of all the stories he had been told. Looking up from the map to Koran's face, Ehan grinned. "Elves, captain? I have heard many stories about them. None of them bad, I must say. Most of the tales are filled with awe, because in most cases even the storyteller has never seen one of the things."

"So you say you have never seen one?" Koran asked for clarification. Ehan searched the man's dark face, wondering what sort of answer Koran wanted and whether Ehan would be able to give it to him truthfully. Oh, what fun would it be to spin a tale about myself, and never have him know what I am truly like, Ehan thought, wanting to laugh but suppressing the notion. Lying to a leader is not done. Brother would have my head if I started spouting lies on this mission, when it is to expand his reign and interaction. Lying is much better when it comes to the orcs, I suppose. Ehan sighed and stood from his crouching position near the sand-map.

"No, I have never seen one. I have only heard the stories. And wondrous stories they were, if I may say so, captain," Ehan replied slowly, his brows furrowing and his excited eyes squinting against the licking flames of fire. "I have been told many times descriptions of the elves. I hear that they are tall...taller than you or I stand...I hear that they have voices soft as a baby sighing or the wind caressing a tree. I have been told that their hair is spun of silk and their faces made of the smoothest stone," both Ehan and Koran chuckled at the last statement. "All these tales passed down from one eprson to the next, until the tale-weaver can only speak wonders of the elven kind, and cannot attest to the truthfulness of their tale. The Elves are filled with beauty, they say. I cannot think how they are more beautiful than any other kind, for I have never seen them, and in my heart I do not think I have ever seen a smiling face that was not beautiful in its own way."

At this, Koran stood as well, wiping his hands of dust and then warming the hands in the heat of the flames. "Well, young Ehan...if you say that you have never seen an ugly smiling face, you have never seen an orc up close." For a moment Koran paused, and both men were silent as they looked over the ledge to hear the screaming fray of the orcs. Then they looked back to each other and began to laugh at Koran's statement.

"Aye, captain, I stand corrected. Still, I admit it honorably and proudly, for I would not stand to be corrected by any other person of less knowledge than you!" Ehan said in a suddenly gallant tone of voice. Then the young man bowed low to Koran as the men of noble statute in his sister's stories would have done. "Now, good captain, when do we leave? I am hungry for the blood of the beautiful."

[Arry]

Gromwakh stepped close to Snik and elbowed him hard in the ribs. The fool was staring open mouthed at One-Eye as he walked away from the crumpled body. Snik’s face had turned a decided shade of grey and he was gibbering in fear. ‘Shut yer gob!’ he hissed at his companion, his own eyes cast down at the ground in front of him in an attitude of submission. ‘You want to be next, do you?’

The little group of Orcs fell silent then, as Thrákmazh marched on, his servant trailing like a whipped dog. Out of earshot, the muttered imprecations began low, picking up in intensity. The hiss of anger flew round them, coiling like a snake in their hatred.

‘Quiet, you sheep-brained fools!’ growled Gromwakh, bringing his club down hard on the ground to gain their attention. ‘We’ll all be food for maggots if he hears us and comes back.’ He went quickly to where his ragged leather stuff sack was stowed and knelt down by it. ‘Come on! Make like yer doing something. Look busy like the . . . Captain . . . said.’ He spat out the Uruk’s title with loathing.

Orcs scurried like great dark ants to fumble with their own packs. Their belongings were few, and their weapons were always about them so it didn’t take long to make their preparations for leaving. Once done, they huddled about in little groups, silent and sullen beneath the darkness of the trees.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Coromswyth wiped her sword on the grass, then threw it directly down towards the ground so that it buried itself about halfway up, the soft earth yielding to it. Moving swiftly towards Caranbaith, who was beginning to stand painfully, she lifted his arm gently, slipping her head underneath and threading an arm around his waist to take his weight. The younger elf protested against her help, but she hushed him in a no-nonsense fashion, taking some of his weight and helping him to the side of the hollow where he lowered himself down against a tree. As he slid down, back against the tree and teeth gritted, the rough bark must have caught against his wound for he suddenly inhaled, looking sharply down at his side as his hand reached for it. With infinite gentleness, Coromswyth prised away his fingers, pushing his cloak out of the way, to take a look at the wound, eyes narrowed studiously.

Gently, she asked him to loosen his tunic and shirt, knowing that to do it herself would be to embarass him even more. He hesitated, glancing at his twin brother, then looked back at Coromswyth and complied wordlessly - his teeth were still gritted and he had made not a sound. Exposing the wounded area, at the side of Caranbaith's muscular torso, she wiped away some of the dirt, her long fingers caressing his skin only very lightly. With a brief nod, she looked up to his twin brother, who was standing beside them. "Megilaes, my horse's saddle is by the tree near which he is tethered. A the right hand side hangs a small pouch made of soft material - please could you bring it to me?"

Megilaes nodded silently and hurried to do so, reluctant to leave his brother's side but glad to be able to help. Despite all the training and solemness the brothers had so far demonstrated, she saw him gnawing his lip, his brow furrowed and lined with anxiety. Turning back, Coromswyth knelt on one knee in the mud and ripped a strip of material from her underskirt. Looking up at Caranbaith, who had looked down to meet her eyes at the sound of ripping, she grinned slightly, shaking her head at the protest she knew would have been there if he had not been concentrating so hard. "Believe me, I shan't miss a few inches of material when you are missing a few inches of skin and the subsequent flesh - rather puts it in context for both of us, hmm?" She smiled, then began to wipe at his wound, clearing it of the little dirt and bits of stone and splinters that had accumulated there, trying to assess his wounds. After a second Megilaes wordlessly handed her the soft animal skin pouch in which she kept practical bits and pieces- it had served her finely in the past, but was not much of a first aid kit when faced with Caranbaith's wound, the depth of which she was beginning to now realise fully.

Turning her head slightly over her shoulder but keeping her eyes and fingers on her work, she called towards the edge of the hollow. "Ambarturion! You may need to have a look at this..."

"I am here." His voice came from much closer than Coromswyth had expected and she whipped her head around in shock to see that he was standing just over her shoulder. His tread had been utterly silent, more so than she could have imagined. He knelt beside her and she quickly outlined the details as far as she could see them in the poor light. He listened intently, a sense of suppressed anger radiating from him, then clenched his jaw firmly, sighing. Reaching forward, he went to touch the wound, but Coromswyth stopped his hand, grabbing the wrist harder than she had meant to. "No, please! Ambarturion, there is still blood on your hands - I do not wish to add infection to the list of problems."

"Oh? Well what about the goblins' blades? They will have been poisoned-"

"They were no more poisoned than our own." She cut him off sharply, inwardly surprised at his pointed, uncharacteristically unreasonable tone. The rage of battle was still with him then. She carried on more sedately. "There is no trace of poison in the wound, as yet, although it is very open - I shall put a salve over it and bandage it, I have a few spare strips with me. Infection may be avoided, at least until we get to the Woodmen. But it may be hard to walk with."

"I will be fine." Caranbaith's voice was strained and harsh as he spoke through still-gritted teeth. His forehead gleamed with sweat as the moonlight returned and his jaw was clenched with such ferocity that Coromswyth thought his teeth may break, but he managed to stop his voice from shaking. "I will be fine," he repeated fiercely.

Coromswyth regarded him for a moment in the darkness, her eyes fixed on his face as her fingers sought by touch for a bandage in the pouch. "Bravery is not just seen in battle..." she murmured softly.

"He is not your study, my lady," Ambarturion snapped, his voice curt and cold, still unreasonable, as he stood. Coromswyth turned and sent him a vicious glare before retrieving the small pot of cooling, healing salve from her pouch, containing extracts of elanor and kingsfoil to make it incredibly effective. Without a word, she began to stir it in a business-like manner, before starting to spread it gently across Caranbaith's side.

"Will we be able to travel as quickly as before?"

"It is a pity we have no running water, I should have liked to clean it more thoroughly," Coromswyth muttered quietly, disregarding Ambarturion's question as she worked on Caranbaith's side, finishing up with the salve now.

"Lady?!" Ambarturion snapped, impatient. Coromswyth's head shot up and she glared at him once more, vemon radiating from her gaze. "I do not know, Ambarturion, but what I do know is that battle suits you very ill."

"Pardon, lady?" He sounded astonished. Coromswyth reprimanded herself inwardly, cursing as she wished she could take back that comment. How could she express now what she had felt when she saw him fighting, her admiration at how fast and fearless he was, how some aura had seemed to emit from him as if he was one of the Ancients? Rarely if ever had she seen anyone fight with such skill, but now it sounded as if she was attacking his skill.

"I did not mean-" she began.

"Battle has been my life, Lady Coromswyth. I merely inquired as to whether we should be able to travel at the same speed, as to whether we would reach the Woodmen-"

"I am no reader of the future, Ambarturion, I have no more idea than you, in truth and may wonder the same thing - although I would guess not, bearing in mind that the goblin's dispatched of my horse, presumably so it would not give them away," she interrupted scathingly. Ambarturion shook his head angrily.

"Coromswyth, it was not merely idle wondering, as you are inclined to," he interrupted fiercely, his voice icy and sharp. Coromswyth gasped at the insult and she rose in a swift movement to be equal with him. "Idle wondering, you say? Idle wondering? It is my 'idle wondering' that has sorted something out for your pupil's side, my 'idle wondering' that got me chosen for this mission-"

"And whether that is a good thing is yet to be decided-"

"-My 'idle wondering' that considered that maybe this place was not entirely sound if attacked!" she finished, her voice a little shrill and rising almost to a shout, nose to nose with Ambarturion. A silence descended between them as both remainded frozen, watched by the unmoving twins. Embarassed of the outburst, and of voicing her doubts hurtfully, Coromswyth flushed and looked away, kneeling down beside Caranbaith again and reaching for the bandage, trying to keep her hands steady. Ambarturion remained still, unspeaking, and Coromswyth was for once pleased that she could not see the elf's face. Fool, Coromswyth, fool! What, are you some drunken brawler in a low Inn in Edoras that you cannot speak civilly but must shout? You get carried away and jeopardise too much - fool, Coromswyth, hold your tongue! If he is not a forgiving sort...

She felt a warm, rough touch on her hand suddenly and looked across, expecting Megilaes...to see Ambarturion, taking one end of the bandage from her and holding it in the correct position so she would be able to concentrate more easily. Slightly surprised and infinitely grateful for the forgiving gesture, the female elf smiled hesitantly at the other, pausing in her work, then began to wrap the bandage around competantly and with more ease than she would have been able to. With this gesture, Ambarturion had probably swallowed a hefty measure of pride and had so patched up their travelling relationship better than any flimsy bandage could.

They worked in silence for a while, then, as Coromswyth was securing the end of the bandage, she glanced across at Ambarturion. "Look on the bright side," she said with a sheepish grin. "At least I won't be stealing any so-called moral high ground on that bloody horse any more."

[Durelin]

Calenvása waited, but there was only silence. All three of his comrades stared at him. They all waited for their Captain to say something, and expected him to come up with a solution to all their problems: a logical plan of action. They expected so much from him, and they had a right to. Calenvása did forget that he was their Captain at times but this was not at all one of those times. He stared at the ground for a moment, and he avoided everyone's stare. He did not feel the Captain, a leader, standing before them. Nor did he even feel as if he was one of these skilled scouts. And he felt that he had reasons to doubt that he was. Though his min was sure that the incapacities were all his, it angered him to know that they expected so much. All the words had to come from him, with silence surrounding him. The silence was growing heavy, its weight tripled by responsibility.

"We are to follow the army, and arrive at Lorien before it, unless anyone wishes to, and is able to, grace us with another route."

Lómarandil was of course the first to speak. He made sure that all could see that he was unhappy with this choice of action, and he spoke with fervor. He really was a rather rash young elf, though it was to be expected, and the ideas he stated displayed this. "Follow the army? How do we serve our King by following the army to Lorien? We must warn the King of this, as he has a right to know what goes on in his realm. And it is beyond us to decide what should be done to face this threat. The king and his counsels must know of this."

Silence fell again, and Calenvása saw Targil shaking his head. Thorvel simply stared at the young elf, showing little emotion, except in his eyes. Calenvása knew he must be looking at the elf in the same way, and he wished he did not. It was too late to draw his eyes away, though, and to hide the exasperation and disappointment. Lómarandil's eyes fell to to the ground as Targil openly showed his impatience with him, bordering on disgust. Calenvása knew it was his duty to save the young elf from this abuse. Though he had grown weary with his rashness, Calenvása understood Lómarandil's nature. He would never trust the young elf to make a decision, but he knew that good intentions were there.

"I see your thinking, Lómarandil, but you need to re-order the priorities in your mind according to their importance. The army is not attacking Mirkwood; it is attacking Lorien. It is the elves of Lorien that will be dying when the army comes upon them. And as Targil has brought up, it seems that there is more to this attack than a frontol assault," Calenvása turned his gaze from Lómarandil's frowning face and spoke to both Targil and Throvel, as well. "It is apparent that they plan to surprise out brothers in some way. We can move more quickly than a full-scale force of orcs and men, squabbling along the way, but not if we make a three, four day detour. What can the King do? You are well aware, Lómarandil, that we do not have much in the way of defenses that can stand up to the Enemy. Neither does Lorien. Mirkwood has not an army to aid, and Lorien has need of any aid it can receive." He paused, glancing around him. He saw Targil nodding in agreement - Calenvása was fairly sure that was agreement - and Thorvel stared at the ground. Calenvása would take that as agreement, as well. It was the closest to it that he would receive; he was sure.

"Do you still object, Lómarandil? If you have another plan that is more logical, please tell us of it."

Anger flashed through the young elf's eyes for a moment, and Calenvása stared at him, startled and confused by what he saw. How had he managed to anger the elf? "No," Lómarandil said gruffly, "Your logic is more than enough for me."

Calenvása sighed, but said nothing, knowing that anything he said was likely to make things worse. He knew not how to handle situations such as this, with hostilities brewing among the troop. He was not a leader, it was clear, if he could not even hold his elves together. But Calenvása knew he was not, and though he felt guilt and anger, he felt that he could do nothing.

"Spread out. I trust the wisdom and the skills of all of you, so my orders are only to find a position in which you can stay and observe the army until it begins its march. Then we will meet back in this clearing once again."

This time Targil spoke up. "Should we not follow immediately? What will meeting back in this clearing do but waste time?"

"We are not wolves, Targil," Calenvása replied, "and so we cannot communicate across the land as we run after our prey."

Targil smiled at this comparison, "A very observant deduction of you, Captain. We will meet back here, and we shall communicate." He seemed ready to laugh at this.

"I understand your concern, Targil, but communication is everything for us, and for Lorien."

[Alatariel Telemnar]

‘Bloody, stupid fools,’ Thrákmazh said grimly, his hand against one of the trees, tapping his finger against it.

‘Yes, bloody, stupid fools, sir,’ Urkrásh said, right after, making is voice sound smaller than his master’s. Urkrásh had sensed Thrákmazh’s impatience and did not want to anger him any more. He stood still as he watched Thrákmazh steadily increased the speed of his tapping, and it slowly wore bark away. Urkrásh did not look directly at him: Thrákmazh might not like to be stared at.

Urkrásh remained in his place as Thrákmazh walked towards the uruks, the plates of armor around his legs clanking.

‘C’mon, you lot, we’ve got work to do. Not time for these…games. Get up!’ he said, standing in the middle of them. He paused a moment, as all the uruks turned their heads or position themselves so they could look at him. Urkrásh watched as he closed in on two uruks that were too occupied in their game of dice to take notice of him. He towered over them, as one who had been foolish enough to cut his own hand was throwing the dice across the ground. They did not even notice the shadow cast over them from his towering. Urkrásh looked around at the numerous orcs whispering among themselves.

‘Did ye hear me? I said, NOW!’ Thrákmazh yelled. Urkrásh stared in wonder at the big blur as he had pinned the orc to the tree and stabbed his hand, causing the orc to drop the dice. And before Urkrásh knew it, the orc was on the ground, a cut across his chest.

‘Filthy worm,’ his master spat, the corpse rolled a few feet as he kicked it, ‘trying to get himself killed before the elves get to him.’ Thrákmazh turned, wiping of the orc’s blood. ‘You maggots remember this; I don’t care how many of you I have to kill before you get the message. The Great Eye doesn’t stand for stupid brutes in his army who don’t know the difference between a tree and a rock. I’m in command here and I get the job of making sure none of you rats get out of line, or do anything that might hinder this mission in any way. Now, get yerselves ready, we’re getting out of here.’

Urkrásh shivered at his words. The other orcs and uruks grew nervous, he could tell as they looked around. They stayed standing as he stepped on top of the limp body, causing the bones to crunch. And didn’t move as he walked past them, through the lines. Urkrásh looked at them, disappointment on his face.

‘Come, Urkrásh.” Thrákmazh said, “There are other matters to attend to here.’

Urkrásh jerked his head up from the soldiers to his master. Nodded, and then followed behind him, slightly hunched over, glancing at them as he passed.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel had stood quietly through Lómarandil’s crazy plan. Tell the king indeed! It would be foolish to leave those Lórien Elves to die because they were not alerted in time. Why wasted time and warn the king? But he let Calenvása handle it

“Spread out. I trust the wisdom and the skills of all of you, so my orders are only to find a position in which you can stay and observe the army until it begins its march. Then we will meet back in this clearing once again," said Calenvása. It was precisely what Thorvel had been waiting for. He was dimly aware of Targil arguing over meeting back at the clearing, but Thorvel didn’t pay much attention. If Calenvása’s plans made any sense at all, Thorvel would do it.

He crept out, and tried to decide where the most strategic place to be was. He almost immediately eliminated watching the lesser orcs; like as not they did not know what they would be doing. If he could find some captains, he would try to hide nearby, for if he was to discover any plans at all they would be the ones to have them.

He moved to the edge of the forest to get his bearings. The army seemed to be getting ready to move. Their stuff was no longer lying haphazardly on the ground - it was in bundles - and the orcs were standing around in groups, but they had at least some order to them, if that was possible for orcs. He noticed a dead orc on the ground about forty feet away, and turned his head in disgust. What kind of creature kills its own army off? But he knew it was a fairly common practice of orcs; if one didn’t like another one of them ended up dead. He was having trouble picking out an orkish captain; they all looked pretty much the same with their heavy armor, many and various filthy weapons, and generally ugly orkish looks. Finally, he picked one out who seemed to have an air of command about him. There was a second orc who seemed to be following him around, but Thorvel didn’t pay much attention to him, and he wouldn’t unless the orc did something noteworthy.

The one Thorvel had picked out as a Captain was striding about purposefully. Thorvel could see him clearly, but he wasn’t quite close enough to hear him unless he started yelling, which was likely enough with orcs. He moved into a slightly closer yet more concealed spot and crouched down to wait and see whether he would find anything out from the orcs.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

It took him and Megilaes most of the night to clear the hilltop of the dead. They carried the remains of the goblins to the bottom of the hill where they piled them about with all the dry wood that they could find. Before setting light to the pyre, Ambarturion took three severed heads from the pile and stuck them on spikes to serve as a warning to their enemies. The fire was reluctant to catch at first, as through it did not want to sully the ground with the ashes of such foul creatures. But the skill of the younger Elf at woodcraft overcame the flames’ reticence and soon there was a fire blazing that could be seen from many a mile. The reek of the fire spread about them both like a sickly haze so they retreated up the hill where the winds kept the air free.

Throughout the work, Coromswyth had remained with Caranbaith carefully tending his wound. Ambarturion had given her the small flask of miruvor that had been given him by the Lady herself. Coromswyth had given her charge a small mouthful of the drink, and they had all seen the effect of it upon him as he fell into an untroubled slumber. As Ambarturion and Megilaes reached the top of the hill they could see the wounded warrior still asleep beside the small fire that the lady had lit to keep him warm. They paused for a moment to watch and listen as she sang a low song over his sleeping form, rhythmically stroking his long hair with her fair hand as she did so.

As much unpleasant work as they had done this night there remained yet one more task. Coromswyth’s mount had been slain and his corpse lay still by the outer ring of trees. Even if the two of them unaided could have carried the body to the bottom of the hill there was no time to dig a grave for him, and no stones to build a cairn. They thought for a long time about what they should do, but in the end all they could managed was to weave about the body a tight mat of branches and leaves. As they worked, Ambarturion sang what songs he knew of protection and warding to keep away any who would wish to desecrate the final resting place of the lady’s companion. It occurred to Ambarturion that he did not even know the horse’s name, and this added tot he unwelcome sting of conscience that had been troubling him since Coromswyth had reprimanded him for his callousness toward his student.

Battle suits you very ill. Her words came back to him for the hundredth time, and as each of the times before he paused in his work, shocked by how profoundly they cut him. War had been his life; for seven thousand years, as such things are measured in the world beyond Lorien, he had fought as bravely as he could in a losing war. In that time he had slain uncounted hundreds of the Enemy’s slaves, but it had not done any good. Still they kept coming, and no matter how many he slaughtered there would always be more. He regarded his work as a sad necessity, but one that he did not relish. He was proud of his abilities, but always he lamented the sore requirement to use them. But why then, he found himself asking over and over again, do the lady’s words stick so deeply in me? Could it be that I am giving way to the fey mood of one who has lost reason? His mind went back to the slaughter he had worked upon the goblins, and even as it did a slow smile moved over his face and his hands began to tremble. He shook his head and tried to drive away the blood that ran into his eyes. When his vision cleared he saw Coromswyth regarding him with a knowing look and he scowled at her.

Megilaes was standing beside his brother, wanting to be of aid but not knowing what to do. “Megilaes,” Ambarturion snapped, “you must rest now. You have had no sleep this night, and we will be sore pressed tomorrow, for we must make haste to the River and we will have to bear your brother.” The young Elf made to protest his master’s command, but one sharp word from Ambarturion silenced him. Coromswyth assured Megilaes that she would care for his brother until daylight. Comforted by this, the young Elf threw himself upon the ground by his brother and was soon asleep.

Ambarturion brought Coromswyth her blade saying, “You should not put your blade into the ground, lady; chance stones or roots will blunt its edge.”

She took the blade back from him and laid it upon the grass beside her. “It is a habit I have, Ambarturion.” He noted the shortness of her reply and that she was avoiding his gaze. For the first time since they had set out together, he had a desire to speak with her, for he sensed that here was one who sought to understand him – and he was disturbed by the notion that he perhaps did not fully understand himself. Although there was a great difference of years and experiences between them, there was at the same time an odd form of commonality. Despite their bickering and the misunderstandings that had afflicted them in their brief acquaintance, there was something or someone in her past that made her more like him than he had realised. Settling himself upon the ground, he inquired after his student. She answered him politely and efficiently, but without venturing anything more than that. Ambarturion sighed lightly and tried again.

“Lady,” he began, in the gentlest tone that he had yet used with her. “I am sorry for my manner toward you on this journey; and I apologise for my…thoughtless words when you were tending to my student. I am, as you have rightly said, a warrior. The rage of battle was upon me still and I spoke when I would have been better to hold my tongue.”

She smiled at him with what appeared to be genuine relief. “I understand. And I am sorry for my words of doubt and accusation. I am sure that you have done all for the best.”

He nodded to her. “I thank you for that, lady, but I am afraid that you were right to question my decision to come here – as we have learned greatly to our dismay, it was a poorly considered course. I had thought that the greater danger lay to the East, and that the Moria goblins would not venture so far from their mines. I was wrong.”

“Danger lies close about us in all directions in these days, Ambarturion. You cannot blame yourself if it finds us.”

A silence fell between them once more. Ambarturion desired greatly to ask her again about her words that had troubled him the most deeply, battle suits you very ill, but for reasons so subtle that he could not understand them, he avoided the subject. He sought to reach her on another subject. “You must not think that I am always so curst and brief, lady,” he tried to sound jocular and light-hearted. “I am merely dismayed by our journey and the hopelessness of what we attempt. To have come to such a pass: begging of the Woodmen for their aid!”

She looked at him quizzically and replied, “You do not think they will help us? We have not had many dealings with them, but surely they are aware of the work that we have done in guarding these lands from the armies of Moria and Dol Guldur? Surely they will send what aid they can?”

It was Ambarturion’s turn to look surprised. “I have no doubt that they will send what they can, lady, but what use will that be to us? A band of ragged Men who scrape their livelihood from the fringes of mighty realms they have not the wit to understand? I have seen Men in their glory, and even then they were of little enough aid to us. No, I fear that with the loss of our strength, there goes all the strength that Middle-Earth has against the Enemy. The Woodmen are but the lees and dregs of a cup that has been drained of an altogether indifferent wine.” He laughed in a manner that was not altogether comely, but then stopped when he saw the look in Coromswyth’s eyes. “But what have I said that deserves such a look as this, lady?” He smiled at her once more, asking “Do you account the Woodmen among your friends and take offence that I should weigh them so slightly?”

[Durelin]

Targil, Evening

Thorvel was the first to take off, not surprising Targil. Thorvel seemed the trust the leadership of Calenvása much more than either Targil or the young Lómarandil did. And Targil was the only member of the troop that had reason to doubt the Captain's leadership abilities. Lómarandil simply tended not to think reasonably, and therefore could not reasonably mistrust Calenvása. Still, Targil never had been able to understand what Lómarandil thought of Calenvása. Perhaps it was time for a quiet talk with the young elf. It was good to know whom you fought with, especially in this case. He thought he understood Thorvel, but, staring blankly at the elf's back as he made his way quickly into the thick of the forest, he seemingly tried to see into the elf's soul. His thoughts were disrupted when the elf disappeared completely into the trees, and Targil then made his own way into them. He went another direction, of course.

Communicate...Targil would certainly communicate with his comrades, and happily give his opinion. They would not like it, though, as always. Calenvása just did not like to listen to someone who always found something wrong with him. Targil was almost completely sure that he knew Calenvása. Many times it was so simple to hear what the Captain was thinking. You could tell that the elf was not comfortable in his position, and did not like taking on his responsibilities. This was why Targil could not respect the elf enough to trust him. He knew that Calenvása had a good heart and a strong mind, but he had weaknesses that did not allow him to be a respectable leader. Targil constantly questioned his authority, not because he enjoyed seeing the elf overwhelmed with decisions and responsibility, but because he knew that every objection that forced Calenvása to handle it brought the Captain closer to being a true leader. The conversation they had just had had surprised Targil. Calenvása had truly stood up to him, this time. Perhaps it was the need that drove them all, finally finding a home in his heart. If so, Targil hoped it remained there to urge him on in the next few days. Leadership would be needed.

Targil quietly settled his body down in the forest floor. He crawled slowly into a large, leafy bush, stopping as soon as something could be soon. He had a pretty clear view in this position, and he was not going to risk adjusting or a more open spot for fear of discovery. Any elf could move silently around their forest homes, but a scout had to have the mind to know when not to try his skills. Targil worried about Lómarandil mostly because he was afraid that the elf was too rash, and too certain of his skills to take any of the precautions his life depended on. Targil sighed, regretting making any sound after he did so. The orcs near him were busy arguing, gurgling and growling grotesquely at each other. His sigh of tired sadness was quiet enough, but he was afraid to think for fear of being heard.

~

Calenvása, Night

Calenvása was just beginning to feel the muscles in his legs start to ache, begging to be given some kind of respite. He had been perched in this tree, knowing that any of the stronger branches would hold his weight. Still, he felt not at all as graceful as a bird that might perch there. High above the forest floor, he did not feel he belonged there. He felt so incredibly awkward that it was hard for him to closely observe anything around him. He had not shifted his feet more than an inch on the branch for the past few hours as he watched the darkness settle around him. It was deep now, but his eyes could see capably enough in the dark, and his hearing, of course, was not affected. What he had to remember was that orcs had very capable night vision as well. Perched in his discomfort, Calenvása felt considerably less graceful than a bird would look in his spot.

Dawn

Soft beams of light slowly began to filter through into the depth of the forest, and Calenvása welcomed their warm caress. They warmed his soul after a night in what had become such a cold place. It was his home, and so its evil was all the more chilling for him. He struggled to keep his heart warm with hope in such a moment. As the light gradually grew, he realized just how important it was that he kept hope. He began to realize how important his leadership could be. And it scared him, making him shiver more than the shadows that plagued his home did.

A great, roaring yell brought him out of his reverie of cold thoughts, and he scanned the scene before him. Another yell, this one sounding more human than animal, came. He could not make out what the various yells that followed were crying, but the rush and chaos that filled the army’s camp, with the cleaning up and packing up of gear, the angry yells at the attempt to organize orcs…the army was preparing to move.

Calenvása waited for many moments, watching the anarchy. Closest to him the air was quieter and calmer. A group of both orcs and easterlings were seemingly gathering very near to his tree. Perhaps dangerously near, though that was yet to be seen. They seemed to separate themselves from the rest of the army, and Calenvása could already see a greater amount of organization among them. He filed all this away to be thought about when he was safe; at least, a distance away from orcs, easterlings, and southrons, meeting back in the clearing with his troop.

Feeling that he had waited long enough, and seen enough, he slowly began to move, carefully maneuvering but still trusting the branch’s stability a bit too much. His legs now refused to move, stiff and sore, but finally numbed. His eyes were glued to the enemies assembled before him. It took Calenvása far too long to get onto the ground, and that was not the end of his fear and caution. Forcing his legs and arms to moved enough that he could drag himself across the ground on his belly, his mind already began to slip back into troubled thoughts. He worried about what Targil might have to say.

[Arry]

‘Oy! My feet hurt already!’

Snikdul shifted the pack on his back, wincing at each step over the pebbles and sharp little twigs that covered the forest floor. The pace set by the captains was a quick one, affording no chance of watching where one stepped. Gromwakh snorted at his companion’s complaint, reminding him he’d had the chance to grab a pair of the men’s boots last night while they were sleeping.

‘Stick my pretties in some stinkin’ sandworm’s boot?! Who knows what sort of nasty bugs’re hiding in there! I’d just as soon have . . .’

Snik’s ongoing commentary was cut short as Gromwakh pulled him out of the moving column, deeper into the shadows beneath the trees. One by one the others of their little band joined them. Quiet as snails, but quicker, they gathered in a thicket, huddling beneath the shady canopy of the trees. ‘Now listen up, lads,’ said Gromwakh in a rasping whisper. ‘I managed to listen in a bit last night to One Eye and his fancy pants group of Uruks.’ Grom rubbed his backside, recalling how his eavesdropping had been cut short by swift kick to it from one of the Uruks - one who’d gone out to answer a call of nature and unfortunately returned to find the hapless Orc squatting behind a small rocky outcropping listening in. He shook free the unpleasant memory and continued on. ‘Apparently, we’re not all going to that Elf forest together. One Eye and one of the darkling men captains are attacking a different way.’

There were murmurs and grunts as the Orcs considered what Gromwakh had heard. One of them spoke up, the others nodding their misshapen heads at his observation. ‘You know what that means, dontcha? That group’s gonna be in the thick of the fighting. Right up against those nasty Elves and their sharp, biting blades and arrows.’ ‘Well what’ll we do, then?’ another asked.

‘Anyone see where One Eye and his followers were when we started off?’ asked Gromwakh. ‘Well. Let’s see . . .,’ said one of the Orcs, standing up and facing in the direction the army had been traveling. ‘I was on the outside and . . .’ He scratched his head, then raised his left hand and pointed slightly to the side and before him. ‘I saw that Urkrásh running along. So One Eye musta been somewhere near.’

‘Right then,’ said Gromwakh decisively, standing up and motioning for the others to do so, too. ‘Then we head back the other way and stay as far as we can from them.’

‘There’s a couple of Orc squads back there moving the supply wagons along,’ offered Snikdul as they shouldered their packs and slipped out of the cover of the thicket. ‘Maybe we can offer to guard the one with the hams . . . I heard they were brought in for the captains’ tables . . .’

‘Now how’d you hear that?’ asked Gromwakh, regretting immediately he’d asked the question. It was a query that Snikdul took up happily, outlining his sources and branching off onto other avenues of information that strayed far from the subject of hams.

[Orofaniel]

"You lot; Hurry up!"

The growls from other soldiers were roaring through the army. There were no time for delay, and Herding as well as the Haradrim soldiers knew that. Herding's cold eyes met the soldier standing next to him. What fool is causing trouble now? He wondered.

"What's going on back there?" he asked the soldier, as if the problems were caused by him. "Sir, I'm not sure yet. Want me to go and check?" he asked Herding calmly while seeming innocent. He didn't seem too willingly at the beginning, but when Herding nodded sternly at him, he seemed more aware of the situation. He better be quick, Herding said to himself under his breath as soon as the soldier had left his side. If there really were any big trouble back there, it would probably cause much annoyance and anger among the other soldiers, and that was the last thing Herding wanted; Annoyed soldiers never make good soldiers.

"What's keeping us?" A yell howled from behind. The harshness in the voice hewed through the air. Murmurs and mumblings were soon to follow. "Everyone, hold you positions! Stay where you are!" Herding cried angrily. He couldn't believe how so many soldiers could be uncontrolled and weary because of something as small as this. It made him anxious in some way; to think about it. What would happen when there really is something there , lurking in the shadows? The tense situation now was probably caused by some fool in the back that didn't manage to stay on his feet. The murmurs stopped and everyone stood silently, focusing on the sounds around them. "Move, will ya?" Herding said coldly to the soldier that was blocking his way. He scouted a bit, but saw naught. "Will someone tell me what’s' going on?" Herding demanded again as he became restless. Then finally the soldier, who he had sent off in the beginning, came back. He breathed heavily and took a moment to catch his breath. Speak, man Herding though, but kept his thoughts for himself.

"Nothin' is wrong sir," he muttered. "Someone got stuck," he continued briefly. "That's it?" Herding gazed seeming a bit confused and at the same time surprised. "One fool got stuck and all these soldiers are waiting for him?!" Herding repeated, now very much annoyed and the harshness in his voice was not pleasant. "Indeed, sir," the soldier answered, sounding annoyed as well. “He fell over and then he couldn’t get up. Some of the soldiers tried to help him, others laughed,” he added contemptuously. Herding grew red. He felt the anger arisen inside, but he tried to control himself and the harsh words that his tongue was about to utter. "Well, let the fool get loose by himself, and let’s move!" Herding then said loudly. The soldiers jumped seeming surprised with Herding's words; maybe they had expected something a bit more explosive from their captain? But they said nothing, and just followed his orders, which probably was the cleverest thing to do. Herding wasn’t sure if he could handle more than this. "Sir, I think he got loose," the soldier said calmly. Herding rolled his eyes and sighed heavily, with clenched teeth.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel welcomed the dawn with gladness. Scattered beams of light made their way through the tangle of branches to his hiding place. He was rather stiff from remaining in the same location all night, and frustrated that it had all been for nothing. He had not heard or seen a single thing that would help them out, and now they were starting to move. The Captains were yelling over the din for the soldiers to get moving, sometimes in their foul orkish speech and sometimes in the Common Tongue.

He waited a moment to make sure that no one was coming near. Then he silently got up and stretched his muscles. He sighed irritably. He could only think of two things that would improve his mood. One would be hearing some information to their advantage. The other thought he relished: putting some arrows into Orc hides. He knew this would not be possible at the moment; there were far too many Orcs for their small band to attack.

He tuned and crept stealthily back through the forest, bent over slightly. His keen ears took in all the sounds of the forest. Suddenly he stopped. He had heard something that most certainly did not belong in the forest: the clatter of Orcs and their foul voices. He nocked an arrow to his bowstring as a precaution and moved carefully towards them. He could make out individual voices long before he came upon them and stopped a good distance away.

"...Then we head back the other way and stay as far as we can from them," said one Orc. From who? Thorvel wondered. The Elves? Other Orcs?

"There’s a couple of Orc squads back there moving the supply wagons along," said another. Thorvel heard them crash their way out of the forest, and their voices started to fade. "Maybe we can offer to guard the one with the hams . . . I heard they were brought in for the captains’ tables . . ." He sighed again and replaced his arrow. He didn't think that the information would be of any help. He disappeared into the forest, heading back towards the clearing.

Targil and Lómarandil were already there, waiting. Targil didn't seem very happy to be there; remembering his argument with Calenvása, Thorvel supposed he would rather be tracking the Orcs now, not returning to meet together. Thorvel honestly didn't understand why Targil insisted on arguing with Calenvása so much; he felt that it caused division and mistrust within their band. He understood that Targil might disagree, and Thorvel had no problem if he voiced those disagreements. Thorvel would do the same thing, but he didn't agree with the way Targil would continue to argue the point. Then there was Lómarandil. The young elf always seemed to have some idea of what to do, but the problem was they rarely made any sense. Thorvel saw no reason why he should trust either of them. He respected their abilities, but he trusted none but his Captain. Even if Calenvása didn't always seem thrilled about the responsibilty, Thorvel knew that he would always live up to it.

Calenvása approached the clearing only seconds after Thorvel, and this time Thorvel did not wait to speak.

"Those orcs! All night, and I get no more information than they have hams in the supply wagons! That, and some indecipherable mention of "staying as far away as possible from them". I sure hope that you all got some more information than I did, or else we will probably never figure out what they intend!" Thorvel felt better after venting some of his frustration, and then slightly embarrassed about his outburst. As he often did, he had not thought out his words before he spoke them. Looking around, he waited for someone else to speak.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Megilaes settled himself beside his brother where he could watch Caranbaiths’ chest rise and fall with each fitful breath. He kept his eyes fixed on his brother, willing each painful and spasmodic intake of air not to be the last. The gash was indeed deep and while Coromswyth’s medicine had staunched the bleeding, the silk bandage was speckled with glittering drops of the deepest red. Megilaes had never seen the blood of an Elf – never seen an Elf suffer so grievous a wound. His terror for his brother was, then, tempered by the bewilderment of an immortal having to contemplate for the first time the death of one close to him. He reached out with gentle fingers to touch the bandage, as though to see if the blood were real or merely a fantasy.

It is no dream brother. Caranbaith’s voice, strong and unshaken by the damage done to his physical existence, filled Magilaes’ mind with a familiar comfort. But neither is it, I think, a nightmare. I will survive this wound and live to revenge it upon the servants of the Enemy. Megilaes smiled to hear his brother so strong and vibrant in spirit. He took Caranbaith’s hand in his own and stroked it lovingly.

Sleep my brother, he replied. Our master has the watch and will guard us well. There sprang into his mind then the image of Ambarturion as he had fallen upon the goblins in his wrath, and he felt Caranbaith’s response: together, they remembered the vision of their master’s might. But in the midst of the memory there was a disturbing darkness that hung about Ambarturion, like a shadow or a cloak. It billowed about him, obscuring his features and blurring his motion. They did not comment on the darkness consciously, but each was aware of it, and they both found it unsettling.

Megilaes let go his brother’s hand and lay closer to him. Putting his mouth to Caranbaith’s ear he sang to him the lay that their mother had taught them both when they were very young, and would go for long walks through the Golden Woods in the springtime. Caranbaith smiled lightly and sighed with contentment, and was soon asleep. Megilaes lay awake, but followed his brother into his dreams, and together they walked through the woods once more, free of pain and darkness.

[Arry]

Gromwakh took the lead with Snikdul following close. Toward the rear of the ragged column they moved, the remainder of their companions trailing along behind them. They were just thirteen in number now, one of them having met the brutish death at the hands and foot of One Eye . . . and him, the poor dead Orc, in the midst of a winning streak with the dice. The little group kept well out of sight of the troops marching toward the Elven forest as they made their way in the opposite direction. And it was not until early afternoon that the supply wagons came into view.

Snikdul was all for running hurriedly toward them, as were the others. But Gromwakh growled at the group and urged them on behind the last of the lines. ‘They may be cooks and servers and water-fetchers but they aren’t all stupid. They’ll wonder why were running towards them from the front and some idjit’s bound to let slip to someone about Orcs that were running away from the battlefield.’ The group looked at him dumbly, no light of understanding in their eyes. ‘Just follow his lead, boys, old Grom’ll get us through. And best yet he’ll do the thinking for it.’ Now a flicker of comprehension glinted in the depths of their yellow eyes, like a small taper lit in a vast cavern.

As if by mutual agreement they all nodded toward him and waited expectantly for an order. He sighed, then belched, as if he had made up his mind. Seeing the dust from the wagons in the distance now ahead of them, he took off his pack and fished about in it until his fingers found what he sought. His whip! Braided from the hides of two tough old mountain goats he’d pursued and brought down in the Misty Mountains.

Gromwakh drew back his arm and snapped the lash with a quick snap. His companions eyes grew wide and they snarled at him, thinking he might hit them. Grom shouldered his pack and sent them shuffling off before him with a few words as he ran behind, the scourge snapping at their heels.

‘Oy!’ he shouted loud as they neared the wagons. ‘Get on you maggoty lot,’ he cried as they neared the wagons from the rear, in a voice great enough to be heard by the Orcs in charge. ‘I’ll not have you lagging behind. Some of you take up that wagon tongue, you lazy louts, and give those others a breather. The others run along beside and spell them once in a while.’

The Orcs who were pulling the wagon were more than happy to give up their work to the fresh crew. Gromwakh walked alongside his companions nudging them now and then with his whip handle for effect, all the while telling them to keep their heads low and their gobs shut . . . they’d make it through yet.

[Kransha]

“Urkrásh, why are the members of my glorious race such imbeciles?”

Urkrásh glanced glibly at his master and captain as the two of them stood at the center and front of the ragged column drifting, or oozing forward like a smoggy shroud of black moving with enervated speed across the forested plains. Thrákmazh, his armored form erect and stiffened, continued to direct the low-shouldered troops around, pointing them towards the front and issuing as many commanding gestures of he could. Out of the corner of his mouth, he spoke to Urkrásh, who blinked at him dazedly and answered as best he could. “Umm…” he searched for a response that would not anger his captain, stammering involuntarily. “I don’t know, sir.” he murmured, evading the real question.

Thrákmazh’s hand, which had been up with a gauntleted trio of fingers aimed forward and swinging to indicate the proposed movement for some very slow uruks, lowered slowly, falling limp and lifeless to his side, the chain mail riveted upon it jingling. Slowly, he turned to his orcish counterpart, who had the same ready and willing, if not slightly confused look on his face he’d borne a moment ago. Thrákmazh’s single eye narrowed icily, focusing into beady and acute orb that fixed its keen gaze on Urkrásh. After looking grimly at the servant for a dragging, slow-paced moment, Thrákmazh swiveled sluggishly to face the troops again, looking deep into their thick ranks with his single, precise eye, examining each and every mindless uruk.

“It’s because they don’t have a purpose, none at all. They serve like blind rats, being directed by those with high ranks and decorations to spare. I think I might’ve been like that once, but that changed soon enough. They’re just blind, aimless worms that do what they’re told when they feel like it. No loyalty, no devotion, no sense of purpose at all. They probably have no aspirations, no hopes, and I don’t blame ‘em. They’ll never get anywhere, not the way they conduct themselves. You and I, on the other hand, orcs like us are different. And, Urkrásh, if you serve with loyalty and show your mettle for the cause, you’d get somewhere, and any of that lot might too if they did so. But, most of ‘em won’t do anything to get anywhere, and they’ll stay in the filth they made. When they see the elves, they’ll fight all the same, and they might get some pleasure out of it, but no one will remember them, or care about them, or know their names.”

The speech was not meant, or implied as the speech it was. Thrákmazh considered himself quite the wordsmith, and impressive enough in that wording as well, for he had spent many days perfecting his skill with this second language, which most orcs did not speak well. It was considered a point of pride to be able to discourse in the common tongue diligently, as clan gatherings of orcs could not speak the Black Speech, their native tongue, in groups, for each clan and sect had a different, multifaceted dialect (though the speech was not complicated overall). Urkrásh looked now as if he was contemplating the petty oratory, looking as pensive as he could in the passing moment. Thrákmazh was not even looking upon him, had not turned to witness the other orc’s response. At last, as a disconcerting silence descended eerily over the two, though crashing, growling, rumbling, thumping, and snarling abounded all around them, Urkrásh found his voice and spoke, quietly but surely. “I see, sir.”

“I’m sure.” Thrákmazh murmured coolly, stepping back and finally turning toward Urkrásh. “Urkrásh,” he said, the commanding air faded from his guttural voice, “I want you to do something for me.” Urkrash, at this, piped up wholeheartedly, his own gait steadily brightening to reveal his constant willingness as he nodded his head vigorously. “Anything, sir.” Looking back upon him, Thrakmazh almost smiled, but contained the expression.

“I want you to take command of this column,” he continued, causing Urkrash to jump unnoticeably, “just temporary command, and make sure nothing happens in my absence. We have to see to this task with those accursed men, so I might as well see who they are. I’m going to scope them out, see what I can learn. I think that you are capable of making sure nothing undesirable happens.” Urkrash looked at him, at first, as if his commanding officer might have been possessed, but calmed down within seconds, ever eager to serve, and said, simply, “Are you sure?” Thrákmazh glowered at him, a sight which would silence most orcs who knew his reputation. It might not have been the best idea, since another uruk captain might fit the task better. Yes, Urkrásh was sometimes a fool, but a loyal fool, and would not let his master down. He would do this task as aptly as he could. “I’m always sure about whatever I say and whatever I do.”

After a deep breath, Urkrásh bowed his head and answered. “Yes, Thrákmazh.”

Not returning the bow, Thrákmazh spun on his iron-booted heel and strode off slowly, still surveying and supervising, but not for long. Soon enough he was on the outskirts of the orcish line, which was interspersed with the lesser orcs. All orcs noticed Thrákmazh, save a happily ignorant few. Most cringed, and all those he passed busied themselves getting out of his way. This all changed, though, as he neared the equally ragged columns of men, dressed in all manner of bizarre, exotic garb, which escaped Thrákmazh completely. These mortal men did not think to oblige Thrákmazh’s path, and none took note of him except as what he was, an orc. None moved for him, few acknowledged his presence, and none stopped their idle conversation on the march. Snorting indignantly, Thrákmazh proceeded towards the head of the line, hurrying slightly, as he did not relish the company of men. At long and irksome last, he found the crest of the column, with the men there who he presumed held some notion of authority. He saw one, with another alongside, who fit the description of a captain of the men he'd been told of by other orcs on the societal fringes of the army, who had nothing better to do. Worming his way with very little grace through the claustrophobic rows, he found himself just behind the man and another beside.

“You are the one called Koran Cenbryt, yes?” He queried, utterly unexcited about the meeting. But, the meeting was not to happen yet, for the crowd had carried both away. Still uninterested, and irritated, Thrakmazh headed off, towards the rocky ground that bordered the whole area where and on which the armies traveled. The orc captain sauntered towards this virtual grove as night's pale hue tinged the reddening sky above. There, seated neatly upon an elevated outcropping of stone, was another Southron captain. The one called Herding.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

"I sure hope that you all got some more information than I did, or else we will probably never figure out what they intend!"

Lomarandil was lying down amid the leaves with his eyes shut, and humming a tune. His head reasted on his hands, and Thorvel shot a very sour look at him Stupid youngster, resting and singing while the others have been out scouting, looking for clues! "Indeed, Thorvel. They're mobilising, drilling their troops. But from what I've see ntempers are running frayed. With some luck they'll kill enough of themselves not to present much challenge." Thorvel turned away, but even so Lomarandil saw the muscles in his neck and cheek jerk angrily. Lomarandil chuckled silently and forcedly to himself. He knew that Thorvel didn't really like him, but deep down he wished that he could do a better job of hiding it, he was after part of the troop and he thought it would have been nice for people not to grimace every time he made a discovery.

Calenvasa nodded gravely at the news. "We have not much time then." Lomarandil relaxed once again on the leaves. Adn started humming again. Calenvasa went up to Thorvel and whispered something inaudible in his ear.Lomarandil muttered at this, and turned over onto his front. Taking out his knife he began to cut the earth in front of him. Targil looked aver to see what it was, but he couldn't make anything out. Calenvasa moved away from Thorvel, before walking over to the rest. Thorvel joined them soon after.
Lomarandil sat up, joining the group, before finally shrugging and standing up to his full height.."We must move quickly..." Calenvasa said in a whisper.

[Alatariel Telemnar]

The army marched forward slowly, it seemed; Urkrásh stood slightly behind his master, but both of them in the center and front of the army.

‘Urkrásh, why are the members of my glorious race such imbeciles?’ Thrákmazh said, looking out at the column of uruks. Urkrásh glanced at Thrákmazh, unsure of what to say, and slightly confused by the question. Searching for an answer, he quickly looked back and forth to leaves and stones on the ground.

‘Umm…’ he said, still trying to think of an answer that would not anger his master. He slowly began to loose the question. Not wanting to stall to long or ask again, he murmured, ‘I don’t know, sir.’ His voice was only loud enough to be heard over the sounds the uruks were making.

He nearly winced waiting for his master’s response to his reply. He watched him out of the corner of his eye as he dropped the hand that signaled some slow uruks, his armor rattling as he did so. Thrákmazh turned to him, the slit in his eye grew smaller as he focused on Urkrásh. He was just about to cower in fear from the gaze when his master turned back and looked upon the army that slowly progressed forward. Urkrásh looked upon them too; his eyes pacing back and forth along the columns, wondering what his master had meant.

‘It’s because they don’t have a purpose, none at all. They serve like blind rats, being directed by those with high ranks and decorations to spare. I think I might’ve been like that once, but that changed soon enough. They’re just blind, aimless worms that do what they’re told when they feel like it. No loyalty, no devotion, no sense of purpose at all. They probably have no aspirations, no hopes, and I don’t blame ‘em. They’ll never get anywhere, not the way they conduct themselves. You and I, on the other hand, orcs like us are different. And, Urkrásh, if you serve with loyalty and show your mettle for the cause, you’d get somewhere, and any of that lot might too if they did so. But, most of ‘em won’t do anything to get anywhere, and they’ll stay in the filth they made. When they see the elves, they’ll fight all the same, and they might get some pleasure out of it, but no one will remember them, or care about them, or know their names,’ he said, not looking back at Urkrásh, but still scanning the troops.

Urkrásh looked back at him, trying to think over what he was saying. Pondering this, Urkrásh wondered if he would ever be remembered, even by his master, if he ever left him. He blinked a bit, surprised at the speech his master had given. He was also surprised to be compared to someone with such a high ranking as Thrákmazh, and to be considered like him. Urkrásh had never tried to get anywhere. He had never wanted to be in charge of a mass number. But, he had served with loyalty and tried to please whenever he could: mostly because he just wanted to save his own hide, but he did it just the same. He would get pleasure out of fighting the elves. His right hand twitched at the thought, limp and barely useful, it lamed him, a scar that time does not heal. Looking back at the uruks, Urkrásh watched them. Disorderly they were, the lines were not perfect, yet you could make out each individual column, and some uruks did not look so willing, slow and sluggish, grunting or snarling now and then; it seemed as none had taken notice of Thrákmazh’s speech. But Urkrásh found himself replying with an ‘I see, sir’ before he had truly understood what his master meant.

I’m sure,’ Thrákmazh responded. He stepped back after his time scanning the troops and faced Urkrásh, ‘Urkrásh, I want you to do something for me.’ Urkrásh straightened up a bit, ready to please, nodding his head vigorously, ‘Anything, sir.’

‘I want you to take command of this column, just temporary command, and make sure nothing happens in my absence.’ Urkrásh jumped at his, having never been put in charge of such a big number, and back in his mind was doubt and uncertainty. Thrákmazh continued, ‘We have to see to this task with those accursed men, so I might as well see who they are. I’m going to scope them out, see what I can learn. I think that you are capable of making sure nothing undesirable happens.’

Urkrásh blinked a few times, looking at his master. ‘Are you sure?’ He said, not sure of what else to say. The task of commanding a whole column was never something he was commanded, maybe an orc or two, but never a mass of uruks. Thrákmazh glared at him, ‘I’m always sure about whatever I say and whatever I do.’

Taking a deep breath, he replied ‘Yes, Thrákmazh’ and bowed his head.

Urkrásh watched as Thrákmazh spun around and slowly rode away and disappeared among the uruks and then men, most of the uruks making sure they moved out of his way as he passed. After he had passed them, Urkrásh noticed the columns of uruks became less and less orderly. He grunted to himself, wondering why Thrákmazh chose him for the job: there were other uruks and orcs that would fit it better. His eyes paced back and forth, watching the uruks, waiting for something to go wrong, trying to remember all the signals he had seen used in the past. Urkrásh began to plan out every scenario in his mind, what he were to do if something went wrong.

[Durelin]

Calenvása smiled slightly at Thorvel's frustration. The elf seemed truly perturbed, and that was to be understood after a whole night remaining as still and as quiet as possible, with no outcome. Calenvása quickly glanced around him. No one seemed ready to speak. Targil in particular looked sour, of course, and his eyes fell upon the Captain often enough for anyone to see just what he was sour about. But Targil had always saved his bitterness for Calenvása. Never had it been such a constant battle between the two elves' wills, though. Calenvása thought he could blame it on the stressfulness of the situation, but could he blame it on anything or anyone but Targil? Or perhaps it was his own fault. He knew that so many of the faults Targil found were legitimate.

Thorvel waited quietly for someone else to speak, as did Targil. Calenvása felt the silence growing heavy upon him, and he knew that soon he had to speak. He had information that might help them, he thought, but he just could not put it together. There were pieces of something that could make a whole, he knew. But he also knew that there were some pieces that he held in his mind, and others that he did not. He waited, letting the silence go, hoping it would not grow out of control. Someone had to have one of the missing pieces. Calenvása now waited for someone to speak up. The silence did not grow out of hand. Lómarandil could be relied upon, as always.

"Indeed, Thorvel. They're mobilising, drilling their troops. But from what I've seen tempers are running frayed. With some luck they'll kill enough of themselves not to present much challenge."

Calenvása sighed, wondering how long it would take the young elf to realize that there was more to this army than a squabbling bunch of thick-skulled orcs and Men, slaves to Sauron. These numbers were greater than the elves had faced since the Last Alliance, or so Calenvása thought, to the best of his knowledge. But then, his knowledge had never extended very far into the wars of his people, or any people. And their brethren in Lorien were not at all prepared to face an army of any size.

Targil and Thorvel were obviously feeling the same vexation as their Captain. Targil’s mouth was twisted sourly in annoyance. All was quiet again, though the bitterness could be felt in the air. Lómarandil looked almost as sour as Targil, while Thorvel kept his features smooth, but fidgeted a bit too restlessly. Again, Calenvása waited for someone to speak. Unfortunately, so did everyone else.

The silence started to grow into a wild thing that lashed out at Calenvása's mind. Every moment of it made his body try to wince. He used all the will he had to remain still, and staying right where he was. He wanted to run away and escape it all, but Calenvása knew he couldn't. He was the Captain, and he felt the silence the most of anyone present for a reason.

"We have not much time, as you all know," he glanced at Targil for a moment, who smiled cynically. “I make this brief, as it seems there is little that must be said. As said before, there is more to this attack than a large frontal assault, as effective as that might be. Near where I was perched in a tree, a small troop gathered, consisting of both orcs and easterlings and southrons, seemingly all of some kind of high rank. I heard nothing of their words, but it was clear that they were far more organized than the army, and separate from it.”

Calenvása paused, seeing that this information was so general, lacking any details and bringing only more for their minds to ponder with worry. The Captain dug through his mind, trying to find something to add to his observations. He wished with little hope for a conclusion to this, as well. Then Thorvel spoke up, and Calenvása felt the burden be lifted from upon him.

“Then we head back the other way and stay as far as we can from them…” he said softly. “I knew that that orc sounded too close to where I lay in hiding. Now I think he must have been a part of your special troop, Captain. From this I believe we can assume that they will be remaining separate from the army. Unless ‘them’ refers to us…then we have more to worry about.”

Thorvel frowned in thought and in a certain disappointment at finding his information just as vague as Calenvása’s, and adding to the worries of the scouts. Calenvása lead Thorvel a little ways away from Targil and Lómarandil, and spoke to him quietly. “We will elaborate upon these thoughts later, friend. Would you mind my company in our chase?” Thorvel returned Calenvása’s smile, and nodded. Calenvása had been watching Lómarandil and Targil both, and he had seen the restlessness of the two, and the frustration. Calenvása knew they must have a reason for this anger, but he doubted that it was a rational one.

The Captain returned to the group, and it was immediately clear to the two younger elves that the ‘communication’ had ended. Lómarandil now chose to physically join the group, moving closer to Calenvása. Now he listened carefully, now that his blood was boiling in anticipation. The young elf awaited a word, and Calenvása was reluctant to give it to him. He felt that they were leaving something behind, forgetting something of great importance. He had felt since the beginning of this mission that they were rushing things, but time had always been a key issue. Time was important to Calenvása, and as he practically felt the sun rising in the sky to shine upon him from a different angle. He sighed heavily, and spoke softly, almost as if he wished the others would not hear it. “We must move quickly...” he paused, then lightened his voice, using his sense of humor to alleviate his thoughts. “But that is what we are best at, is it not, my pack of wolves?”

Targil grinned and let out a howl like a wolf. Calenvása opened his mouth to berate him, as he knew that any orc or Man ear could have heard that noise, but both he and Lómarandil were already disappearing into the forest. The Captain sighed once more. He looked at Thorvel, who still stood by him, waiting. The elf smiled slightly, and Calenvása found amusement in the situation as well. “That was truly a very natural sounding wolf call.”

The two elves made their way into the forest, following Targil and Lómarandil, with a few chuckles, growing silent as they drew near the army’s camp location. They found it clear of anything living, but covered with countless signs that a great number of dirty creatures had resided there. Calenvása studied it with disgust, as he and Thorvel came upon the other two. “We will not be scattered, each taking our own route. All of our skills will be needed.” Targil waited only for Calenvása to finish speaking, then made his way into the clearing that was the orc camp. Lómarandil followed, and they soon found the direction the army had taken. They took off in that direction, and Thorvel and the Captain could do nothing else but follow, running. They kept their two comrades in sight as Calenvása already began to feel the excitement and the anxiety of the race that they now ran in, with the finish line across a wide plain in Lorien.

[Arry]

An army travels on its stomach . . .

- and rumour and gossip pervade the ranks like gas after cabbage soup . . .

Gromwakh looked out over the small platoon of wagons that bore the food to fuel the invasion. At least, he thought it was an invasion, from what he’d gleaned in conversation with the Orcs sent back to fetch supplies. They were a never-ending source of information – overlooked grunts and cooks, barely worth noticing by the captains and such; too stupid to understand anything other than sharp barked commands, or so they appeared to the ones they served. And true they often misheard or misunderstood what was said, but with a little poking and prodding of memory and a small bribe, much could be put together.

At any rate, it appeared the Elves didn’t know what was to happen, weren’t waiting for the Dark One’s army. ‘It’ll be a surprise!’ snorted a one-armed Orc from near the front. ‘There’ll be plenty of Elves to kill and trees to burn to the ground.’ He nodded firmly, punctuating his comments with a belch. ‘Cap’n says we’re to have whatever prizes we can find.’

‘You should live so long,’ thought Gromwakh to himself, ‘the only prize you’re likely to get is one of them sharp, shiny blades in your gut.’

He’d helped the Orc fill his sack with supplies and sent him on his way, when one of his own band motioned him over to the side of the track. ‘Old Kreblug here says he’s picked up some tasty information . . . be willing to trade it for two salted fish and a small jug of Deadman’s-jack. Grom’s brows raised as his jaundiced gaze swept over the wretched specimen who stood opposite him. Deadman’s-jack was a particularly foul drink brewed from the leavings of leftover vegetable peelings . . . Orcs would drink it, but only after exhausting their supply of Orc-draught. Grom could see the trembling of Kreblug’s hands and how he smacked his thick lips. The fellow was desperate for something to take the edge off . . .

‘Two fish, and a cup of jack,’ he said to Kreblug. Kreblug wavered, looking as if he might say ‘no’. But Grom sweetened the deal. ‘’And one cup every day that you bring me back news.’ He motioned for his fellow Orc to pour a cup for Kreblug.

‘Now tell us what you heard . . .’ he urged the desperate Orc, holding the cup just beyond his reach.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel was running strongly beside Calenvása, their two companions up ahead. Running felt good, after the long night in a cramped position. His earlier frustration had faded as the thrill of the chase set in, if his irritation at Lómarandil had not. Arrogant young elf, he thought. Thorvel wasn't sure where he had been a scout previously, but in that time he had certainly not learned much about Orcs. They might kill a few of their own - he had already seen examples of such - but killing off the entire army? Thorvel didn't think so. The Enemy had a purpose for them, unclear though it was, and as long as that held true the Orcs would be held to his will. He shook his head of the gloomy thoughts. There had been far too many of those lately.

"Their trail certainly isn't hard to follow," said Thorvel, chuckling wryly. The grass under their feet was trampled, and any living thing in the Orcs' way had been hacked down. He was grinning, not that there was much to grin at but he needed to vent his humor somehow. Calenvása gave him a queer look but smiled back. Thorvel was enjoying Calenvása's companionship more and more as he got to know him better. His face returned to its usual expressionless gaze, but his eyes gleamed with pleasure. He remembered the Captain's words to him earlier: “We will elaborate upon these thoughts later, friend. Would you mind my company in our chase?” He had called him friend. It meant a great deal to Thorvel that his captain felt this way about him. Thorvel had not known many people he could call friends in his many years, but Calenvása was slowly but surely edging his way up onto Thorvel's short list of friends.

Thorvel turned his mind back to the Orcs. He was still puzzled. All the information that they had was vague at best. A smaller more organized section of the army. Orcs trying to stay away from "them". Southrons and Orcs. What could it all mean? Calenvása had said they would speak more of it later, and Thorvel hoped that together they might be able to come up with something more than he alone was coming up with, which was little more than nothing.

"What do you intend to do if we catch up with the Orcs?" Thorvel asked, cocking his head towards the Captain. "It is a good deal harder to run swiftly and quietly under cover of trees."

[Arry]

Kreblug shivered as he looked at the proffered cup. ‘Just a taste,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Just something to wet my whistle. Easier to talk, if you catch my drift.’

Gromwakh poured just a tot into a small cup handed him by Snikdul and watched as the his benighted fellow Orc chased away his demon for the moment. Kreblug smacked his lips together when it was gone; looking deep into the cup in case he had missed a drop. He looked up hopefully at Gromwakh, only to see his eyes narrow and his head shake a definitive ‘no’.

‘Right, then,’ Kreblug began. ‘It were late last night, nearing sun up I think, when me and a couple of friends were off on some private business of our own.’

Snikdul wiped his dripping nose on the back of his arm and gave a small cough. ‘Drinking your “private business”, more likely,’ he thought to himself. Looking up he thought he saw the same assessment flicker in Gromwakh’s eyes. Gromwakh, in fact, had decided that perhaps the ‘information’ the Orc had might be from drunken imaginings. He urged Kreblug to go on.

‘It’s when we saw ‘im. Well not so much as saw him as smelled him. That stinking stench they have. Near enough to set our guts to roiling.’ Kreblug snorted as if the foul stench had hit him once again.

‘Probably got a whiff of himself,’ muttered Snikdul, moving to stand near Gromwakh. Grom kicked him in the ankle and cast what passed as a smile toward Kreblug. ‘Go on . . . we’re all pins and needles here,’ he said to the informant. ‘What was it that smelled so bad?’ Kreblug wavered, about to ask for one more little taste, but the look on Gromwakh’s face decided his course.

‘A stinking Elf it was! Sniffer, it was, who caught the scent - smelled him sure in one of the trees near us. Try as we might we couldn’t see him; couldn’t hear him either . . . the sneaking blighters!’

‘I know that Sniffer fellow,’ commented Snikdul. ‘Got nostrils the size of some of the caverns beneath Mount Gundabad, he does. Very reliable at sniffing things out.’

‘Anyway,’ continued Kreblug, ‘we moved away from that place and conducted our little business away from spying eyes. Went back in the morning, on our way back to camp, for a little look-see, so to speak, but he was gone by then.’ Gromwakh nodded thoughtfully and passed the cup of Deadman’s-jack to the eager waiting fingers of Kreblug. ‘Have you told your Captain about this?’ he asked.

‘Told my Captain!’ spluttered the Orc between convulsive swallows of the potent liquid. ‘Are you daft? We’d have to explain what we were doing away from camp, now wouldn’t we?’

Gromwakh sent Kreblug off and gathered his fellows about him. ‘Well, isn’t this a fine mess we’re in. Old One-Eye to the front of us, and him marching us to certain death. Elves spying in trees . . .’ He looked consideringly behind the slowly advancing wagons as the last of them pulled past him. ‘And what’s behind us I wonder?’

‘Can’t see anything, Grom,’ one of the band offered helpfully. Gromwakh led them back to the wagons, joining the forward march with a few jostlings and cursings thrown their way. ‘There’ll be no striking a bargain for our benefit with the ones in charge here. We’re so much fodder for their little war.’ He chewed thoughtfully on his lip for a moment.

‘Wonder if we could strike some bargain with the Elves,’ he muttered to himself.

[Durelin]

"What do you intend to do if we catch up with the Orcs? It is a good deal harder to run swiftly and quietly under cover of trees."

Calenvása's troubled thoughts were disrupted by Thorvel's words, and he felt eternally grateful. The Captain sighed in relief, as the clouds dissipated in his head. Thorvel opened his mouth once more, but Calenvása silenced him with a gesture He knew that his companion had started to apologize, for nothing. He remained silent for a moment longer, listening to the air around him. The complete and utter quiet that settled on the land kept him alert, and he thought his ears could even hear the miniscule sound of elfin feet passing through the tall growths of the forest. The trees around them were quickly receding, but that certainly did not mean the air should not be full of birds. And other creatures should be heard around the elves, who were welcome in the forests of the world. It was clear that the world had been silenced by the passing of heavy feet that made the earth creak beneath them.

"I do not intend to catch up to them. We will follow them, particularly with our eyes, as their destination is our own. We do little good to Lorien if we can tell them nothing of the attack other than what we know now."

Thorvel smiled slightly. "And what do we know now?"

"That the attack will come."

Calenvása laughed quietly with his companion, but his mind soon came to the realization that he was avoiding so many topics. He was simply afraid of including Targil or Lómarandil in any of his words, as his thoughts that had surrounded them worried him the most. But he knew there was one thing that had to be said, now. And more needed to be said later.

"I have neglected to see so many things..." he said quietly, and seemed to trail off into more thoughts. Thorvel remained patient, kindly silent. "We have much to discuss when we stop to rest tonight."

"We stop?"

"I'm afraid we must, if not to sleep. I can only hope that the army will make a detour for a good ale along the way."

Thorvel grinned, but spoke with seriousness, "They must rest along the way if they plan to put up a fight at the end."

Calenvása nodded reluctantly at this, knowing it to be true, but doubting it all the same. He decided then that this was later enough for more to be discussed. There was another question he had been avoiding, and he believed Thorvel had been, as well. The Captain knew that his comrade had not forgotten the words whispered in his ear. It was of great importance that their two minds be put together, in the quiet of their world without a senseless rush forcing them into action. "I believe it is a good time to elaborate upon one of the problems at hand. Soon we will lack the time, I fear."

[Firefoot]

“Time,” said Thorvel. “Yet another thing that we will probably lack.” He sighed, and lapsed into silence for a moment, thinking.

“I believe you are speaking of the Orcs’ plan,” said Thorvel, glancing inquiringly at Calenvása, who nodded. “Two separate forces of Orcs,” said Thorvel, thinking out loud. “Why? What do they need two forces for? And the separate one has orcs of high rank... perhaps they mean to launch a two-fold attack. And those other orcs want to stay away from ‘them’. The special forces? Or maybe the main force? If there are two forces,” he said, sighing. “I cannot make any sense out of it.” Thorvel was glad that he was able to speak to Calenvása alone on this topic, without Lómarandil’s arrogant comments and Targil’s disagreeing ones. It helped that he was now able to think on it.

Calenvása was nodding slowly. “Perhaps it does make some sense, though very little. Orcs do not fight for a cause, so perhaps they would want to stay away from the generals who would have them in the middle of the battle, where they would like as not get killed. Orcs like to kill, but not be killed.” Thorvel was beginning to understand, and chipped in as Calenvása momentarily trailed off.

“So, that would make it sound like they would stay away from their generals. It makes sense, and staying away from the Elves doesn’t make much sense anyhow, as we have remained well-hidden and why would they want to stay away from those who are attacking? Perhaps those Orcs I heard were rebels - not unlikely with Orcs.” Thorvel felt that this issue was pretty well settled: they had a solution that made sense, and that would be enough for now.

“But back to their plans,” said Thorvel. “If they have two forces, what could they be used for?” He realized how calmly he was talking of the Orcs, and that revelation was enough to cause the old hatred to flare up in him. The painful memories that they had caused him were buried deep, covered many times over by his determination to keep them there, but the vengeance was there. It had kept him going for a long time. The cold gleam returned to his eyes, but he spoke calmly.

“Clearly this army has a purpose that they mean to fulfill. This other force must have some role, and I would count on that role being a key part to their plan.” Sudden inspiration struck him. “What if they mean to trap the Lorien Elves between the two forces? Surely there must be some kind of trap.”

[Durelin]

Calenvása’s mind worked speedily, attempting to process all the words that his ears were hearing. Thorvel spoke with an air of absent-mindedness, voicing every one of his thoughts without organizing, for fear that he would lose them in the proceedings. This was exactly what Calenvása had wished for him to do, as thoughts were misplaced or retained that could be important if all were not uttered. Between two minds in the quiet of the world, a tumultuous quiet as it might be, these thoughts would all be taken into proper consideration. And Calenvása’s mind was trying to do the same. He had gotten a word in, letting forth a suggestion that had to be heard, if not sound likely. For now, it seemed, their two minds thought alike. Which was natural considering their similarities. But Thorvel’s differences brought to the Captain’s mind a freshening view of the same circumstances. They thoughts along the same lines but saw things in their own minds’ eyes, and so were able to look at the situation from different angles, much as they had been viewing the enemy from different places and through each elf’s eyes.

“A trap? Very much a typical component to the Enemy’s plans,” Calenvása said, letting his own thoughts run free, and so already finding his sense of humor becoming a part of expressing these sober thoughts. “But to trap between…and between the two forces, you say? I would not call that a force, but a party, perhaps a troop. Just enough to fill an inn, and one of the town tavern kind. Elite though they may be, I doubt that the orcs and Southrons would be enough to pinch those of Lorien in between they and the main force…” He trailed off for a moment, pausing shortly when finding himself lacking of a conclusion to this suggestion. He kept his mouth working, knowing that words were soon to come from it, and, as he had hoped, Thorvel saw this and remained silent, for now.

“The ‘special force’, you called them?” Calenvása glanced at Thorvel, with a grin, taking his eyes away from the sun, which he had stared at as he pondered. The elf smiled back, and nodded. “Interesting…it sounds misplaced, but I can think of no better term. For ‘special’ they just might be.”

Thorvel nodded anxiously at this, his eyes shining as they had back in the clearing, frustrated and angered, as well as excited. The vexation of a mission, of any obstacle the scouts had to overcome, brought with it its own kind of excitement, if not a jovial one. He spoke quickly, the irritation clear in his voice to the point that he practically breathed the words with hot breaths of anger. “Special, yes, but how? How are they of a special importance?”

“It is almost as it I have heard those words before…” Calenvása said, rather dryly, but grinning all the same. He looked at his comrade once more, and the blazing eyes that met his did not abash his smile. Quickly those eyes began to cool after one last great flaring and a shake of the head they were set into. The Captain’s grin grew, and soon Thorvel lowered his eyes, a smile appearing on his own face. “You bring us back to the beginning, Calenvása continued, “when you should allow the pieces to work their way to a whole.”

~

Targil, Night

Targil ran at a quick pace, finding himself wishing that Lómarandil would fall behind. But it was getting late in the day, falling into night, and the elf had easily kept the intense pace. He almost quickened his pace, but the young elf chose this moment to speak. “Should we not wait for our Captain?”

Targil sighed heavily, but Lómarandil did not catch the annoyance in his voice as he spoke. “Yes, Lómarandil.” It dripped with mock cheerfulness, and his eyes flashed with anger. He glanced at the young elf, but Lómarandil looked him straight in the eyes without a flinch. The boy had himself on his mind much too often, and nothing could change that. Nothing changed what he was, and in his mind, he was foremost of all. What Targil would not accept was that this made the young elf that he so despised so much like him.

It was impossible that Lómarandil did not see the anger in his companion’s eyes, and yet he smiled slightly as he began to speak. No apology came from him, as he of course saw nothing that required one. Targil’s hand that swung at his side as he walked was balled up into a tight fist, gripping hard to keep a hold on to his anger.

The young elf pointed ahead into the distance, where trees had become scarce. Targil followed Lómarandil’s gesture to see clearly ahead of them several bright dots in the growing darkness. “Should we not wait for our Captain?” the elf asked again as he brought his arm down. This time, Targil reluctantly saw past the young one’s arrogance and recklessness, and nodded.

[Orofaniel]

The late evening was drawing near and the army, both Orcs and men, were soon feeling great need of sleep, food and not to mention some nice fresh water. The last couple of hours the army had increased its speed and many felt that this was definitely the time to find a decent place to pull up camp for the night. It was also true; the sun had passed its origin home long ago, and the sun had yet again, as every other night, been replaced with the bright moon. Herding pulled his hair back, as he felt the cold breeze slightly striking his face.

As they came across an area where there were fewer trees than there had been on their whole journey Herding decided that this would be a good place to out up a camp for the night. The green grass on the field was just beneath a hill. Along the hill a small river was flowing, and cool water seemed excellent right now. "We’ll camp here! Now!" Herding cried, to everyone's great relief. The other Captains had been thinking the very same, because many soldiers had already left their position in the army, heading down to the blossoming field. Orc were soon running down in the green grass which was soon stamped down by their heavy feet. Herding sighed a little and ordered that some of the soldiers would follow him to set up a tent.

While some soldiers were walking along the river to fetch some fresh, cold water, others were pulling up tents for the night. Orcs were talking with loud voices, and making other noises that Herding, among others, weren’t' too pleased about. Herding had always disliked Orcs, because of their nasty habits, although some were actually decent fighters. At least they weren't afraid to die in a battle, something other soldier could be at times. Huge bonfires could bee seen in the left corner of the field, where the Orcs had settled. It almost seemed like they were having a feast. On the northern side of the field, the Easterlings and Haradrims had settled. They were much calmer, although grumpy and seemingly tired the whole lot of them. Some had also started to make themselves a nice meal, with the fresh water, something they all seemed pleased about. Herding himself hadn't offered a hand in the organizing of the new camp, he didn't bother, but then again he knew that some of the other soldiers would have pulled up his tents and belongings within short time. This time was no exception of course.

Herding seated on a rock, looking at his map. Finally his sword and bow weren't a big burden to him anymore, as he had put them aside. He felt rather exhausted after a long day’s walk with weapons and armour. Soon a soldier approached him; he brought with him some of the fresh water from the running river. "Sir, the water you asked for," he said while bowing his head. Herding took it. The small bottle was lifted to his mouth as the cold water ran down his throat. What an exquisite taste, he thought. Never had he appreciated a bottle of water more than now, in this very moment. He breathed heavily as he pulled the bottle away from his mouth. Thereafter he pulled up his sleeves, which were already getting dirty, and washed his hands. Herding then looked up at the soldier, and told him that he was thankful for the water that he just brought him and that he was allowed to go. The soldier bowed his head again, slightly, and walked away.

Herding then noticed that an Orc only a few paces ahead of two men, were walking towards him. The Orc was quite thin; although Herding spotted that he was quite muscular. By looking at him, examining his face the best possible way from such a distance, Herding noticed that this Orc only had one eye! His, so to seem, red eye was horrifying, although Herding didn't know for sure if it really was red or if he even only had one of them, he was after all too far away for any accurate details. Also by looking at the Orc’s armour, that had spikes on it, he was certain that this was some Captain who was walking, soon about to approach him. The two men looked like Haradrims, but Herding wasn't sure. But as they got closer, Herding saw indeed that two of them were indeed of his kind. One of them was probably a bit younger than the other; Herding could see that for sure. He would think that there would at least be sevem years between them. Age, however, didn't matter; it was their errand that mattered and that brought great curiosity to his mind. One of them had a scar across his cheek. Herding figured it had to be a nasty one-to one fight that had caused such a scar. He was also quite tall, with tanned skin, and rather dark hair. Then again, dark hair was typical for Haradrims.

The other man was walking next to him, constantly turning around to look backwards. Why he did that, Herding couldn’t tell. Herding didn't have time to analyze the second man any more than that, because the Orc had now approached him. Herding got to his feel, still holding his knife, while looking at him. His eyes hadn't let him down this time, because this Orc that was now standing in front of him, had one eye only. Herding had to struggle with himself to keep himself from staring, although he found it quite difficult. At least this showed, after Herding's opinion, that the Orc in front of him was a good warrior. There was nothing bad about that, was there now?

"You'd better put that knife down..." The Orc said a bit annoyed by being greeted like this. Herding couldn't do anything but take it down as he asked what errand the Orc had here. "I'm Thrákmazh, Orc Captain," he said, as he sat down on one of the stones. Herding seated as well feeling a little embarrassed for not being prepared for such a visit. "Herding - Southron Captain," Herding replied sternly. The two of them said naught until the tow men approached them which happened to be only moments after. "An Orc Captain, named Thrákmazh, just arrived. “And now you two," Herding said, with the slightest sound of annoyance in his voice, "Although I do not know your errand yet," he continued.

"Koran Cenrbyt is my name," the tall, with the scar said and seated. The other man seated as well, right next to Koran. Oh, so that is Koran Cenrbyt, Herding though while looking at him. His eyes looked quite unpleasant in the moon ligth. "This is Ehan Fazian, one of my soldiers," he continued looking at the Orc. "You’re the Captain Koran Cenrbyt," The Orc said bluntly while looking back at him. "Indeed I am," he said and smiled. "You know who I am," he said, sounding a bit pleased, but not arrogant. "And yet, Orc, you have not told me yours..." he said, while his face expression faded. "You're right; I have not told you my name. I'm Thrákmazh," he said as he narrowed his eyes.

"I've heard your names. Maybe one more time than necessary," Herding said, while his temper was raising. He didn't want to feel uncomfortable or overlooked while sitting by his very own tent. "But still, none of you have told me your errand...or errands?" Herding said, now seeming quite calm. He was quite curious why they were all brought here. "Well, isn't it obvious?" Thrákmazh said looking at him suspiciously. In that moment, Herding felt rather stupid. Before another thought would run through his mind, Koran interrupted. "I and my soldiers, among them is Ehan, will spilt up from the main army – meaning the armies you’ll be leading you. Remember?" he said and looked at Ehan. Of course Herding remembered, and so he told them.

"I thought our plan was quite clear," Herding said awkwardly and pulled his map forwards so that the all of them could see it clearly. He looked at Koran, then on the map: "The army that splits up from the main army, lead by myself and this Orc here," Herding said, then paused, looking at the Orc if he had disliked not calling him by his name or Captain. However, the Orc Captain didn't seem to notice it, so Herding continued now pointing at the map, following their route with his finger; "The army that splits up, lead by you, Koran, will break off from the main force at the fording of the Anduin," he said and paused again. Koran nodded, confirming what Herding just had said was correct. Thrákmazh nodded too, examining Herding's map. "And what exactly is your plan Koran?" Thrákmazh said with despise, something Herding thought was a reasonable question.

"We will walk straight to Caras Galadon," Koran said while he took the map from Herding and pointed at it. "Here," he said and looked at Ehan. He had remained quiet for quite a while as if he had no tongue, now however he told them that they would only consist of a fair, and not too many, amount of men.

Herding remained quiet for a moment, while thinking. He looked at Koran. He is to young to lead such an army, he thought. How despicable, he continued, while curling his lips. And the young man…boy next to him. Far too young. He didn't like the sight of him. No, not even the slightest. How would they ever manage to fulfil their mission with no experience, he thought, although he knew nothing of Koran's history, nor earlier battles. How could one expect an old head on such young shoulders? Well, you couldn't. He concluded.

"You better do this right, Koran. You better fulfil your mission," Herding then burst out, full of anger. Koran gazed, and looked at him sternly. "I certainly will do just that," he said beneath clenched teeth. "Do you question my judgment and my capability of leading a small force?" He asked Herding, angrily. Ehan looked surprised over how their conversation all of a sudden had turned into a conversation with such hostility atmosphere, with harsh and unreasonable comments. Herding remained quiet for a moment, but Thrákmazh left no space for such silence; "How can you guarantee us victory?" he asked him, while is red eyes blazed. "I will have victory and you shall both see it!" Koran said, now getting to his feet, while his eyes flickered. "You are a fool, Koran," Herding said. "And far too young," he added. He too, got to his feet. "You shall see Koran that you or your army will not succeed...You will face defeat, that is what you will do," he said and grasped his knife again. He held it behind his back, so that the others wouldn't notice. "Herding, sir, keep your words and treats within your own mind, for I will not hear them," he said harshly, as he seized Ehan's arm and turned away. "Young fool," he Orc said behind his back and laughed.

The tow Haradrims walked away from the tent with stern steps. Herding could hear them talking, but not their exact words. Herding didn't say one more word, just took a hold of his map and went inside his tent and closed it. Night had befallen them, and so had jealousy.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Coromswyth

"But what have I said that deserves such a look as this, lady? Do you account the Woodmen among your friends and take offence that I should weigh them so slightly?"

Ambarturion's tone was light now, rather than attacking as it may have been whilst asking the same question earlier, and his laugh made it seem more jocular. These things made Coromswyth consider her answer more carefully than she may otherwise have done, and she hesitated, regarding Ambarturion contemplatively for a long moment. Then she smiled, looking away and shaking her head. "Ambarturion, with such conversation, I do not doubt talking to the Woodmen will be interesting. I don't think you have once spoken to you and not been intrigued by your opinions."

"I don't think that I have once spoken to you and recieved a straight reply to a question," he replied.

Sharp as knives! Coromswyth grinned, unlady-like as it may have been, and held up a finger. "Ah! But that was not a straight question. I merely replied with a roundabout answer to a roundabout question."

For a split second, Coromswyth thought Ambarturion might have replied angrily, but thankfully he took the other option, smiling back at her but saying nothing, his characteristic silence coming back once more. Taking a long deep sigh, he dropped his head so it hung on his chest, then tilted it back to look up at the stars. From where the pair were seated on the ridge of the hollow, about half a metre apart in one of the uniform gaps in the trees, they could see the clear, fine night well, every winking bright star and fine diamond cushioned in dark velvet, perfectly defined. The starlight gleamed on raven black hair and noble faces as the elves sat it silence, watching the stars, each allowing themselves a few moments of peace, without worry or the world. Then Coromswyth drew in a deep breath and rose, smoothing her skirts softly as she shook her hair back, a hand automatically coming up to brush the stray strands from her face. "What time shall we leave tomorrow, Ambarturion?"

The simple question was a token gesture: Coromswyth left it entirely up to Ambarturion, without opinion of her own - allowing him to judge. He turned his head to look up at her then rose also, stepping towards her. "I shall wake you - we shall leave a few hours after daybreak, for it has been a long night."

"Wake me?" A smile played over Coromswyth's lips. "Nay, Ambarturion, I shall watch - you must be tired."

Ambarturion's face changed, shocked. "Nay, Lady, I will watch for the rest of the night - my pupils have enough trouble and one is wounded, and you may have trouble tomorrow without your horse-"

She waved this aside, shaking her head. "Ambarturion, I insist," she replied softly. "Really, you have had as hard a night as I - harder even. I admire you for it. But please - I am not a weak and liable to snap as you may think. I will watch."

He hesitated for a moment, unsure, then offered a halfway point: she would watch first, then he. "And then Megilaes," he added. "He must learn also."

Coromswyth smiled and rolled her eyes. "If you say so, teacher," she replied mockingly, smiling at him. Turning, she settled back down on the ground, next to where she had lain her sword. "Goodnight, Ambarturion."

"And you, Lady Coromswyth," came the formal reply.

~*~

Koran

Several miles from where she elves rested the night afterwards, a fiery scene had unfolded inside Herding's tent. Glaring venemously at the Southron captain, Koran contemplated saying more, then chose to remain silence, clenching his teeth together fiercely before he turned away from the other Southron captain. Touching Ehan on the arm and turning on his heel without bowing as may have been expected, walked out of the tent with stiff, dangerous, inhaling sharply as the cool night air hit him. He didn't move for a moment, a tall, lithe figure against the moonlight, looking out from the eaves of the trees under which Herding's tent had been constructed, calming himself as he breathed in the cool air slowly.

"You are a fool, Koran! You will face defeat, that is what you will do!" The other Southron Captain's words came back cruelly to Koran. He clenched his jaw, looking down at the ground and a bitter smile came onto his face. A fool? The orc knew Koran's name - and so, probably, did Herding. Not that he would ever sink to admitting it - men like that were happier when aware only of themselves. What need had the mighty Herding for knowledge of a mere youth's battles? He shook his head angrily.

"Are you alright, Captain Cenbryt?" Ehan's voice was surprisingly soft. Koran had seen the boy's surprise at the hostility that had arisen in the tent so quickly - indeed, Koran himself was a little mystified as to why things had got so out of hand so quickly. But he knew how it had started. He is the model of Ferach and Cortim...

He turned sharply to look at Ehan and saw the boy move back very slightly. His face softened and he took another deep breath, letting his young brown eyes, full of experience that Herding would never even guess at, before he looked again at Ehan, sliding his eyes sidewards at him. "Captain Herding's way of thinking is..." he hesitated, trying to formulate the right words, before giving up. "Frankly, the man reminds me all too strongly of a pair of the most despicable human beings I have ever come into contact with."

Ehan gave a short laugh. "Sounds a little dire, Koran. Can I ask who?"

Koran glanced across at the younger man and gave him and ironic smile, his white teeth and dark eyes glittering in the clear light of the stars and the moon. "Why, family of course. Didn't you guess?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"Why, family of course. Didn't you guess?" Koran muttered with a tight jaw and clenched fists. Ehan looked to the older man, trying not to show his surprise but knowing that the shock would surely be written upon his face. Ehan wanted to doubt Koran’s words and erase the man’s contempt for his family, but his captain seemed utterly serious, so Ehan dared not laugh or contradict his leader.

“How could two of your own kin remind you of Captain…” Ehan paused, saying the title regrettably in front of Koran. “…Captain Herding’s words and way of viewing our mission?” Ehan did not understand how any family could contain hate or malice towards each other. The younger Southron waited in an uncharacteristically patient manner, taking a seat on a nearby boulder that protruded from the earth and glowed dark-grey in the evening glow of moon and stars.

“Doubt fills his mind…doubt in my abilities as a leader. Herding wants me to fail, and he will let me take my steps and go off on my merry way just so he can see me trip over my own feet.” Koran paused, kicking at the ground and bringing dust floating upwards to his boots. He let his hands and shoulders relax. “Herding wants me to fail…” the captain trailed off, and Ehan listened carefully to his next words. Ehan wondered if he would reveal such precious information about his family. “There are others close to me that would like to see me take a fall as well. They are close enough to make it happen, too. Why, if I could…”

Koran balled both hands into tight fists.

“Anger is a bad counselor, good Captain,” Ehan murmured gently, not wanting to upset Koran more by causing him to think he was being tutored by his own soldier. “After all, a leader must lead by example, and he does so whether he planned to or not. The best way to deal with doubt, I’ve learned, is to…well…treat it as an enemy in battle!” Ehan flashed a boyish grin. “You must kill it! Bring it to its knees and make it beg for mercy! Then slice its throat…”

Ehan saw Koran roll his eyes and smile, scoffing at the younger man’s silly correlation. The captain released his clenched fists, and Ehan relaxed and he felt the immediate tension roll off his companion. The ferocity was gone, but the anger remained in a simmering flame.

"Besides," Ehan continued. "There always has to be a hero, and Herding is not the hero type. And enemies of the hero always end up dying." Ehan contemplated his own words as they spilled off his tongue and out of his mouth.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

He woke them all when the sun first broke the line of the horizon, flooding the Vale with her golden glow. Coromswyth was annoyed that he had apparently changed his mind from the night before – earlier this morning really – when he had said that they would leave later in the day. Ambarturion could see her annoyance but as she did not say anything, he did not explain: throughout his watch a shadow of dread had fallen upon him. This time, though, it came not from the west and the gates of Moria, but from the East. And unlike the foreboding he had felt at the coming of the goblins, this was a terror of a more ancient and indefinable sort. There was death in the air that morning. Death and the blackness of a nameless terror. The others noticed it soon enough, and the lady’s annoyance was replaced by understanding. She stood upright from where she had been tending Caranbaith’s bandage and gazed into the east, following Ambarturion’s eyes. “What is it?” she asked quietly, but the Master merely shook his head and turned aside.

All that day they pressed themselves as hard as they could, walking now due east to make the shortest road to the shelter of Mirkwood. At first, Caranbaith’s insistence that he be allowed to walk was too sternly delivered to be ignored, and as the Sun rose in the sky he strode along at the end of their brief column, pale and drawn but even vigilant. By noon, however, it was clear that the strain of his wound was too great and he stumbled into the grass. Megilaes was at his side in a heartbeat and Ambarturion was only a thought slower. They lowered him to the ground and Coromswyth gave him some more of the miruvor and changed his dressing. The bleeding had stopped and there was no sign that the wound had taken infection, but its colour remained deep and raw. Coromswyth looked at Ambarturion and did not need to speak her thoughts aloud. Both knew that Caranbaith lay now between life and death, and that his only surety of life lay in taking the southern way back to Lorien. As though reading what was in their minds, the young Elf looked into his master’s eyes. “Do not turn aside from your duty, lord,” he said. “I am merely fatigued. If you will grant me the respite of an hour’s rest I will be able to go on.”

It was Coromswyth who gainsaid him. “Nay, Caranbaith. You cannot make the trek to Mirkwood as you are, not unaided. You are strong and young and possess a great heart, but I think you will need to rely on our help the rest of the way.” Ambarturion looked at her with a grave respect, for he noted that she did not talk of returning to the Golden Wood, even though their journey would put his pupil’s life at risk – she knew her duty as well as he and his students’ knew theirs…

For the rest of that day Caranbaith was aided by his brother and Coromswyth in turn, and their progress across the plains was hampered as a result. Ambarturion became more and more restless as the hours passed and the feeling of the land’s terror grew about them. Somewhere in the Vale there were enemies of the Elves, and a great number of them. He laid himself out upon the earth and listened but could hear no rumour of their passing, but he could feel the outrage of the earth at its defilement by the forces of darkness. “Are they near?” asked Coromswyth.

Ambarturion shook his head. “No. They are not yet, I think, on this side of the River, but they are coming nearer. I had thought that our northerly route would lead us away from the forces of Dol Guldur, but it would seem that they are coming to us.”

“Perhaps we could go around them, to the north or south?”

“The only fording of the River that we can now attempt without your horse lies before us. To turn South will lead us only further into the lands of our enemies, and away from our goal. To the North there is no way across Anduin the Great for many leagues and that will leave us many miles from the Woodmen we seek.” He looked at the lady. “Our only hope lies in speed. If we can reach the ford and cross the River before our enemies achieve the western bank we can, perhaps, slip by them.” His words hung about them like a black bird of ill omen, our only hope lies in speed. Neither of them looked to where Megilaes aided his brother.

As the second night of their journey came they made camp in a small forested area not too many miles from the River, but still not as near the waters as Ambarturion had hoped. He had pushed them hard all day, but to ask any more of his wounded student would have been to risk his death. Megilaes lay his brother upon the ground where Caranbaith fell into a swoon almost immediately. Coromswyth did what she could for him but it was clear that until they could give him the rest he needed, his condition would only worsen. When she had finished tending the youth, Coromswyth joined Ambarturion where he kept watch. “He is brave,” she said. “You must be very proud of him.”

“I am,” he replied simply. And then, much to his surprise, he added, “He reminds me of myself when I was his age. So dauntless and foolish. Ready to do what he feels he must in defence of his land.” He felt the questioning eyes of the lady upon him. He moved to return her gaze. “You see, lady, I am not wholly consumed with thoughts of war and battle – at least not yet. I have been a warrior for many centuries now, but still I can feel for those who have not been hardened by the tempering fires of endless battle.”

Coromswyth was shocked. “I am sorry indeed if I made you think that I found you heartless, Ambarturion. It is just that…you are so dire and stern, that I fear you might…” She trailed off into silence.

“You fear I might do what, lady?” he asked, somewhat stiffly.

“I am sorry, Ambarturion. You must forgive me. It is just that you remind me of someone I loved – someone who was stern and mighty and did his full duty, and who fell into the shadow of doom doing that duty. You, I fear, have begun to fall into that shadow even though you still live.” Ambarturion made to reply, but she held up her hand. “I am sorry, I have spoken too much this night. Please, I would sleep now.” And without waiting for a reply she moved away from the master and went to tend to Caranbaith.

[Alatariel Telemnar]

Urkrásh continued watch over the column, becoming more and more disorderly as early evening passed into late evening. They would stop soon, to eat and rest. But Urkrásh was not certain when that would be and looked to the men to find the right time. The moon could be seen peeping out from the tops of trees every so often, and stars were starting to appear in the sky. Tiredness and the desire for sleep was soon taking over the army and Urkrásh. At last he spotted a section of men starting to pull away from the rest to camp. The trees had become less thick and a small river was nearby.

Urkrásh called out for everyone to stop and camp here, although many had already left the line and headed down to an empty spot on the grass in the left corner of the field. He followed where he saw the majority of his column go, wondering when his master would be back. Nothing bad had happened so far, but he wasn’t sure if it would stay that way until Thrákmazh returned. He told a few uruks to start up some fires, and they grunted at him before doing so, something they wouldn’t do if Thrákmazh were telling them. They seemed to have a lack of respect for Urkrásh, which he wasn’t entirely surprised at. He began to walk through the lot of them, going to find a spot to sit down to watch over them until his master returned.

[Firefoot]

“Allow the pieces to work their way to a whole,” repeated Thorvel softly. What pieces? he thought wryly. “If only we had more information.” Thorvel felt like he was trying to jam an over-size key into a lock: the key wouldn’t fit, and neither did the information that they did have. He found his former train of thought with some difficulty, and tracing back over it could find no gaps. He decided to try a different approach - one that might yield some new results.

“So what might they hope to accomplish by using a separate troop?” he said. “If it is as small as you say, they will probably not be involved in the main fighting. They are skilled and high-ranking warriors, yet without size of a small force they would be quickly overwhelmed by an army of Elves. They must have a separate purpose from the rest of the army. Something they either do not need large numbers to accomplish or something that would not work with large numbers because they would be noticed and stopped before they could accomplish their task.”

Thorvel realized that Targil and Lómarandil had stopped running, and were seemingly waiting for them. Light was failing rapidly, and Thorvel supposed that they would stop to rest for the night as the Orc army was hopefully doing also. As they caught up, Lómarandil spoke. “I could not help but listening to last part of your conversation. You say something about a small force. What good would that do, for any small force of Orcs would be quickly killed off by Elves. Orcs just aren’t that good at fighting, nor are they smart enough to come up with such a plan.” Thorvel sighed. The young Elf may have heard what he said, but he had clearly not understood. Thorvel did not understand how the young Elf could have become a scout and yet know so little of Orcs. Targil looked as annoyed at Lómarandil as Thorvel felt. This time, Thorvel didn't give Calenvása time to smooth over Lómarandil's remarks, not even bothering to think that his comments might drive the wedge in their division even deeper.

"Listen, Lómarandil," he said heatedly. "I know what you think of Orcs, and it isn't a good opinion to have. They aren't all mindless killing machines; they have plans and at least some organization even as Elves do. Your arrogance isn't doing anything for our plans, and unless you have something to say to help us out, just don't say anything at all!" Lómarandil was scowling at him, but thankfully did not say anything. There was some approval in Targil's look. Thorvel did not look at Calenvása, because he really did not want to know what his Captain thought. He was pretty sure it would not be approval. Then, he didn't know what to say or do. He didn't think that they would be staying there in the trail of the Orcs, so he turned and took a step towards the forest. He looked over his shoulder and said, "Are you going to stand there all night? Come on."

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Lomarandil scowled darkly at Thorvel as he shouted at him. When he finished Lomarandil shook his head and turned away. Starting to walk towards a tree, he reached it and started to climb, quickly reaching the top. Gengerly he walkled along a long branch to the end and straightened up. From this elevated position he could see the source of the lights more clearly, he saw the orcs swarming around in different directions. Anger welled up in him, his hands tightened around the hilts of his daggers, into closed balls. He looked down at Thorvel and Targil, and even Calenvasa. "They do not have to hate me," he whispered to himself, looking at the swarming orcs he smiled dryly and added to himself, "there will come a time soon, in the next few days, when they will call for my help...and shall I answer?" Lomarandil pushed such thoughts from his head, of course he would answer, he couldn't leave his friends to die..."But are they friends?" he mused. Surely he wouldn't miss Thorvel, but at the thought of Calenvasa dying he nodded. At least he had tried to hide his distaste for him.

"Lomarandil! Get down here now!" he heard Calenvasa shout and nodding downwards he made his way back to the trunk. Leaping off the branch he clasped the trunk with his hans and slid right the way down it, letting go a few metres above the ground in order to twist his body round in an elaborate somersault to land facing the group. Thorvel spat and turned away, Calenvasa looked exasperated, and Targil just shook his head. Lomarandil raised an eyebrow at Thorvel's back, but dropped it quickly again when he turned around. "Lomarandil, would you PLEASE stop showing off! I wouldn't be surprised if half the forest heard the noise of that little escapade! You're going to get us all killed!" Lomarandil's face tryed to contort enough to shout a reply back, but he held it straight with a visible armount of effort. Hopefully I'll get YOU killed, Thorvel," he thought bitterly...

[Durelin]

Calenvása watched Thorvel with a surprise, an angry shock that he tried to contain. He could not understand this outburst, which made Thorvel sound as childish as Lómarandil and as arrogant as Targil. He felt hurt and saddened by this practical betrayal, and even more so by the growing coldness in the air. He felt as if the hatred was whipping his body like a cold, hard wind, and it shocked him into fear. “Thorvel,” he said softly. Thorvel turned his wild eyes from the young Lómarandil to his Captain, looking flustered, his face a mix of emotions. At least he seemed confused, unsure of what he did, and Calenvása thought he understood. But he frowned at his comrade.

“I believe that orcs can hear both your voices. As you have just said, we should not underestimate their brains, or their ears.”

Calenvása was only slightly surprised when Thorvel practically sneered back. No one found the Captain’s humor appropriate at such times, but he had decided long ago that those under his command would have to endure it. Calenvása’s eyes then moved to Lómarandil, passing over Targil’s clearly derogatory face. The young elf smiled nastily at Thorvel, who avoided looking at him, with an arrogance that threatened to overcome even that of Targil.

“Forgive me, Lómarandil, for my harsh words, but you know that that was a foolish move. Both you and Thorvel have done many foolish actions in the past few moments, and said many a foolish. And this time, your words spoke much louder than any of your actions.” He sighed, and was glad that no one spoke during his short pause. But there was nothing to say. He had made that very clear. “I see now that too much has been allowed to be said.”

“Too much?” Targil asked with all his usually pride, an eyebrow raised. “ We have barely begun to understand each other, Captain. Too little has been said, for that.” The title used lacked any of its usual respect when it came from Targil’s mouth.

“It is clear that we will not listen enough to understand each other, Targil.” He changed the direction of his words from Targil to all three of his companions. “And you will start by understanding me.” He paused for emphasis, and found himself wondering at how much bitterness he had put in his voice. The pause grew to be too long as he choked on his words, finding it hard to pick up where he left off. For where he left off he had never meant to get to.

“What Thorvel suggested will now be fully taken into account. There are plans to every attack the Enemy makes, as well as overwhelmingly large forces to slaughter. What we must never do is ignore what could be. It is only reasonable to think that a small, separate force would not be used simply for more slaughter. And to say that our brethren could easily destroy such a force is to selfishly underestimate our enemy, and to overestimate ourselves. I believe this reminds us to mind our feet. They must remain on solid earth, the earth that we wish to protect.”

Calenvása smiled slightly, hiding the deepening sorrow and worry that plagued his mind and heart, as well as trying to lighten the air. It was heavy with chilling hostility. “And as to standing here all night, Thorvel, that is precisely what we are going to do. It seems that Lómarandil and Targil picked a perfect spot for a rest.”

~

Targil

Targil had been assigned the first watch, while the others were allowed to let their minds wander in waking dreams or dark, temporarily lifeless dreams. Glancing behind him at the others, he saw no movement, and so decided to make his own move. He began making his way toward the army camp, far to the right of where any of the lights shown in the night. Calenvása and Thorvel could ponder all they wished, talk all they wished. Targil would listen no more; he was going to discover answers for himself.

He knew Calenvása had taken the second watch, and he was glad of this. Let the Captain find himself angry enough to actually take command once more. Targil had watched the earlier proceedings with much enjoyment, finding it nice to see Calenvása finally speak to them with authority, even to Thorvel. That was another thing he had enjoyed, Thorvel losing his own temper, and so parting from his usual ways of being all but a pet owned by the Captain.

Dropping to a crouch, he allowed his eyes to pick at random glow in the shadowy night before him, and moved toward it until he could clearly see the shapes of the orc creatures sitting around their crude fire. The roughness of their voices rang harshly in his ears, and the cruelty of their nature resonated in those gruff sounds that resembled words. He listened to them until the darkness deepened enough even for these creatures to find some kind of rest.

As a soft glow began to come from far away, a glint of gold from the snapped Targil out of the reverie he had fallen into. “Up, worms,” came the voice, clearly a man’s, since it’s gruffness lacked the animal-like snarl or growl of an orc’s. “Urkrásh, you may go to your master. Our work is done.”

“Thank you, Captain.” There was some scurrying in the dark, and one of the original orcs was gone. To the three remaining creatures, the man that Targil had easily identified as a Southron, the Captain, said, “We march, and we leave behind the stragglers, this time.”

Though this sounded a very light and rather lifeless threat, and one all too common to be taken seriously, the restlessness of the orcs was clear. They knew this ‘Captain’ was serious to no end. They all proceeded to rise with an extraordinary amount of livelihood for ones who had just risen from slumber. Then one dared to speak to the man, his voice quivering slightly. “Cap’n…” he began softly, and the Southron turned around, stopping in the middle of his departure from their presence. “Will we be reachin’ the river today?”

“If you ever stop your blathering and start moving, yes.”

“An’ what happens then?”

“Nothing happens to you, but others will be going in just a little different direction.”

“We’re splittin’ the forces?”

“No, we are taking advantage of these elves being of small number. Now shut your creaking jaws and get moving!”

As the anger in the Captain’s voice became so that it could not be ignored, the orcs were soon moving away from their put out fire, finding a motivation to move quickly. Targil smiled slightly. He was glad that the Southron Captain had found it necessary to show the orc that he knew the plans, fortifying the fact that he was clearly above them. Feeling satisfied, and yet angered that he would have to acknowledge what Thorvel and Calenvása had been suggesting, he waited for his enemies to clear the area before he moved. He then started back to where his companions rested.

Targil had barely reached a safe distance from the army camp before he found Calenvása seemingly waiting for him, sitting comfortably on the ground. He rose as Targil approached, a small smile on his face. “I missed my watch.”

“Thank you…” he said, the words coming more smoothly than he thought they would, as he practically choked at the thought of thanking the elf. “I found what I was looking for.”

“Good. The others must be roused, and then we move, immediately.”

Targil forced himself to smile back at Calenvása, as Targil’s found a respect for the Captain somewhere in his mind, if not in his heart.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel spaced himself off from the other Elves; within sight but just far enough away not to be part of a group. Targil had the first watch, and Thorvel tried to relax and rest, though his mind was too full of swirling thoughts for any such thing to happen. He had no idea where the angry outburst at Lómarandil had come from. He much preferred to keep his emotions in check, and was usually rather good at doing so. He supposed it was from not knowing the Orcs’ plans. He liked to understand things, and it bothered him when it did not. He did not even dislike Lómarandil nearly as much as he seemed to show. He did not regret his words to the younger Elf, only the way he had said them. He supposed it might have even been worth it, if Lómarandil gave his words any value at all. It might have been worth it, if not for the look Calenvása had given him. It had cut him deep, for that look had been full of disappointment, and even betrayal if Thorvel had read the look correctly. It made Thorvel feel ashamed, to have let his Captain down. He trusted Calenvása, and Thorvel had rarely let himself trust another before. Memories of past Captains nearly overwhelmed his mind: him stalking off because he disagreed with an order, him completely disregarding an order because he didn’t trust the Captain to make a correct decision, him having heated arguments with the Captain, and more. They all came out to about the same end: he was switched into a different troop until that Captain could no longer stand him. Thorvel could feel some of his independence and stubbornness creeping in. His loyalty to Calenvása was not gone; it was just buried beneath the surface.

His thoughts and emotions continued like relentless waves crashing themselves on a rocky shore until he became dimly aware of Targil and Calenvása speaking. He did not make out any of the words, and they soon split, Targil moving towards him.

“Come,” said Targil. “We are leaving.” Thorvel silently got to his feet, and the two Elves joined Calenvása and Lómarandil. Thorvel kept his distance from the others, mentally if not physically, and waited to hear if Calenvása had any additional orders before they moved out.

[Orofaniel]

The light was soon about to come, and for that Herding was thankful. He had been awake most of the night, even though he felt tired. He had only been dozing off now and then, when his thoughts didn't carry him away.

Herding opened the tent cloth slightly. It was quiet outside, expect from some orc mischief down in the corner of the field. The Haradrims and the Easterlings seemed to be asleep though. He turned his eyes to the path that Koran and his follower had taken up to his very own tent, just a few hours earlier. That was probably why this night had been less pleasant for Hedring, compared to other nights; this conversation that had turned into a ghastly fight. He couldn't believe what they had been arguing about, when it all seemed so clear; Koran was not the man to lead the small force, as simple as that. But what was he to do? He couldn't do anything about it, could he?

He felt helpless now, and angry. This feeling was quite unknown to Herding, whereas he didn't feel helpless nor weak very often. The feeling that was so often called "anger", he knew too well. Although Herding was quite sure that frustration and anger could sometimes be compared. He even felt that it could be the same ting, although he knew they were different things. He wasn’t making any sense now. It had obviously been too many hours without sleep for Herding and the man looked like he'd been out for days without sleep, food nor anything to drink. His face was pale and thin, while his dark sweaty hair was covered parts of it. His eyes were empty and inanimate. Herding thought about this, and struggled with himself. Frustration causes anger, he said to himself. That was what he was; he was frustrated. Yet, when he knew he could do nothing about his painful frustration it had developed to anger. Oh how angry he was.

Thinking about how thirsty he was, he seized the bottle he had gotten from his soldier earlier that day. It was empty. Herding threw it in the ground with great anger and the bottle reached great speed- not too surprisingly. The bottled flew through the air and Herding could hear it hit the ground once again.

Then finally, the captain dozed off again, even though the sun had just appeared on the horizon.

[Arry]

The day's light was yet fully to come. In the pale hours before dawn, beneath the dense cover of trees and scrubby bushes, Gromwakh and his mates had been entertaining themselves by the dim light of a shuttered lantern. One Uruk knife, a wickedly sharp twisty thing, borrowed from an unwatched pack, was up as ante against two fine wire garrotes with carved bone handles emancipated from the cellars of Dol Guldur. Snikdul had the dice in hand and was just on the verge of throwing them against the flat face of a nearby rock when the snap of a dried twig was heard. The light was quickly doused and bodies scrambled for cover away from the gaming area.

‘Psst! Grom! It’s me!’ came the loud whisper. ‘Show yourself!’

‘Globûrz! You fool!’ hissed Gromwakh coming out from under the mouldering pile of leaves he’d dived under. ‘You were supposed to whistle like a nighthawk to let us know you were coming.’ ‘I forgot!’ shrugged the lumbering Orc stepping into a shadowy pool of filtered moonlight. ‘And anyways . . . I tried to tell you when you set me to guard that I can’t whistle.’ One by one the others crawled from their bolt holes and shuffled near to hear what report Globûrz was making.

‘It was old Kreblug that brought the news,’ he said, leaning on his club, as his companions ringed him. ‘Cost us two cups, but I got it out of him. The front of the army is up and starting to move. Some of the night scouts have come back with something about a small group of Elves nearing the western bank of the Big River at the shallow fording point. Elves out of the yellow leaved wood. Looking to cross over to the trees this side. Fierce fighters I heard, too. Rumour has it they met a whole army of Orcs from out of Moria and dispatched them. Big, tall nasty Elf-man . . . one of them old ones . . . with a blade that bites deep . . . waded through the lot like fire through so much hay. Captains want them taken-like, by us, not killed, to see what they're up to.

‘Us?’ squeaked Snikdul, the alarm on his face mirroring that of his comrades. Visions of some mighty Elf-lord of Old, twenty feet high and growing by the moment in his estimation; with a sword forged from lightning; coming toward them with mighty strides - all this had set him quivering with trepidation.

‘Not ‘us’ us by ourselves,’ Globûrz went on. ‘But all the orcs save the Supply masters and their few helpers are to have the opportunity, as one of the Captains said, to share in the glory of the capture of the Elves for the greater glory of the Master’s plans.’

‘Glory, my great hairy backside!’ growled Gromwakh. ‘They’ll throw us at the nasty creatures first, let them tire themselves out by cutting through our worthless hides, then they’ll take what ever glory there is for themselves. I say we just hang back here and wait for their glorious return.’

‘No can do, Grom. They’re counting heads. And any who aren’t accounted for won’t have their heads to worry about when they get back. Those Uruks are just black-hearted enough to hunt us down for sport if they get wind of it.’

Silence enveloped the little group, accompanied by a certain level of despair, as they hurried back to their little camp near the supply wagons to retrieve their weapons and what meager armour they possessed. Snikdul adjusted his battered helmet on his head and fastened his curved blade to his belt. With his right hand he picked up the long, thick iron rod he favoured. ‘Slash ‘em and bash ‘em!’ he said half-heartedly as he gathered together with his fellows.

‘But from the fringes only,’ came the grim instruction from Gromwakh as he shook his hardwood cudgel toward the direction of the column front. ‘Just keep near me, tight as a tick every one. I’ll figure something out to get us through this.’

I hope . . . he muttered quietly to himself as the little group took off running to join in the required glory of the battle . . .

[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.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran watched as the orcs battled in first, going as if they were attacking the very gates of Gondor themselves, and rolled his eyes. "Look closely at the orcs," he murmured to Ehan beside him, leaning towards him slightly "and you can see that many of their moves are merely showy. How half hearted can one group be..."

The younger man looked afresh at the orcs as he turned away from his captain, and indeed he suddenly noticed why the captain had been watching so cynically. He glanced back at the other Southron, but Koran's gaze had now shifted. He raised a hand to the men around him, fixing his eyes on the battle, and most specifically on the lethal, raven haired immortal in the centre of the fray. But as he watched, he saw the gleam of light against metal from elsewhere. Glancing sharply across, he saw a fourth elf, tucked behind a tree at the very peak of the hill so he could not be seen much by the orcs and Men. The elf's sharp eyes had not yet picked out that Koran had noticed it yet though - they were too busy sighting along another arrow. As Koran watched, he saw the elf loose the arrow fluidly, the weapon becoming a part of it's body - a split second later, an orc fell in the fray, near the very centre where the raven haired elf fought, an arrow piercing a chink in the armour around it's thick neck.

Koran couldn't help but be impressed - a hidden archer, able to pick off the enemy from a distance, knocking them down close to their allies where a death would not be noted as being odd. Clever. But what's more, the archer really was a marvellous shot - Koran knew few who would have been confident that they would be able to get that shot dead on straight away from such a distance, and dead on it would have to be: if the elf archer slipped by even a few centimetres, the angle would become amplified over the distance, and her companion would lie dead. Without pausing, the elf strung another arrow and took her impeccable aim - within two seconds, another orc was snuffed out.

The Southron captain allowed himself a faint smile. I had almost forgotten what it was like to fight outside my own world, he thought dryly. Sharply, he brought his arm down, raising his sword and giving a yell. The fifteen Haradrim warriors behind him gave a chilling cry and thundered up towards the battle ground. Koran nodded to Ehan and pushed him ahead. "Lead them, Ehan - I am taking...an alternate route."

Not pausing to watch the boy's stunned reaction, Koran backed further down the hill until he was at the very bottom, then sprinted around some, measuring the distance in his mind so that he would be approximately behind the elf archer. Slowing, he slipped away his sword, the leather padding the inside of his sheath ensuring that the sound of metal would not be heard, and touched his dagger lightly. Then, with utmost stealth, he began to creep up the hill, his soft soles and practise stalking allowing him to be as quiet as humanly possible. Surely not even elf ears will pick up the sound over the noise of battle. Or maybe...who knows with the immortals. Koran allowed himself a shiver: the elves were an unknown quantity, an enemy he had not yet battled.

A challenge.

Smiling, Koran snuck up behind his unsuspecting quarry, keeping low to the ground. As he came to the peak of the hill, where a few trees were clustered together, he flattened himself behind one and eyed the elf archer...and was shocked to realise it was, without a doubt, a female. He blinked in surprise, a few precious seconds causing him to hesitate at the strangeness. Of course, Haradrim women fought, almost as many of the men, when the duties of being wifes and childbearers did not prohibit them too much. But the elves...somehow, from what Koran had heard, gleaned from old warriors and Inn-talk, the female elves were...different. Fragile, precious beings, crafted delicately by impossible beings who the elves believed watched them - gods...

He shook himself from his reverie as he slipped his fine dagger from his belt, settling it naturally in the palm of his right hand. Walking forward silently behind the elf, he raised his arm out to one side.

~*~*~

Coromswyth took aim down the arrow shaft again, mentally making a note of the number - nine orcs down, her aim perfect. If she pulled it off, this would be the tenth. Silently pleased with herself, Coromswyth did not berate herself for any delight she took in the killing: it was a necessity, a duty. And her father had always declared that duty should be well carried out, care taken, even pleasure - that was what would achieve the best result. He had meant it for battle originally, telling her and her brother of this as one of the many lessons he ingrained into their minds throughout their childhoods, but he had applied it to all areas of his life - his duty to the Lord and Lady as a servant and warrior, his duty to his children as a father, his duty to his wife as a good and loving husband.

But his glee was too much.

Coromswyth sighed, shaking her head with a twinge of bitterness and sadness. Her father, it was said, had gone down fighting, gone down laughing in the face of the enemy as he defended his son and Celeborn. Too much joy too late.

She shook herself and focused down the arrow again, ready to shoot for 'number ten'. She focused on his: Ambarturion was actually aiming for this one this time, but waves of orcs were getting in the way now. It was an exceptionally ugly beast, but from the wild gesticulating and bellowing it was doing, Coromswyth guessed it might have been the leader, or a leader. Ambarturion was so like her father....she would take this orc out for him. Laughing he was not, but die he would not either. As she focused, one eye slightly closed as her fingers rested against her cheekbone, an inch from her eye, she suddenly got a chill feeling of being watched. Simultaneously, she registered to lithe, dark warriors who suddenly joined the battle, but led by a very young man, who seemed almost unsure. Haradrim. The two realisations took less than a second to register with the elf:

The orcs are there, and their leading fights with them. Men also now fight...so where is their leader?

As she watched, the young, unsure Haradrim warrior glanced up, behind her, his eyes darting past her to...

"Don't move."

The steady, quiet voice from directly behind her made Coromswyth freeze, her nerves pulled on sharply like a puppetmaster on a rebellious puppet. She didn't turn and her mind suddenly started working overtime, her eyes staring straight ahead.

"Drop your bow."

Coromswyth didn't hesitate, and she complied calmly - but made sure it was her fingers that loosed first. The arrow shot true and straight, and although it missed her original target, it hit another rather scrawny looking specimen directly. Taking some chill, dry satisfaction from this, she lowered the bow steadily to the ground...then rolled to one side.

She heard the Southron give an angry cry as she moved, grabbing her unsheathed sword swiftly and swinging it around at his legs...or where his legs should have been. Surprised and disorientated, Coromswyth's miscalculated swing threw her balance and she tried to turn fast...but not fast enough. A cold, thin edge promised death if she moved as it suddenly rested against her throat. Crouching on the ground, sword held in mid air a few inches from the ground, Coromswyth could actually hear the man breathing behind her, and even thought she heard him smile as he stood slowly, bringing her with him, his hand reaching forward to loose her fingers deftly from her sword as he did so. She was surprised that it was his right had that did this - evidently he was left handed. This registered as a faint distant surprise - Coromswyth's brain seemed to refuse the overwhelming realisation that she had been captured.

"Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaara!"

The man's fierce yell almost made her jump and she felt ashamed that she had been so easy to shock. She felt him move closer to her as he stepped forward and stiffened as she felt the warmth of his body against her back. Closing her eyes, she murmured a prayer then opened them as she looked back down at the battleground on the slope, where her Southron captor's yell had caused the battle to cease. She immediately found Ambarturion's eyes, where he stood surrounded by orcs and Men, pressing in in a tight ring upon him.

I'm sorry...

"Bind their hands and arms, all of them. We move immediately back to the camp." The Southron's voice was harsh and commanding, but surprisingly young. Through the corner of her eye, Coromswyth glimpsed a curl of hair as the man turned his head towards her, then a young, unlined face. He is so young, even for a mortal... The idea registered with shock, but currently only added to Coromswyth's shame. She had been caught out by a man centuries younger than herself, young even to his people, a thin line of steel across her throat stopping her even from moving - caught, and Ambarturion with her. The other elf was not going down without a fight though. He gave an equally terrifying yell and with a weapon in each hand slew the monsters on either side of him immediately. The adversary recovered quickly though, stronger with the knowledge of their success: as the Southron fumbled in his belt quickly with one hand, the dagger blade remaining steadily across her throat, Coromswyth watched Ambarturion be beaten down to the ground, eventually looking away, biting her lip. Steeling herself as her captor was distracted, she suddenly and forcefully jabbed an elbow back at him, driving it directly into his rib cage. The man gasped and the dagger slipped, but not before it cut a thin, shallow cut down one side of the elf's neck. She paid it no heed though, breaking away and beginning to run...only to be brought to the ground as the man threw himself at her feet.

Coromswyth fell gracelessly, the man's arm's wrapped around her ankles, and he once more recovered unnervingly fast, moving forward quickly to her side and roughly grabbing her arms, binding them at the wrists and elbows. She fought and struggled, attempting to scratch or kick him, but the Southron didn't even seem to pay any attention - within a few seconds, she was helpless, bound helplessly. He pulled her gracelessly to her feet, taking her weight easily as he lifted her by her upper arms, then used another piece of rough, dark material, stained and ragged, to tie her mouth and gag her. The elf fought against him but he shook her viciously once, and she suddenly felt his full strength, his hands digging painfully into her arms, probably to cause bruises. She stopped and closed her eyes as he finished gagging her without a word, then motioned for her to move forward, pushing her brusquely and firmly but not unnecessarily hard, keeping a hand on the rope at her wrists as he moved to her side. She took a look at her captor and her light eyes burned with fierce rage against this unknown man, her thoughts irrational, sharp and fiery. I will remember your face, Southerner...

[Kransha]

The day would be a tiring one for most, and lethal for some, but for Thrakmazh the Mighty, it was a simple waltz, an endless and repetitive one, and still monotonous as it dragged on with no illusion of beat and tempo behind. He had done such things time and time again and was so used to this chaotic, anarchic conflict that its subtle and barbaric movements came to him as second nature. He was ready again for blood, the blood of elves, and had come within range of one foe, only to be locked from it by his own men. That elf had only been a distraction in the struggle for a moment, and was, no doubt, being taken down at this very moment. He’d taken many orcs down, fallen under his hand and weapon clasped within, but surely would succumb, or already had, to the uruks’ greater numbers. Now, Thrakmazh searched, darting across the shaded field of battle. He’d heard that the numbers of the enemy were few, but more than one or two. There were others, or another, somewhere. The orcs around him scurried, rodent-like, around, their heads dancing from side to side and gazes searching the plain for the remaining opponents. Thrakmazh’s eye, though, was the one that caught first sight of the final elf, or so he assumed.

Over many slain orcs, who lay like discarded rags, their lifeless, contorted hulks scattered beneath the sky, was an elf, panting and looking incensed, who staggered now across the field, dispatching orcs as best he could. As shrieking uruks flew carelessly towards him, he took them down with grace and speedy ease. A thin smile peeled over the orc captain’s mountainous features, illuminating his shadowy face, and he headed forward at a quicker pace, outracing the other orcs of his company and men, who’d now fallen back, ready to let him do this last aspect of their tiresome mission. Thrakmazh’s fingers tightly clutched the hilt of his blade for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, and his sweat-soaked hand went stiff and still, no longer quivering with anticipation. He stopped within a short distance of the elf, a guttural snarl billowing in the back of his throat and oozing out slowly. The elf, breathing hard but steadily, looked up at him.

“Ah, another.” Thrakmazh exclaimed, almost pleasantly, his voice dripping with a plain hatred masked by this jovial sound, “Perhaps you shall not fall as easily as your kin, hmm?”

The elf did not respond, nor did he move. He stood stock still; waiting and handling his finely crafted blade with precise care, letting it sit in his hand. Angered at the lone elf’s apparent lack of fear, standing intimidated by Thrakmazh’s might and combat prowess, the orc took a menacing step forward, but the elf still did not move. His eye narrowing yet again and coming into exact focus, he took another step, his scimitar raised above his head and back, ready to strike like a venomous serpent, its tip warily searching for a new home in the chest of this next opponent. They looked solemnly at each other, the orc’s expression one of anticipating, demonic glee, and the elf’s one of calmness and infuriating serenity (infuriating mostly to Thrakmazh, who could not remember a being living who had not flinched when he neared them). It was a game, as it always was to Thrakmazh, and he would win in every respect. Now, he stared down his opponent, but the elf did not blink, did not turn his eyes. He just met the one-eyed gaze.

Suddenly, as if they had timed the event with cautious care, both warriors, orc and elf, soared forward nimbly. Thrakmazh leapt through the air, crashing down with a rhythmic thump on the earth, and slashed with his blade, lashing out thrice at his foe who stepped back lithely. Growling under his wheezing breaths, the orc moved forward still, flinging his sword-arm about in an attempt to catch his hooked and jagged weapon upon the enemy. It was in vain, though, for the elf, who still seemed stilted in his swift, unhesitant movements for an unknown reason, still managed to evade and narrowly avoid each mighty stab and hack at him. At last, their blades clashed, striking with a thunderous chord. Then again, as Thrakmazh thrust forward sharply, the elf knocked his sword aside and slashed down, the weapon of the elf missed its initial target, but sliced right through Thrakmazh’s upper leg, slicing deep into his coal-black flesh and leaving a dank trail of foul orc blood behind. Thrakmazh flinched uncharacteristically, a jetting lance of flame shooting up the length of his body. Strangely, though, the blast of pain threw Thrakmazh onward, deeper into the fray.

He was now aware of the fact that he was merely playing out the fight for a new audience, a gathering of orcs and men who, for lack of something better to do, had began to encircle the arena of combat between the two mighty foes. Some whispered amongst themselves, many stared stupidly at the fray, cheering in some ways for their leader, and some for the elf. In all honesty, many of them would rather see Thrakmazh dead, but if he won he would at least have some renewed respect from them. They still fought, disregarding the crowd, jumping and swerving and crouching and diving, constantly maneuvering to gain an advantage. They were both weary soon, both pained by such activity, but fought on. Thrakmazh was the more agile combatant, and stronger, but the elf had grace on his side. He swung himself aside each time Thrakmazh lunged, but the orc captain swiftly became of aware of a weakness, an opening in the elf’s defenses. He was battling on one side, and not on the other, as if he could not expose that. Thrakmazh dashed around, removing himself from the thick of the fight, trying to catch a glimpse of the reason for this technique.

Suddenly, as time hovered aimlessly and noises were eerily silenced all around, it hit Thrakmazh. The elf was injured! His side was bandaged with great care, and he had fought with less than his full power, trying in some respect to keep the wounded area away from harm. Thrakmazh’s battling look, one of grimace and frown, split into a bombastic grin. He plowed forward again, but whipped around as the elf’s blade stabbed at the hazy air where the orc had been. He spun on his heel, swiveling about, and arched his sword through the air, excitedly yelping as the edge of the blade struck the now open side, which had been made vulnerable only for a second. The blade sunk in only briefly, and was pulled out before its job was done by the movement of the elf, but it was in part successful. The wound that had been tended there was opened, pouring forth blood barely retained onto the grass below. The elf stumbled as Thrakmazh pounced on the opportunity, driving his blade down at a diagonal through the elf’s shoulder. At this, the hapless, but courageous enemy of the orc captain wobbled and fell to his knees; his weapon falling from hand after the grip was loosened by weakness.

“Come now, elf,” Thrakmazh jeered as he backed away, trying not to look as if his own wound was causing him a steady stream of searing pain, “I’ve heard such great things of your kind. Can you do no better?”

Again no reply came. The elf knelt, his breath slowing, on the ground. Around him and the uruk who’s fought him, the orcs and men held silence with their own unanimous breaths baited. Whispers could be heard among them again as the looked upon predator and prey. The elves were to be captured, not slain. But Thrakmazh knew this elf might not survive captivity for long. Either way, he was doomed to death, and better that he day beneath an orcish sword now than to the tainting of his blood later. The silence of the elf enraged him beyond reason. Where were his insults, his curses, his Elvish taunts? Did he actually think himself noble? Every aspect of such a concept confused Thrakmazh. If he wanted to die in a fitting manner, he would still be fighting. The fool was going to sit there and let himself be killed.

“Have you given up so soon, little elf?” He hooted again, and solicited a conservative laugh from his ‘audience.’ To his further fury, the elf still said nothing. But, now he was muttering, whispering so softly that Thrakmazh could not detect his words. He was probably begging in his own foul tongue. Yes, that must be it. But Thrakmazh, confident as he was, didn’t know or care. The elf was simply tuning him out, ignoring him! It was simply more than the orc captain could bear. It was all he could do not to explode then and there with incendiary anger.

“Pitiful worm!” Thrakmazh roared harshly, the words surging out of his mouth and shooting in a torrential wave at the elf, who barely winced. The elf stopped his murmurs and looked up, a truly terrible fire reflected in his fair gaze. “There is only one such being here," he said grimly to the orc, "and that is you.”

Thrakmazh’s eyes lit up, lit up with an insane, murderous, unbridled hatred. The snarl gurgling in his twisted throat burst out into a barbaric roar that shook all who heard it, but the elf didn’t flinch. He knelt where he was, looking as if he was ready for something. Thrakmazh knew what he was waiting for, what he had steeled himself for, and, somehow, he didn’t want to give the elf the satisfaction of death, but his instincts drove him. The other elves were captured and he, Thrakmazh, One-Eye, Captain of Dol Guldur, needed to make an example of this resilient being, here and now. This one would fall, and he would fall now, and his men would see it, hear it, and live it as he did right now. The dank feeling, suddenly ablaze and incendiary, rose in his throat, and in his heart, and in his foul, merciless orcish soul. Lust for blood, for that taste again and that light that shone down upon him. His dark scowl broke again, and quickly, shaping into a disgusting grin, in which he bore his mouth of rotted knives and his eye’s fiery depth seared the air around it. He raised his blade coldly and slowly, drawing it up at the pace of a snail and staring with his one, glowering eye, which burned like a great pyre, into the tranquil, half-closed, ever ready and waiting eyes of the elf.

As, again, the time and noise around them both halted, Thrakmazh drove his sword forward.

A suspenseful second later, the elf fell with just as much grace as he had in life, and lay motionless on the ground. Thrakmazh, who’s chest was heaving uncontrollably, which surprised him almost as much as it did his troops, who began to close in around their captain and his fallen foe. Calming down, regaining his dark composure, Thrakmazh slid his crimsoned blade into its sheath and turned, grinning madly from ear to ear.

Many elves, countless ones, had been slain by him over the course of years, but this one was an accomplishment, though a sickening one. Yes, the elf had been injured, yes, he had been weakened, but this one gave Thrakmazh a dark, terrible satisfaction that he hadn't felt in years. Another elf was slain by his clawed, grimy hand, one in a hundred at least, but there was that subtle sensation, one of achievement. Thrakmazh did not know why the kill was so rewarding, but he did not question it. His master's work was his master's work, and it would be done...it wasn't his fault if a few elven lives were lost in the process, as they surely should be. A shrill, quiet cackle crossed Thrakmazh's lips as he began walking away from the body, which was now closely encircled by curious orcs and Southrons. For the first time in more than a year, Thrakmazh the Mighty felt really, truly happy.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Ehan watched as the orcs fought, and he tripped over his own feet when Koran shoved him to the forefront of the Southrons. "Lead them, Ehan - I am taking...an alternate route." Ehan gaped at the statement, but led his people on anyway, following Koran’s orders. The fifteen Southrons darted into the fray, joining the orcs. Ehan could hardly stand the stench of the orcs as he searched for an enemy, shoving through the crowds of orcs. Part of him wished that he were fighting the orcs, for they were everywhere and smelled much worse than Ehan thought the immortals would.

Before the Southrons could even get through the melee of orcs, they all heard the great cry of Koran from the hill above. "Bind their hands and arms, all of them. We move immediately back to the camp." Ehan heard the harshness of his captain’s voice, and searched to see that the order was being carried out. Ehan could not see much, though, for many of the living soldiers had circled up to watch the orc captain battle with a wounded elf. The young Southron coughed, and watched for just a moment in the circlet of warriors around the elf and orc.

That is brave, Ehan thought sarcastically. Fighting an elf for glory when he has already been wounded. My sister would have a fit. Ehan scowled at the orc captain, pushing his way to the outer edge of the circle and screaming at all he passed by. “Follow orders! Tie the elves and back off! Back away! It is nothing!” Few listened, but Ehan saw to it that the remaining elves were taken care of, bound and broken. Ehan left Men in charge of watching the tied elves, for he trusted no orc to do the task. Orcs were too easily distracted, as Ehan saw with the orc captain and his watching followers.

As he left the groups of victorious Men and orcs, Ehan sighed and sheathed his sword. He continued up to where Koran had bound the archer elf. The immortal had a fierce look about her eyes, and Ehan’s own eyes widened at seeing that the elf was indeed female. Koran seemed pleased as he shoved the archer along towards the rest of his battalion.

“Did she cause much trouble, captain?” Ehan asked, his face bright as he laughed at the sight of his stout captain leading the slender elf.

[Firefoot]

The Elven scouts moved out quickly, following after the special force of Orcs. Targil led, and Thorvel followed a few paces behind. Calenvása and Lómarandil followed more slowly, speaking softly. Thorvel wasn’t sure what he was feeling anymore. Calenvása seemed to have forgiven him, and Thorvel wasn’t even sure why he was still upset. But he was, and he didn’t even really know what he was upset about. He cleared his head and focused on following the Orcs. It would be better not to think at all.

They moved quickly, and the way was not far. They soon reached a hilly area, and the small force of Orcs and Men came in sight. That was not all, however. There was a small party of Elves - Lorien Elves, by the looks of them - who were under attack. The scouting troop kept themselves concealed, watching the skirmish. The Lorien Elves were hopelessly outnumbered, and it made Thorvel’s blood boil to watch them. They need help! Do something! his mind screamed at him. The worst part was that he could do nothing. His eyes flashed with unrestrained anger, hatred, and grief at watching the Elves being treated so mercilessly. One Elf was cruelly slain by a large brute of an Orc, and the rest, though fighting valiantly, were being slowly overwhelmed. At least one was already captured, bound hand and foot. He could watch no more.

Thorvel turned, ready to make his way over to the rest of the troop. As soon as there was nothing left to occupy his sight, thoughts shoved their way into his mind. He forgot about his anger towards his fellow scouts; all of his frustration and hatred was now channeled towards the Orcs, where it should have been all along. He remembered with renewed vengeance his purpose in being a scout: to kill the Orcs. The fact that he could not yet do so nagged at him. He felt utterly helpless. There had to be something that he could do. There had to be. He would not abandon the captured Elves, and he was pretty sure that his Captain, at least, would feel the same. He turned to face the battle again. Anything that they could figure out about the Orcs would be helpful, and he wasn’t going to pass up the chance to learn something new.

[Alatariel Telemnar]

Urkrásh ran forward, out of breath, but followed just the same. He had fell behind, not being able to keep up with the pace, and found himself in the column, more nearer to the front. They charged forward, letting out cries as they climbed the hill. Urkrásh could not spot the archers in the trees, but he knew they were there. Every so often an orc nearby would drop to the ground, and as he passed, he saw arrows sticking out of a few of the limp corpses. Urkrásh got ready as a few elves approached the area where he was at. He had gotten used to using his left hand and now could wield a sword with decency.

An elf approached Urkrásh, who stuck his sword out in front of him and got ready to make a blow. The elf attempted to strike Urkrásh, but he blocked his blow and attempted to return it but failed. He was still a bit flimsy with his left hand. Urkrásh threw another blow, the elf dodged to the side. Time seemed to pass by slower, and despite multiple tries, Urkrásh never managed to get a blow. The hot sun beated down on the army, and Urkrásh could take it no longer. With one last snarl he thrust his sword into the elf, and watched with pleasure as he fell to the ground, gracefully, it seemed.

Urkrásh kicked the limp corpse, smirking to himself. He looked up and saw few elves left, most of their kind scattered across the field, along with several orcs. After a bit, he saw that all the elves had been killed or captured looked around for Thrákmazh.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The red mist became a torrent of blood before his eyes as he watched Caranbaith fall, and Ambarturion threw off the orcs who held him. They had taken his sword, but seizing the nearest of the monsters he slew him with his bare hands. At least a dozen orcs rushed at him, seeking to hold his limbs, but in the greatness of his wrath he brushed them aside like insects. To some of the orcs, those who had lived many years and fought in many of their Dark Lord’s wars, he appeared then as a terrifyingly bright star that blazed with the hated light of the Mariner, from whose glow they would cower in distaste. Again they tried to seize him, but Ambarturion ripped the head from the first to lay hands upon him, and struck another upon the chest with such force that he shattered the beast’s frame.

In all the long years that he had fought and struggled, he had seen many of his friends killed by the Enemy. But never before had one of his students been cut down before his eyes. Never before had he been forced to watch, helpless in defence, as the cruel hands of monsters deprived so youthful an Elf of the millennia that had been his birthright. As he blazed in his wrath, his mind went back to the battles of his own youth. When he had been but a few years older than Caranbaith, he had wept scalding tears at Nirnaeth Anodad, and he did so again now, for in the present age there was no hope that vengeance would come from those who dwelt in the West. There was only the despair of knowing that he had failed in his charge, and that only revenge was left to him now. It was a bitter cup, but as it was the only cup available, he would drink from it, though it tasted of ashes.

He surged toward the one-eyed creature that had so cruelly and cowardly struck down the youth, but the evil Men of the south had joined the orcs. They were mortal men, weaker than the orcs and more prone to pain, but they were more cunning than the beasts, and more patient in restraining a prisoner. They threw ropes about him, and Ambarturion roared in fury as he tried to pull them from his limbs, but with every rope he snapped two more were cast about him and soon he was bound and caught like a fly in a spider's web. Throughout his humiliation One-Eye had watched from the outer fringes of the mob, an ugly smile catching at his lips and contorting his face. It was a look that Ambarturion had seen many times before: the cruel pleasure of an evil being who delighted in his own wickedness. But there was yet something about the orc that set him apart from the rest. He was no orc rabble from the Mountains, nor was he a maggot-spawn of Mordor, bred but recently as fodder for the battlefield. This orc was truly an urûk of the Dark Lord, bred in long centuries past and possessed of a demonic fury. Ambarturion had slain many such creatures and knew them for what they were: cunning, calculating and cruel. Untouchable by pity or remorse, driven only by their desire to serve their Master and to harm the Elves from whom they had been bred and so hated with their very being. Yes, Ambarturion had killed many such beasts, but all he wished for his life at this moment was to feel the lifeblood of one more flowing between his fingers.

The ropes that had been cast about him dragged him to the ground, and as he fell he heard the jeers and taunts of the Men and orcs about him. He did not care for their cries, for to him it was as the calls of rats and snakes. There came to him, however, a sound that cut him to his very soul. Megilaes was weeping. His agony ripped through Ambarturion’s mind like a ragged blade through fabric and for a moment he was almost overwhelmed by the depth of his student’s grief. The brothers had been born together and in the centuries since that day had never once been apart. “Ai! Ai!,” Megilaes wailed. “Caranbaith! My brother! Where have they taken you? Where have you gone? Why can I not follow you into the darkness? But for a short time will I wander in this world of waking shadows, only until I can avenge your death and destroy the creatures that have killed you!”

“No!” Ambarturion roared to his student. “Think not of vengeance Megilaes. It will taint your mind and your soul, for you are but young yet and unused to the dangers of such temptations. Leave the vengeance of your brother’s death to me. I swear that I shall drain the blood of all the Men and orcs who stand about us this day.”

One-Eye strode forward. Whether he understood the Silvan tongue or not Ambarturion did not know, although he found it unlikely, but he clearly understood the tenor and intent of their conversation. “Shut up!” the beast roared in the Common Tongue, at the same time kicking Ambarturion in the ribs so viciously that the Elf’s very bones creaked. “Shut up, or I’ll spit the she-Elf like I did that other one!” In his hands, the orc held Ambarturion’s sword, now dull and cold. While he was clearly glad to possess it as a prize, it galled the orc greatly to be holding the instrument of so many of his people’s destruction.

Ambarturion remained silent and met the single-orbed gaze of the orc. For a moment that seemed like an hour, the noise and movement of the mob seemed stilled and the two enemies regarded one another from within the purity of their hatred. In their eyes there was neither pity nor mercy: only the undiluted desire to destroy the other, mind and body. It was Ambarturion who spoke. “I will destroy you urûk. By the Lady of the Golden Woods, I will destroy you, and your name and face will be forgotten by all who live to see the days that follow.”

The orc sneered and taunted him, but he had been made uneasy by the manner of Ambarturion’s words, for they had not been made in threat.

It was a promise.

[Arry]

‘He’s as crazed as a bat-bitten grey wolf!’

Snikdul, his breathing ragged from the strenuousness of the ascent and the tension of keeping out of harm’s way in the battle, stood with Gromwakh and the others of their group on the fringes of those who ringed the now dead and bloodied Elf man. His low voiced comments followed on the heels of the one-sided battle between the Uruk and his outmatched, wounded opponent. Thrakmazh had roared, howled, reveled in the killing of his foe. And for one brief moment Snikdul had wondered if he would lick the Elf’s blood from the blade as a final statement.

Most daunting to the Orcs was the ghastly grin, the horrid gash of razored teeth, that slashed across the Uruk’s lower face, and the malevolent light that shone out from his single eye as he spun slowly round, showing his bloodied blade to the troops. They ringed him dumbly like animals presented with something beyond their apprehension. Some sought his approval, leering themselves at his victory, taking his glorying glee and excitement for their own. Others looked on in envy, resenting that his had been the hand that brought the Elf down; that it should have been theirs that did the deed; knowing that somehow the Captain would always put himself forward, stealing the pleasure of renown and conquest for himself.

Anger, too, of different sorts seethed through the onlookers; against the Elves for their terrible, bright beauty that offended and shamed the twisted bodies and spirits of the Orcs. And another anger, laced with fear, for the Uruk Captain who would drive them like so many worthless and expendable pawns in his madness.

Gromwakh leaned on his cudgel, its end unbloodied by any foe in this battle. He took stock of his fellows, seeing that their little group had not been diminished by the hail of Elven arrows as they climbed the hill, nor by the shining blades with which the Elves smote the advancing enemy. They had kept well back, though took care not to be at the very end of the line. With raised voices, they joined in the battle cries and raised their weapons menacingly as if to strike at what foe they might meet. They were careful though, following Gromwakh’s lead, to avoid any such encounters.

Now the battle was done. The three Elves still living were rudely bound and taken roughly from the battlefield in the direction of the camp. The dead Elf was left to the elements and the gathering crows; none cared to assault the body that even in death was filled with a certain grace. And more expediently, the call had gone out from those in charge to head back to the main body of the army. There was no time to choose low delights.

The small group of Orcs fanned out at Gromwakh’s instruction and scoured the small battlefield as they made their way to the edge of the hill and began their descent. One of their band found a small flask and brought it to Grom for inspection. It was shiny metal, delicately engraved and the awful stink of some Elvish fluid still played about the stopper where it had been screwed onto the flask’s neck. Grom shook the container near his ear, hearing the quiet slosh of some drink yet within. Snikdul, scuffing about in the area where the female Elf had been defeated, came across a slender dagger, tromped into the loose dirt by the Southron's heavy scuffle to subdue her. And Globûrz had managed to appropriate the blade belonging to the dead Elf, securing it through his broad leather belt, and drawing his ragged cloak over it. They would have looked for more booty, but their foraging was cut short with the curt, barked order to ‘Move Out!’

Keeping close together they moved quickly down the slope of the hillside, joining the rest of the troops that had been sent to subdue the Elves. The pace was slower with the three bound Elves, and the small band of Orcs were able to squeeze forward to take a closer look at the captives.

‘He doesn’t look so very fierce, now, does he?’ said Snikdul, peering hard at the older male. He gasped as the Elf turned his head and looked fully at him. The Orc was glad then for the cords that bound the Elf and kept him at a secure distance.

No answer came from Gromwakh to his friend’s strangled query. His eyes were on the blade that One-Eye, in the near distance, carried so casually in his fist. The metal gleamed in places where the blood and muck did not cling so thickly, and there in the crosspiece winked a clear gem. The Orc’s fingers itched to have it. And even now his brain worked feverishly on a plan as to how he might obtain it . . .

[Amanaduial the archer]

Coromswyth turned the where the one eyed orc seemed to be at a stand off with Ambarturion, furious that she had been used as blackmail. Ambarturion's words seethed with vicious, quiet fury, words in the Common Tongue that Coromswyth could not hear, but they caused the orc to turn away, and she noted that his sneer was less comfortable now. He came closer to her now, his ugly, malformed face pressing closer to hers, sniffing, his face twisting in disgust. Coromswyth's face was completely impassive, blank of any emotion - she would not give this one an inch. He backed off slightly, then gave an ugly, guttural laugh, staring at the elf with such satisfaction. Coromswyth noted on his blade blood - fresh, red blood, the blade was slick with it. She glanced around and saw only Megilaes and Ambarturion, and the former's face contorted with grief.

Caranbaith...

Drawing her head back slightly, she spat with such force into the orc's face that he reeled back slightly wiping fiercely at his one good eye where her missile had hit it's target full on.

"Spit me? Spit me like you did my companion? I am no wounded elf, weakened already and young in experience, creature of darkness - no vile orc shall spit me, nay - I spit on you!" Coromswyth began in the Common Tongue but in her grief an anger it came out as a mix of Elvish and the Common Tongue, a desperate scream as she writhed against the Southron who held her. Gathering himself, the orc gave a guttural roar and swung his arm at the elf, striking her across the face with the flat of the sword. She fell sideward to the floor, the force knocking her from the Southron's grip. The orc gave another mighty yell and launched himself at her where she lay, and she saw him draw back a metal-shod foot to kick her...

~*~*~

The Southron suddenly stood in front of her, his sword levelled at the orc. "Kill the elf and we will get no information from it. That goes for the other two," he said commandingly, his voice as level and dangerous as his sword. The orc sneered, coming closer to the Southron, so that Koran could smell his foul stench so strongly that he almost gagged.

"She does not have to be so very alive to withdraw information," Thrakmazh hissed. "I would be doing you a favour, boy."

"Harm them and you will answer to myself and the Herding."

"Two Men? I have just killed one of the race who have kept you enthralled for millenia, boy - I killed him and he barely put up a fight! What makes you think-" the orc raised his sword threateningly, the blood glinting in the sun.

"The Eye will not look kindly upon those who defy his captains."

Koran's quiet statement was followed by a moment of silence, and for a second Thrakmazh did not move, regarding the Man suspiciously through his one eye. After a moment, he sneered and spat on the ground in front of the female elf, turning away to his troops and yelling orders and abuse at them to get them moving.

Koran realised he was almost trembling with rage, rigid with anger, holding himself still so that none could accuse him of fear in the face of the orc. He glared after the disgusting creature's back for a few seconds, then turned back to the elf where she had scrambled to her feet, held now by the fast thinking Ehan who had caught her before she could run. One cheek was now smeared with blood where Thrakmazh had struck her with the flat of his blade - the blood of the other elf, the fair haired, injured one who the orc captain had killed - and an ugly bruise would soon rise there. She wordlessly regarded Koran with quiet hatred, her teeth gritted together, dishevelled and furious, but even looking at her like that, the young captain was struck by how beautiful she was - he didn't think he had ever seen a mortal woman so beautiful, at least not in such a way. She gave new meaning to beauty, and Koran suddenly felt that Ehan must have been wrong the night before when he had said that they could be no more beautiful than others: there could surely be no creature as quietly beautiful as the fine featured, grey eyed, eternal creature before him.

But in her eyes...Koran looked away, not wanting to hold them as he snapped orders to the other Southrons to get moving, taking with them the younger elf - the older warrior had been taken by the orcs, but Koran had retained this one, figuring that at least they could keep two alive for questioning. He started moving towards the other elf, trying not to think of the female's eyes, the ancient, almost pitying wisdom that swirled in the grey mist behind the hate and fury. The age of those eyes, and all that they knew, all the knowledge that shone there in the beauty...it scared Koran.

A few hissed words made him turn to look at her again, his dark eyes narrowed. She repeated whatever it was she had said, hissing the words in a strange, odd, flowing tongue but laced with hatred. He turned away without a word - he did not want to hear what this immortal had to say. Not now.

[Durelin]

The elves became aware of the purpose of the troop they followed suddenly, and it brought to them a new pressure, and more decisions to be made. A small group of Lorien elves were obviously making their way to Mirkwood. Their reason was something to discover, and it worried Targil that this could be yet another part to the larger situation. Why would a small party of elves risk the venture to Mirkwood? Their risk might have seemed necessary, but no longer. The orcs easily came upon them and overcame them.

Targil barely acknowledged Calenvása as his Captain crouched beside him. The scene before his eyes would not allow them to tear away long enough to glance at the elf beside him. But he knew what he would see. A face full of grief and fear, the elf frantically searching his mind for reason and finding it out of reach. He knew that Calenvása was in anguish, for the elf was intelligent enough to know that nothing could be done. What Targil hoped was that his Captain realized that something could be done soon. Without looking at Calenvása, he placed a hand on the elf’s shoulder. The shoulder tensed up in his grip, and both elves tore their eyes away long enough to look into each others. Targil was shocked by the hatred that boiled in the eyes of the Captain. Those eyes did not shine with tears, nor did the face act as a window to a soul torn with grief. Lines of worry were barely seen, as the fury overcame all.

Targil spoke softly to Calenvása. “Save your rage. We will fight, but not today.”

“We wait? And they wait? Somehow I doubt they will keep their end of the bargain.”

“It is most likely that they will return to the camp with the prisoners, and the army will be moving soon, as well. If we make our move, it will be crushed. Our brethren are kept as prisoners, for now, but – ”

“My brothers…under the hand of those creatures of the Enemy…and we do nothing?”

“We must save all of Lorien, Calenvása! There is a greater need before us, that calls for all of our attention.”

Calenvása stared at Targil strangely, all of his rage gone for a fleeting moment, as the circumstances at hand was momentarily forgotten. The elf had never used his Captain’s name before, and he understood the shock in the elf’s eyes. It was not an angry shock, Targil knew, but he felt strange, himself. Calling his Captain by his name a personal thing…friendly. A friend trusted, but Calenvása was not worthy of his trust, and he never would be. Trust is earned. And he has done nothing to earn it. His mind came up with this reasoning to end any confusion, but it only spurred more thoughts, more uncertainty. Targil turned away from his Captain. He continued the conversation, hoping to keep Calenvása from making anything of Targil’s slip. “They will not want the prisoners in the way during the attack. Prisoners are taken back to the fortress, always…” he was rambling, and he knew it. Calenvása ignored him, knowing already all that the elf said.

“We will save all of Lorien, Targil. All of Lorien.”

[Orofaniel]

As the day grew on, Herding expected that Koran and his small force would return soon. He didn't expect any great loss, neither Orcs nor Southrons. However, one never knew when it came to elven warriors. Herding hoped that Koran would have been exposed for great danger, and hopefully gotten a few scratches or so – in other words: hoped that Koran would return just merely defeated. Herding smiled evilly as he scouted towards the hills. The green field that lay between was still filled with tents and soldiers, both Orcs and Men. The noise wasn't as loud as it had been earlier. He expected it was caused by the tension and the waiting; everyone waited for Koran and his force to return.

Suddenly an Orc soldier came running down one of the slopes. He cried as he held his hands up in the air. "Fool," Herding muttered and tried to hear what message the Orc brought with him. Yet it couldn't quite reach him. He could see that the Orc caused great joy and also confusion among the soldiers.

"Th....back...wi....elves....."

"What?" Herding asked himself. The cry from the Orc was still unclear, part of it because of the long distance and because of his unclear voice.

"They're back...with elves!!!"

Herding gazed as he hear this. Koran and the small force were coming back to the camp, they were just behind the hill there- and they had captivities; Elves. Herding scouted again; he could now see a couple of Southrons in the front, leading a small force with Orcs. The captivities were among the small army. One part of the Captain was delighted by the news, but another part of him was disappointed and even grumpy about it. He didn't want Koran to succeed, and now he had. He had indeed succeeded, as he had brought his enemies back as captivities. Herding let out a short sigh as he saw even clearer the small troop that had entered the field, to the Orc's joy. The troop entered the field feeling great victory, that wasn't hard to see. Some were holding their swords high above their heads, while others cried out for victory.

Herding then, followed by some of his soldiers, walked down to the field. He eyed Koran straight away. Koran was in the front together with that little boy he had brought to Herding's tent the other day. Herding frowned as he greeted them. ”Captain Cenbryt," Herding said and nodded. "Captain Herding," he answered politely.

After that, Herding moved along the small troop. Some bloodstains here and there, and a few scratches were the first thing Herding saw. None were much injured, and those who were had already left the troop position and headed for their tents. "Any great loss?" Herding asked after a moment, looking at Koran. "Uh, we didn't bother to count them," he said flatly. Herding smiled; what and attitude, he thought with great pleasure. Could he really start to like this young lad? However, Herding could see that a great deal of Orcs had been left behind, either to die -or they were already dead. Most probably the last option.

"Any great surprises?" Herding then asked, facing Koran once again. He hoped that the elves would have been fighting like heroes and that Koran would have admitted it. However, no such answer came; ”No, we did fine," he said and smiled weakly, looking at Ehan - for that was indeed the name of the soldier standing next to him.

"Good....goood," Herding said, without really meaning it, as he straightened hi back. "So, what did you bring with you?" Herding said as he looked in the direction where the captivities were held. "Elves. My small troop captured some elves. We thought maybe they'd come in handy, sir," Koran said, he also looking at the captivities. "Alright," Herding said, trying not to seem too delighted over the news. He didn't want Koran to get too pleased with himself. "Someone bring them to the free tent and tie 'em up- I see that some haven't tied them up properly," he continued, looking at Koran as if he was the one who didn't tie the captivities well enough.

Soon a handful of Orcs were dragging the elves towards the tent. "You," Herding said and pointed at one of the Southroons in the troop. "Take two men with you and follow the Orcs into the tent: I don't want the Orcs to put our captivities in such a bad shape that they're no good afterwards" Herding said sternly. He knew very well what hungry and stupid Orcs were capable of doing. The southrons didn't need to be told that twice as they were off immediately.

"Captain Cenbryt and Captain Thrakmazh," Herding then said looking at both of them. "I think we need to discuss what to do about those filthy elves, don’t you think?" He then continued, smiling evilly. "Aye," Thrakmazh said and followed herding and Koran up to Herding's tent.

As they approached the tent, Herding told the soldiers to shove up, as this was a conversation only for the Captains.

"Shouldn’t we just kill 'em off?" The orc asked immediately. Koran looked at him with great disgust. "Sir, we've got valuable elves at hand. Let’s use them. Lets get all the information we need out of them," he said and took a deep breath. "We’ll torture them for a while...." Herding then interrupted. This was no big surprise as everyone knew how much this Captain loves torturing his enemies. His huge evil grin that surrounded his face couldn't mean anything but just that.

The Orc nodded carefully. Koran however seemed a bit more insecure about this so called plan. "I doubt they'll ever give us any information - if they even have valuable information," Koran said after a while, looking at Herding. Herding met him with stern eyes. "And why do you say that? You've already had a small chat with them, haven’t you?" he said with a great deal of sarcasm. He didn't like Koran's tone. "Oh, no, sir," Koran started. "I would never do that," he said sharply.

Neither Koran nor Herding said anything for a while, as they both knew they'd just get annoyed by each other. So instead, they let the Orc speak; "Elves never reveal anything," he stated. "It's no point wasting time on them," he continued. Herding thought about this and it all seemed reasonable. However, what were they supposed to do with them then? He wondered. "We'll kill 'em," the Orc said, getting up from his seat. His clenched teeth showed that he was ready to see some eleven blood. "No, let’s not do anything to hurriedly," Herding said, pushing the Orc back into his seat. Thrakmazh was obviously disappointed by this. "Why not send them to Dol Guldur?" Herding suggested. Koran looked at him, but said naught. Thrakmazh was pondering on this for a moment, but he agreed. "Captain Cenbryt?" Herding asked. Koran looked up. Herding wasn’t sure if he was too willing to send the captivities that he had taken captive back to Dol Guldur, but since there were two against him he just had to agree.

"Then it's settled," Herding said feeling good about himself. He wasn’t sure however if this really was the best plan, but they didn’t have any other. This just had to work.

Herding lifted his hand as a sign that the two other Captans were to follow him, and so they did. They left Herding's camp, still wearing their armour and weapons. They walked steadily down the slope down to the field. As they approached the then where the captivities where held they saw all the Orcs that had gathered around it.

"Move!" Thrakmazh yelled. The Orcs moved quickly when they saw that it was their Captain who yelled. Herding, Koran and Thrakmazh was now walking on a narrow path between to huge crowds of Orcs that led into the tent.

The smell of rotten, maybe blood, met the three Captains. Herding let out a small cough as he felt the horrible stank. Koran and Thrakmazh weren't too pleased about the smell either, or so it seemed. The Orcs were watching each captive, but since they were now well tied up, their job wasn't difficult. The Southrons slowly followed each and every Orc with their eyes.

"In what state..." Herding didn't get to finish his sentence before the southron interrupted;” They’re aright, I expect. The Orc haven't touched them, or at least done any big damage to them, sir," he said and nodded. "But from the battle? Well, I expect they have a few scratches and maybe some broken limbs...But I'm not sure," he continued. "You said we weren't supposed to touch them, so we didn't, sir.." he said after a moment when he noticed the way the Captain was looking at him. "Indeed I did. It seems you have done a good job," Herding said. The Southron's face was suddenly encouraged by Herding's words, and he smiled broadly. "Well, you may leave the tent now," Herding said and waved him off. The southron looked confused; ”But, Captain sir, aren't we going to...do anything with them?" he asked as he pointed at one of the elves, who were lay on the ground.

"We'll be sending them to Dol Guldur," Koran interrupted. "Thank you Captain Cenbryt," Herding said harshly; "Although, I'm most capable of explaining the situation to this Man here myself," he continued. Herding couldn't help feeling annoyed wherever Koran was around. And certainly didn't he like that Koran interrupted his conversation with the Southron, as it was after all his soldier.

Herding then went to look at the captivities, followed closely by Thrakmazh.

"You!" the elf that lay nearest cried and pointed at Thrakmazh. Herding couldn't see his face properly as the elf's face down towards the floor. Thrakmazh grunted and looked at the elf with great disgust. Herding couldn't help himself, so he let out a short laugh. The elf's face moved up from the ground. It seemed as Thrakmazh had met him before, probably on the battle field Herding figured. "Hold your mouth shut, or you will regret it you filthy elf," Thrakmazh growled as he kicked the elf in his back. A short exclamation was all they heard before the elf passed out; probably cause by his small injuries and of the exhaustion.

"Captain Thrakmazh, you don't want to be too hard on 'em," herding said teasingly while his smile covered most of his face. Herding didn’t mind, at all, that Thrakmazh treated the elves like this. Thrakmazh laughed, but Herding thought it sounded more like a growl. "Now, Thrakmazh, do you have any faithful Orcs that will lead these captivities to Dol Guldur?" Herding said, although he was of that opinion that there wasn't such a thing as "faithful" Orcs.

"Indeed," Thrakmazh started, although he didn't get the time to continue as Herding interrupted; "Well, find one. Quickly."

Koran, who had been walking alone in the tent, looking at the captivities, had now approached them. "An Orc? Is an Orc going to lead the captivities to Dol Guldur, captain Herding?" he asked, sounding more or less rather suspicious. "Indeed, so I thought," he snapped. "Or, Captain Cenbryt; do you not find this a good idea?" he asked him, while following Thrakmazh with his eyes, hoping to see some sort of reaction if Koran said no. Koran didn't dare look at the Orc Captain as he answered; "An Orc will do." Herding gloated. He could see that this had caused great anger with Koran, and Herding didn't wish for anything more than just that.

"I expect, Thrakmazh, that the Orc that will be leading them and the rest of the company- if that is what you wish to call it- is ready by dawn," Herding said, with the slight of arrogance. No more words were spoken as all the three Captains left the tent. Herding watched Koran walking back to his own, while Thrakmazh went back to the Orcs, hopefully trying to find that “faithful” Orc.

[Kransha]

Of course, the task of choosing an orc to lead the escort force of the captives fell to Thrákmazh. He didn’t mind at this point, though, for he knew only one uruk suitable for the vile, monotonous job. The only orc besides Urkrásh who he trusted would be chosen, a boor called Gâshronk, one-eyed like himself, possibly from self-dismemberment in the past, Thrákmazh did not know. The wretch, like all too many others, aspired to be the spitting image of his captain, but in a way more obsessive than most. Thrákmazh knew that, if any orc would try truthfully to do his bidding, it would certainly be he. So, he quickly singled out the unimposing creature who was milling, along with all other orcs, about in the makeshift camp in which they now lived.

“Gâshronk!” he cried, and saw the orc’s face and one eye light up effervescently, which was a ghastly sight in itself. He growled silently and went on, letting the orcs move aside to let Gâshronk march confidently out to greet and obey his commander. “You are a brave orc, and a mighty one. You shall lead the prisoners, with orcs under your command, back to Dol Guldur. Ready your men, but leave the captives until the time of your departure.” The orc continued looking at him, with a slack-jawed grin upon his toothsome, scarred face, and nodded vigorously. “Yes, Captain Thrákmazh.”

Thrákmazh nodded as the orc obediently turned and began to, inevitably, take his assignment far too seriously. Thrákmazh quickly headed back, for he had an ulterior motive, and made his way towards the tent of Captain Herding. He passed orcs reveling, orcs gambling, orcs drinking, orcs fighting, and wicked men doing roughly the same, but ignored them just as they ignored him, letting the sky’s darkening cloak relax his sharpened nerves. Soon he had located the tent, where he’d been before, and brusquely shoved open the tent flap to see Herding pacing from end to end within. The captain looked at him only for a moment before continuing his pacing. Thrákmazh took two minute steps inside.

“Southron, the ‘faithful orc’ has been chosen.” Thrákmazh growled as he repeated Herding’s words sardonically. Herding only turned to glare at him with two good eyes to rival Thrákmazh’s one. The orc looked back, feigning pleasantry again with a bare, toothy smile set onto his face grotesquely. Herding grimaced and turned away, gesturing for the orc to leave swiftly, if not sooner. “Good, fine. Now, get out.”

Thrákmazh grinned in earnest at this, having anticipated the response. He knew men better then he’d thought he would, for they were predictable savages, the same mindless brutes that orcs so often were. But, in the Captain, he did see an uncomfortable portrait of himself removed from the more barbaric ways to which he was accustomed. It was odd, to Thrákmazh, to see this man, with his back to him, thinking in such a similar fashion. A disgusting fool and idolater like Gâshronk was different in so many ways from this mortal being, for orcs such as Gâshronk were no more than petty followers. Herding was, in his own dark way, a leader, as Thrákmazh had been for a century or more. Doubtless Thrákmazh knew the trade better, but he could still sense the withered connecting cord between him and his juxtaposed ally. It was stranger still that he saw no orc when looking on Herding, but a man more like a man than ever he had seen. Elves were his polar opposite, their radiance as dazzling as his putrid sourness was grim, their swift and delicate grace as boorish as he grandiose might. But, men where like both elves and orcs, for they bore light and darkness. This man, though, had more the latter by far, and it was apparent in nearly everything he did.

“Herding,” he began quietly, moving with surprising grace, like a hovering shadow, towards the Southron, “…The Eye does not need all the elves.” Herding turned his head only merely, his eyebrow raising in question, but he still looked with simple dimness at the orc, probably dismissing his words as a barbarian creature’s idiocies, “…my men have seen victory this day, but they have lost many…Their morale is still low…they need that morale renewed.” At this, Herding turned his head away again, heading incredulously towards another corner of his low-roofed tent and pacing. “Get to the point.” He snapped suddenly, knocking Thrákmazh’s readied wit off guard with a louder, more concise phrase.

The point was, as it always was, the prolonging of pain for enemies. Thrákmazh wanted something, something more than he had. He had beheld the eldest elf swear vengeance, a possibly empty threat, but elves did not make empty threats. This elf would die in Dol Guldur, but he had made a grave mistake crossing Thrákmazh the Mighty. He would suffer more loss still, and a loss more painful to him. The orc’s fingers itched to wrap around the hilt of his new blade, a blade that was bane to so many orcs, and now would be to so many elves. It was a wondrous feeling, to hold that, but hurt him all the same. His thumb glided down the smooth hilt as he considered his words again and spoke, more commanding now but just as silent. “The female elf; let my troops have her. We have no need of so many captives.” He finished with a curt syllable which was lost in a throaty cough, but Herding heard it all the same. The Southron rounded on Thrákmazh angrily, but not angry at the orc. His anger stemmed from another source, he was merely venting his excess range.

“You’ve slain one already,” he bellowed, “is that not enough?”

“Not for me,” Thrákmazh retorted quickly, “for my men.”

“For the sake of some personal vendetta, no doubt.” Herding grumbled, turning away again. Soon after, he waved a hand as a gesture of negativity and refusal. “No, the female goes with the rest to Dol Guldur. Cenbryt will agree, so don’t bother seeking his pompous counsel.” Again, Thrákmazh grinned strangely, and Herding did not turn to see the expression. He knew the link, the link that caused Herding such pain and elicited such eternal anger. It was the young man, the other captain, surely! Yes, Thrákmazh did not waste love on that being either, and now he supposed that Herding bore even less. This was the key to enlisting a second captain’s aid. Like a swift shadow, Thrákmazh again flitted towards the captain, appearing mysteriously beside him, and lowered his voice to a fowl whisper.

“The boy…Cenbryt, he is weak. You know this. You are strong, for a man. You know he is a fool.”

Herding did not whirl on him as he had before, but Thrákmazh saw his fists clench suddenly. But, even though he most likely wished to state his agreement, he was too belligerent. Again, his rage was vented rather than revealed. “I could say the same for you, orc.” He shot back, his own hand beginning to move unconsciously towards his blade. Thrákmazh seemed to laugh, or cackle, or chuckle perhaps, but it was as horrible a sound as ever the Southron had heard. Soon it died, replaced by some gleeful sound of conspiracy as Thrákmazh moved yet closer, nearing Herding and looking, with his one, limpid, glassy eye at the man, where he found what he desired. “In your eyes,” he said, “when you look at him, I see fire…You want him dead.”

“And if I do?”

“He’s weak, a weak captain, and he speaks against us.”

“You agreed with him!” Herding spun now, his sword now out and, its glinting point hovering dangerously near the prime vein that pulsed on Thrákmazh’s throat, “You spoke with him and took his side!” The orc just smiled; a look unnerving to each captain, Herding to look at, and Thrákmazh to sustain. Thrákmazh backed up, with some caution, just to avoid Herding’s misplaced energy. “Because he is half-right.” He answered, somewhat ruefully, “He is a clever fool, but a fool nonetheless, and a thorn in both our sides. He wants the elves spared, he does, because he sees their blinding light and is infected by it. He serves the Eye, yes, but he is not loyal, not at all… He will betray us, betray us and the Dark Lord in his weakness!”

Herding glowered again, but was now settling, His next question, asked in more a rhetorical fashion, was calmed and the piercing point of his words dulled by understanding. “You think I don’t know that?” Thrákmazh looked to him, as if he was trying to comfort the angered man, but both knew that there was no notion of friendship. Hatred ran rampant between them, but they shared, in some respects, a common hatred of Koran Cenbryt. Thrákmazh’s one eye settled into its own watery foundation at last as he spoke, in the most meager whisper yet. “He is but a man, a mortal man…We can send the captives to Dol Guldur, revel in our victory, and go on, but he will still be a man…a man that can be killed.” Neither spoke and a very unsettled silence remained for several moments before Thrákmazh backed up, heading towards the entrance, and exit, to the tent. “Consider my words…I have business with the elves to be attended.” At this, he hurriedly moved out of the tent, leaving Herding to ponder the most intellectual thing he’d ever heard an orc say.

[Arry]

Had Gromwakh’s eyes not been so bulbous he might have rolled them skyward, and had he not the long ingrained lessons of the underling drubbed into him by countless of his ‘betters’, he might have sighed loudly and with derision. Instead, he chose to keep his opinions to himself and his eyes well cast down as the deep honking voice of their new leader laid out his commands. Snikdul, on the other hand, stood just behind his friend and kept a low, running commentary on the proceedings.

‘Full as a tick with himself, isn’t he?’ he whispered to Gromwakh. ‘Swaggering back and forth in front of us. Never mind he’s been brevetted . . . the ugly cock-a-whoop’s got no more rank than we do . . .’ Snikdul’s comments were cut off with a whoof of expulsed air as Gromwakh elbowed him sharply in the gut.

‘He doesn’t need to outrank us, you fool – he’s got a whip!’

Gâshronk paced before the twenty Orcs he’d chosen for his little expedition. In a loud voice that carried well beyond the troops standing in sullen rows quite near him he explained how he had been honored with the command for this important task. His one eye, Gromwakh noted, kept sliding over their heads, to the place where Thrákmazh stood, and his expression would change to one of barely concealed delight when the Uruk Captain glanced his way. They were to deliver the Elven captives to Dol Guldur along with their effects, keeping them unharmed . . . the effects or the captives? Grom wondered. Gâshronk looked just the sort to work over those who couldn’t get back at him.

As their Uruk leader passed by them. Growakh turned slightly to one of his companions with a brief order. ‘Find Kreblug and see what he’s got on this bloated bug of an Uruk. We’ll need to know how to best get round him should the situation call for it.’

With a grin and a brief nod, the Orc slunk off, heading first for their supply of liquid bribery before making his way to old Kreblug . . .

[Orofaniel]

"He is but a man, a mortal man…"

"…a man that can be killed."

These words that had come from The Orc Captain Thrákmazh still lingered in Herding's thoughts. He didn't know whether he was surprised, angry or just..pleased that Thrákmazh too had been thinking about Koran - Koran's defeat. However, Herding couldn't help feeling mad at Thrákmazh because he felt that the Orc Captain had betrayed him. At the same time, Herding thought Thrákmazh was right when he said that Koran would betray both of them, and that it was just a matter of time before he did. He just knew it. It was better to finish Koran off before that time, Herding figured. Yes, indeed that would be the cleverest thing to do. But how could they go through with this? Herding knew it would be difficult since Koran was after all another Captain. What about the Eye?

What if the consequences would be horrifying and Thrákmazh would back off and let Herding take the whole bloody mess on his shoulders? No, he couldn't risk it, nor would he allow such a thing to happen. Never trust an Orc that seems to be on your side, because he will betray you. Herding had heard those words in his childhood. And though his experiences as a soldier and as a Captain, he knew that it was true. But Herding had to take some chances didn't he? He could either be betrayed by both his fellow Captains, or just Koran. Or maybe just the Orc? Herding couldn't collect his thoughts. They were roaming around in his head, making him feel slightly dizzy. He sat down, still pondering, trying to straighten his thoughts but he found it quite difficult as he continued arguing with himself.

Then there was that soldier that always followed Captain Koran wherever he went. He would certainly know that Thrákmazh and himself were up to something, wouldn't he? Oh yes, Herding knew it :The result would be everything else than they had expected; killing several people. But Herding only wanted to get rid of the one! He only wanted to get rid of Koran! That was what his heart and soul told him. Yet his mind, thought otherwise. Herding felt that some way Koran would prove himself useful at later events - and as much as Herding hated to admit it, Koran had already been quite useful; he had captured some neat elves that would be sent to Dol Guldur shortly.

Herding could use him, he was full aware of that. It was only if Thrákmazh would let Herding use Koran- that was the question. Herding figured that Koran wasn't too hard to trick, although he could be mistaken, but he surely doubted it. To kill Koran now was simply out of the question. Definitely.

How he wanted too though! His heart longed to see the Haradrim...No, he couldn’t stand watching Koran lead to another victory while, he, himself stood alone with all the losses. It wasn’t acceptable.

"Do not let your heart get in the way of true thinking," he told himself, trying to calm down. He felt as if he was torn apart, between two mighty forces and none of them would let him go. What could he do? What would Thrákmazh think? Thrákmazh would probably be annoyed by Herding's cowardice if Herding turned him own- which was after all likely.

Then Herding figured that he didn't really have to answer the Orc, did he? No.

If Thrákmazh didn't bring up the subject once again, Herding wouldn't do it either. Clever- as long as Thrákmazh kept his mouth shut.

[Firefoot]

The special force of triumphant Orcs and Men had left, prisoners in tow. Thorvel went to join the other Elves. Targil and Calenvása seemed to have finished some kind of conversation, and there was an air of determination about the Captain. Lómarandil surveyed the other Elves coldly, for once saying nothing.

“We will rescue the captives,” said Calenvása. Thorvel was relieved that he would not have to argue this point, for he was like-minded. The Captain went on, “They will not likely keep the prisoners with them during the attack; rather they will send them back to Dol Guldur with a small guard. It is then that we will save the captives.” It seemed to Thorvel that Targil disagreed with this action, and yet he said nothing. That was strange to Thorvel, for Targil had never been one to keep his arguments himself. Lómarandil did speak up, however.

“So we will save three Elves, and leave the rest of Lorien to the army?” Thorvel had to give him some credit - it was a valid question, but one that he was pretty sure he knew the answer to.

“Seven Elves will move faster than an army of Orcs,” said Thorvel, not unkindly. “My guess is that we should still be able to reach Lorien before the Orcs, if the rescue goes quickly. And these Lorien elves will have been in close proximity of the Orcs: perhaps they have heard some things of the army’s plan that we have not.” Thorvel couldn’t tell if Lómarandil was satisfied or not with this answer. Thorvel looked to the Captain to make sure that he had not spoken wrongly of their plans. Calenvása was nodding. He said, “Yes, that is what we will do. For now, we will head back to the Orc camp and try to get some idea of their lay out and plans. When they begin to move the Elves, we will meet again to follow them.” The Elves got up and made their way back to the army, moving quickly and lightly. They spread out a bit to see what the Orcs were doing.

It did not take Thorvel long to spot the Lorien Elves, tied up as they were outside of a tent. They did not appear to be seriously injured, though one appeared to have passed out. Any Orc that happened to pass them sneered or glared, yet the two that were awake held their heads high, outwardly refusing to acknowledge their captors. Thorvel hoped they were listening closely, whatever their appearance; any information they could pick up would be helpful. Some of the Orcs and Men moved about the army with purpose. Those would be the Captains, undoubtedly making plans for their prisoners. Some of them moved in and out of the tent near which the Elves were stationed.

Thorvel waited for the Orcs to show signs of moving the Elves, expressionless and still as a stone. His gray eyes had not lost their inner fire. The arrows in his quiver were waiting to be used. It would not be long now. And so he waited.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

In the first Years of the Sun, when Ambarturion was but a youth and the world was green and vital in the first strength of its awakening, the Elf had delighted to walk in the woods of Doriath in the spring and hear about him the calls of birds, and to feel upon his cheeks the gentle caress of last autumn’s leaves. In those days it had seemed that such days would last forever, and no darkness would sully the memories of the songs and deeds of that age. But then the Noldor had returned from the West, bringing with them their War of Pride, and the land had been laid to waste with their endless conflict with the powers of darkness. Their war had become Ambarturion’s, and he had learned through bitter experience that there was to be no victory, only a drawn out defeat. He had known this hard truth for millennia, but now that the time had come for him to taste of that defeat himself, the flavour was more ashen and cursed than he had imagined.

He lay upon the ground in the midst of the orc camp and sought to follow Megilaes into unconsciousness, but was unable to find that relief. The hatred of the orcs burned upon his mind like hot irons, and the sound of their gibbering was as the raucous cry of the carrion birds that were no doubt devouring Caranbaith at this very moment. His hatred for the monsters was boundless, and for a long time all he could see or think of was the delight that he would take in crushing the life from them all. He had expected that this hatred would sustain him through the torture, but the orcs had been prevented from their wicked pleasures by the Men. Ambarturion had not been afraid of the vulgar methods of sport employed by the orcs, for they could never touch or break his will. But he knew that eventually he would be taken before the seat of Sauron, and there no amount of rage could sustain him from the Eye. In mere moments he would be stripped of flesh and bone and become as a naked mind, withering in the blast of the Enemy’s malice – and in that gaze he would speak of the unspeakable; he would reveal the secret that his Lord and Lady had revealed only to their most intimate counsellors: that the One Ring had been found, and that it was being taken by halflings into the very heart of Mordor in a fruitless quest. Sauron would have this of him, and Middle-Earth would finally fall into the slavery and corruption that was its destiny. He felt neither sadness nor regret at this, for he had known that such a day would come, but he could not bear the shame that he would be the instrument of the Enemy’s final victory.

It was Coromswyth who brought him from the dark terrors of his mind, calling him back to a no less pleasant reality. He opened his eyes and looked at the orcs and Men who stood about them, still keeping at a respectable distance. The Sun was beginning to set and the army had set its watch fires about the perimeter. It was impossible to know their numbers from where they lay, but it was undoubtedly a great host – certainly the equal, at least, of the two armies that had already been thrown against the borders of Lorien. He took some comfort in the knowledge of their imminent defeat. Caranbaith’s murder would be avenged, even if not by him.

“Ambarturion,” Coromswyth said again, more urgently. “Do you hear me? Come back to the world Ambarturion, do not live amongst the shadows.”

“I am here,” he replied softly, “but not for long. Soon, I fear, we will both be in the shadows and there will be nothing there for us but cold and terror.”

“Do not speak of such things,” she replied soothingly. “Where there is life, there is hope.” Her words brought him no comfort. Seeing this, Coromswyth sought to distract his attention from his despair. “There is something strange about this army,” she said. “It is made up of more than orcs from Dol Guldur and their allies the wicked Men. There are captains here of both races who are doughty and resourceful. It was they who captured us…” She trailed off and Ambarturion knew that she was remembering her own capture. He did not offer her any comfort, for what could he say, who had no comfort to give himself? “I have been watching them,” she said. “There appears to be two armies. Or, rather, there is one army and a smaller band of much mightier troops. They keep together more or less, out just beyond the main force. It would seem that most of those who attacked us came from that group.”

Ambarturion nearly groaned. What use of talking of this? he thought. Lorien is protected by the power of the Lady; the Enemy cannot prevail for as long as Nenya remains in her possession. But even as he thought this there came to his mind, as clearly as though it were taking place before his waking eyes once more, the tactic that the orcs had used in capturing them: the main force had attacked in a frontal assault, while the more crafty and able fighters had come upon their flank and taken Coromswyth unawares…

His heart froze as his eyes met Coromswyth’s, and so great was the terror of his soul that even though they had known one another but a short time, he was able to speak with her mind. They plan to attack Lorien on two fronts! The army will be destroyed, but it will keep the attention of the Wood’s defenders while this other, smaller group will attack a different target. But what will that target be?

They remained like that, locked in one another’s gaze for what seemed like hours, but in truth it was but a moment. When Coromswyth replied, it was with such violent horror, that Ambarturion gasped aloud. Caras Galadhon! she wailed, The Lady Galadriel! They mean to attack the Lady directly, and to deprive the Woods of her protection!

[Arry]

It was several hours later when the Orc reported back to Gromwakh. Their new Uruk commander, it seemed, had very little they could use to get round him. ‘Keeps a tight rein on, that one does. Wants to impress the higher ups with his single-minded loyalty.’ Gromwakh’s brows rose in question as the messenger chuckled. ‘Kreblug says Gâshronk’s got his nose so far up old One-eye’s . . .’

The slap-slap of the Uruk’s calloused feet coming near brought silence to the small band of Orcs. Gâshronk, taking his new promotion quite seriously, had come to inspect whether all needed supplies had been gathered and his troops suitably geared up for their mission. ‘We’re leaving soon. Have you slugs got it all together?’ Muffled murmurs of affirmation eddied half-heartedly around the little group.

Gromwakh stepped forward, his companions’ eyes fixed on him wondering what he was up to. ‘Begging your pardon, Cap’n,’ he began. Gâshronk stopped before the groveling Orc and poked him with the braided leather stock of his whip. ‘Speak up, cave rat!’

‘Well, I was thinking we should get one of the supply wagons and keep the prisoners in it, bound hand and foot. Be faster, I think, than trying to drag them along.’ And safer, too . . ., Grom added silently to himself. ‘We can easily move it at a good speed, the lot of us taking turns, I think.’

Gâshronk shoved him hard in the shoulder, causing the Orc to stumble back. ‘I’ll do what thinking there needs to be done around here, you carrion!’ Letting his gaze flow over the assembled Orcs he barked out his orders.

‘Get the wagon from the Supply Master. Tell him it’s needed for a special mission. Load the supplies we’ll need at one end and leave room to throw the Elves in. What won’t fit can go in the long-box underneath.’ The Orcs stood dumbly looking from one to another. ‘Well! Get your worthless hairy backsides in gear and get going!’

Gromwakh and his twelve companions took off at a run to comply. ‘There must be something old Kreblug told you,’ he panted, running beside his information gatherer. ‘Only that he’s overly fond of stewed squirrel with bitterroot . . . can eat a whole potful if he sets his mind to it,’ wheezed the Orc as they neared where the supply wagons were kept. Grom nodded his head thoughtfully as they came to a chuffing halt.

The wagon was commandeered, not without much argument by those in charge of them. A supply of provisions was laid in, including a small barrel of dried squirrel meat and a packet of bitterroot. Grom borrowed one of the medicinal kits from the rear of one of the other wagons and stored it along with some leathery dried ground tubers beneath the wagon, and two large bladders of fresh water.

And hour later, and they were back where Gâshronk had assembled his group. ‘All ready, Cap’n,’ mumbled Gromwakh in a well practiced tone of servility. ‘Shall we load on the Elves and their effects now?’

He ducked back, out of reach of the Uruk’s whip handle, hoping his suggestion had not sounded too forward.

[Durelin]

It was always an adventure attempting to bring his scout troop together. Calenvása thought of all the different twists and turns in the relations of these four elves. They were brothers, of the same race, fighting for the same home, the same cause, and against the same Evil. But it was impossible for them to find peace among themselves. And they sought to find peace for this world…for that was the bigger picture, or at least to the Captain, it was.

These moments of separation and silence were needed for the elves to find serenity, and hopefully cool off from any confrontations. Calenvása also hoped that it gave them time to contemplate things said and unsaid. He had felt strangely restless for days now, but the feeling was strongest as he watched the prisoners be loaded like things rather than beings. Restlessness, and a hatred that he had long kept under control, and out of his life, were not a part of the air he breathed. And though he knew that both these feelings were useless, even dangerous to harbor, they escaped from any tightly locked cages he tried to force them into.

The waiting that he had been forced to do had made his restlessness worse. He had been spending a lot of time waiting in these past days, waiting, in silence, with time to think. The Captain did not like letting his mind have too much time to think. It would inevitably take his heart’s worries and amplify them. Stopping his mind from doing so was hard to do, as the time passed, but now he focused on what his eyes saw, as was necessary, and his mind was soon under his control.

For the love of Eru, we must move!

It was an urgent cry from the mind of Targil, passed to his Captain’s mind. It shocked Calenvása, to know that Targil had spoken to him in such a way. First the elf had called him by name, and now he had been able to connect to the mind of his Captain. The urgency filled Calenvása’s mind more than the words, and he immediately drew himself away from his precarious hiding place. He stirred the leaves of the large bush he had found haven in as he practically sprang out of it.

Cursing himself mentally, he took a quick look at the camp from around the bush, and almost gasped aloud. He was close enough that his eyes could see another set staring near him, and a feeling ran down his spine as they moved to stare back at his. But these eyes were not yellow, nor were they filled with hatred, and no yells rang across the camp, spreading an alert. Feeling that this was a blessing, he sighed, relieved, and crept speedily to where Targil was hidden, taking a long loop so as not to be near the camp while on open ground. It took him longer than he would have wished, because of his caution, but he knew it was necessary.

As he approached, the elf turned his head, obviously hearing the quiet footsteps of his Captain on the soft earth. “We must gather the others, quickly. The wagon, it will slow them. We can move faster.”

Calenvása nodded, knowing that there were obvious strategic advantages to being ahead of their enemy. Now was not the time to discuss or argue, clarify or consider, but the time to move, once more. Targil and his Captain carefully gathered Lómarandil and Thorvel to them. On the move, the scout troop now making their way back to Dol Guldur, Calenvása found himself laughing quietly. “What amuses you?”

The Captain had forgotten Targil was strangely at his side. He simply shook his head in answer to the elf’s question. “Why did you wait for so long a time?” Targil asked, quickly dropping any concern for what Calenvása found amusing.

He was not prepared to answer a question such as that, and so his silence reigned over the conversation for a few moments. Then Thorvel came from behind them. Lómarandil was farther behind. “Why did we wait for so long?” Thorvel asked, as well. After speaking, he grew very grim. Calenvása knew it was from agreeing with Targil, and from sounding so cold when he spoke to his Captain.

Knowing that he could not answer with any words that might defend himself, he answered with the truth. “I do not know.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Dragged upright by an orc, Coromswyth felt her arms wrenched painfully back behind her, but barely responded, remaining stiff and difficult to move. The orc behind her cursed and shook her like a rag doll, but Coromswyth refused to make it any easier. The creature cursed again then pressed his mouth close to her ear, his filthy, leathery skin rubbing against her smooth cheek, but her eyes remained facing forwards, impassive and unresponsive.

"I heard once that orcs and elves were similar in some ways, elf," the orc's voice was a harsh, salacious whisper. "Maybe...whatsay we try some out, hmm?"

Coromswyth closed her eyes and swallowed down the sickness that was welling inside her stomach, quelling the fear inside her though she refused to reply or respond in any way. As she had been taught, she would say nothing. Nothing.

Behind her, she felt the orc move, holding both her hands in one huge paw now, but effortlessly, his one hand completely engulfing her wrists, as he shifted enigmatically behind her. Her eyes flicked up and around the tent, searching for some way out - but Ambarturion and Megilaes had already been taken away, and the tent flap was closed, crates lying in front of it. She would never make it in time. Maybe if she managed to get to the crates, she would be able to take cover behind one...still the daggers felt cool against her wrists. The young Southron had not found them - or at least, he had not removed them. Maybe if...

Spangling shivers shot suddenly through her nerves as she felt her stomach pull slightly tighter from behind, and realised with a sickened jerk that the orc had begun to pull her dress free, unlacing the ties up the back with great, rough drags as he began to laugh, a harsh, grunting, animal sound, still holding her effortlessly. Suddenly, more than any time before, Coromswyth felt afraid.

She began to struggle now, attempting to jerk away from the orc, to throw her whole self away from his grasp, to...she barely knew what she was trying to do, simply that she had to get away, had to get out of his grasp, away from those pawing, leathery hands. The orc laughed more loudly this time, and Coromswyth cried out aloud, in some desperate attempt to alert someone. But no one would come. Not now.

The orc pulled off her cloak and began, with a sort of relishing ritardando, to fiddle with the complex clasps on the back of her underdress. Coromswyth cried out again, loudly, trying now concentratedly to move one of her dagger pommels into her hand. If only she had put them in with the blades pointing towards her palms...in her desperation, she felt the blade snick her arm, the blood slickening her forearm and dress, but she didn't pay it any heed - behind her, the orc had given up with the delicate, minute clasps and had produced a knife. Coromswyth yelled more loudly this time, screaming wordlessly for some help before it was too late, eyes closed tightly as she struggled viciously, opening her eyes briefly...

...and behind her flashed another blade, different from the orc's, a swift, darting movement that soared so close beside her face that she felt it cut a long, deep gash along her cheekbone. She gasped and fell to the floor as she felt the orc behind her slump with a strange, indescribable, gurgling sound. Writhing away on the floor, Coromswyth pulled out one of her daggers with her newly freed hands and launched herself towards the prone orc, who now sported a dagger in his arm. With a fierce cry, she stabbed downwards at the creature's throat, once, twice, three times, until he lay still, and other hands caught her.

For a moment, Coromswyth thought she was in the hands of another elf, so gently firm was the grasp, but it was not for that reason that she stopped struggling - a sense of sort of hopelessness settled over her, an exhausted relief but knowledge that it couldn't get better. Behind her, fingers deftly and quickly tied her hands again and this time she was as unresisting as a rag doll, tears in her eyes which she barely fought to stop. There was a pause, then she felt something take hold of her dress once more, and she stiffened - but only for a second, freezing up with her eyes closed. A moment later, the being wordlessly stepped away, and she realised he had simply retied her dress.

"Come, Ehan - we need to get back to Herding, I said I would report to him before they were taken away."

Coromswyth felt a shock of recognition at the young, quietly confident voice, a voice wise beyond it's years. Looking up and around, she saw that it was indeed a man - and not just any man, but the young Southron who had captured her. She met his eyes and they stayed locked for a moment or two, and fleetingly Coromswyth felt herself wish that the mind of a man and an elf could merge as the minds of two elves could - for what would she find in this man's mind, what could he find in hers? His wisdom was that of the ageless elves, young of face but behind the veil of skin he could be an ancient, with as much knowledge of the world as any one of the Silvan...

"What about he- I mean, what about it?" It was the young man who spoke now. Coromswyth heard the hesitation and the shade of awe in his voice, and the macho veil he threw over it, and turned her grey gaze to him. Unlike his captain, the younger man, Ehan, avoided her gaze, looking away fixedly at his captain. The older man glanced back at the elf and sighed, looking away out of the tent, presumably across the camp. "You're right, we..." he paused and sighed, then turned back to Ehan again. "You're right. Look...go to Herding. I shall take the elf - seems the rest cannot be trusted simply to follow orders." He cast a cursory look at the dead orc on the floor here.

Ehan paused, evidently wishing to speak, then nodded. "Right. I...right. Of course, Captain Koran."

Koran? A first or second name? Coromswyth's mind seemed detached now, and found a resting place in her omnipresent curiosity. She had started out with an interest in the easterlings and southrons, the Haradrim - after all, it was they who had been the very cause of the grief that had started her studies...

As the younger man - a fellow soldier? Undersoldier? Servant? Squire? - left the tent, Koran strode over to Coromswyth and lifted her, once more with that almost effortless movement by her elbows. He tightened the rope around her hands and as he did so, Coromswyth felt compelled to speak, despite all that she had been taught.

"Why did you not stop me, Southron?" she murmured softly, so that none would hear beyond the tent, her words enclosed to a few feet of air around her and Koran. "Why, Koran, did you let me kill the orc?"

He paused, and she could see the edge of his face behind her, infuriatingly just beyond her sightline. He didn't answer for a long moment, then reached forward slowly and drew back the hair from out of her eyes where it stuck to the tear stains that ran down her cheeks, his skin dark, a dusky, tanned caramel against hers, a fine shade of alabastor. It was an action that reminded her - maybe reminded them both - that he was a Man - not as fair as the elves, but not an orc.

He leaned forward and she felt his hair brush her cheek as he whispered in reply, "Because it is possible that I hate the orcs quite as much as you do, elf."

"That is not my name."

"I know not your name, elf, and know you will not tell it to me." Koran pushed her slightly from behind and Coromswyth began to move. "I cannot expect you to - after all, what do the mighty elves, fairest of all, owe to a mere Man?"

The bitterness in his voice stung and Coromswyth's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "What? You have stolen my life, man."

"You steal ours to keep yourselves alive for eternity," he countered sharply.

"Then neither is in eithers debt." She hesitated, then said the single word that went against everything she had ever been taught. "Coromswyth."

A yelled outburst of the black speech stopped Koran from replying - if he had been meaning to. Orc hands grabbed the elf and she was handed through what seemed like a chain of grasps until she was finally thrown onto a hard wagon floor. Twisting as far as she could to look around as the wagon began to move, she looked around for the Southron captain's for no real reason - but instead met a different pair.

Startled grey eyes stared back at her, like those of a deer about to run, before they steadied themselves. A sort of resolution came about in them, and a head of ash blonde nodded briefly, and an unspoken understanding passed between Coromswyth and her anonymous watcher before he was gone, as quickly as he had come. The female elf lay back once more, absorbing what she had seen, and after a few minutes, she sent out her voice to Ambarturion.

"Ambarturion? Ambarturion, we have hope yet. The elves of the forest watch us..."

[piosenniel]

Kransha's post

It was a more complicated task then Thrákmazh had thought it would be to locate the elves. Before he’d given the order, they’d already been loaded, bound and hapless, onto a vehicle meant to bear them to the hill on which sat Dol Guldur. Thrákmazh, though, was not done with them. In truth, he had hoped for another night to ‘spend’ with them, but that was surely not to be. He had hoped too that Herding, the foolish Southron, would side with him and let him keep the elf a prisoner for the sake of troop morale, but that was not to be either. He could only hope that old Herding would consider his other offer with more thought-out care over the course of the day. Now, he dashed headlong through the winding paths created in the camp, trying to locate the road that the wagon and prisoner escort had departed on. At last he found it, seeing the wagon bumping along, jostled by the rough, unruly terrain, down towards the deeper forest, past grove and plain, headed for Dol Guldur. Mindlessly, not thinking or knowing why, he barreled after it swiftly, raising his voice to catch them as they continued on.

“Wait! Hold!” He roared, flagging down the vehicle, those who dragged it through deep dirt, and those surrounding it, who looked glumly back at their commander but managed to feebly snap to attention…or most of them, at least. The wagon swiveled and lolled from side to side as if its wheels could barely hold it. The harnessed orcs who bore it turned, dragging the wagon to one side as Gâshronk, the lead orc, bounded to the back of the escort, with a miniature escort of his own, and gave a mixture of a bow and a salute to his captain, Thrákmazh, who waved him off dutifully and turned, catching his breath as it was removed from him, and strode toward the wagon back, where the elf-containing cages sat. He easily singled out the one who’d threatened him who was conveniently awakened now, as the others were not. He had not, before, had great opportunity to overview the captive elf and now, as he and his kindred were taken from the army’s camp, he saw the elf truly for the first time. As he headed around to the cages, the elf took notice of his presence, but barely so. His face was that of rock and stone, immobile, it did not shift in fear, surprise, or rage. Thrakmazh, though, ignored this.

“I wished to thank you, elf,” he said, a grim smile of evil satisfaction on his twisted, one-eyed face, “for your sword.” As if to illustrate some unsaid fact, he swung the blade rather majestically through the air, ignoring the ironic beam of light the reflected off it from the hanging sun above and found its way to his squinting eye. He looked back, twirling the weapon in a mocking fashion, and feigned a look of philosophical thought. “I wonder now, how many orcs have been slain by it?” The elf did not fully return his grinning gaze, but replied calmly all the same. “More than you could count, orc, and it shall yet slay one more.”

Again, an unheard of anger arose in Thrákmazh, a madness he did not understand. How was it that the threats, useless and worthless, of this one elf, had so incensed him, angered him so. Roaring furiously, he smashed the hilt and blade of the tapered, gleaming weapon of ivory white against the cold gray bars of the elf’s cage, rattling it, but, too much like the other elf slain recently, he did not flinch. Thrákmazh, passionate and enraged in his cause, continued. “Many threats have been made to me by your kind, but all cut down before they are fulfilled. You may be the only wretched elf ever to make such a promise and escape my blade. Yes, you will die in more horrible a way than ever I could conceive, but I still would rather see you slain now. Thank whatever you hold dear that it was not I who was given the task of ending your too-long life.”

As before, the elf said nothing, but remained, courting death, unable to defend himself in any way. Thrákmazh was beyond outrage, but calmed himself as best he could and, taking a deep, exaggerated breath, took a step back from the wagon. He looked back, his one eye hidden by a dense shadow permeating the air above his head like a following cloud, crouched at his heels and waiting for summons. He glared, but soon relaxed his gaze and gait, beginning to pace before the elf’s prison. “Who was the lad,” he said after a great pause, “the one I killed; your son, brother, student, cousin? I would not have expected such oaths from an elf who had no good reason for wanting my death. Many things, elf and man and orc, want my death. But Thrákmazh the Mighty still lives, and stands before you.” He turned now, stopping his movement, looking to the silent, emotionless being, swinging the elf’s blade again with an overly elegant flourish. “No creature who wished for life has ever sworn to slay me, for it is only a wish for death, foolishness and idiocy. I have killed more living things that any man would bother to count, but I remember every face, so nothing has ever eluded the arc of my sword. Every single face still lies in me, retained by the duties of memory, and now the face of that young elf dwells there too. Think of it, elf; whether or not you are dead before the night is out, you will still have escaped me, and that is a great task.”

The elf gave no visible reaction, but spoke quietly. “You have not yet escaped me, spawn of darkness.”

“What, no gratitude?” Thrákmazh’s voice was that of anger, but he gracelessly mixed that with cruel sarcasm, “No grace and polite conversation? I suppose that what I’ve heard of elves is all a lie. You just seem more civil, more advanced in the ways of war and life, but you are not if you could not save yourselves or do better than petty oaths and insults.” No movement, no sound from the elf, none at all, to Thrákmazh’s further displeasure. How he wished to ram his own sword through those obstructing bars and skewer the fool where he lay, but duty would not let him. Grumbling, he turned away. “But, alas, I cannot continue this conversation. I have many things to do here, many things, and none, thankfully, involve you. So, go your merry way, or not-so-merry, as it is, and enjoy the hospitality of Dol Guldur. Again, I thank you for your sword. Surely many have fallen beneath it, but it will serve me just as aptly as it has served you.” He waved off Gâshronk, signaling that he should continue. Painfully slowly, the wagon began to bounce along the stony earth as Thrákmazh stood, brooding quietly, upon the road.

Soon enough, the wagon had been ferried almost out of sight, about to disappear into the distance. His back turned to it, Thrákmazh’s one eye sought solace in the pure white of the Elvish blade, but it stung him, and his hand burnt as he held it, but he could not let it go. Some lurking feeling, latched onto him, clung to the majestic blade, but in the niches of his small brain, a voice screamed at him to release it, plunge it into the earth and leave it, but he could not. He breathed harder, looking down on it and tracing its subtle edge. The elf who’d lived to swear revenge was somewhere in the blade he held…Thrákmazh was, as never he had been before, unsettled. This elf would not die at Dol Guldur, no indeed. It didn’t make sense to the orc, but, as the symbols blazoned into his rusty blade, the knowledge was imprinted upon his mind. Trying to salvage his own bewilderment, he spun, looking after the wagon, and held up the blade, yelling towards it gruffly.

“Farewell, O elf without a name, and may your death be slow and painful.”

This brought him no satisfaction as the wagon disappeared from view. Disturbed deeply, pained, and with a palm burning with searing pain, Thrakmazh turned and hurried back towards the camp, trying to leave the prisoners, the elves, and his nameless foe behind, praying never to see any of them as long as he lived…which was something that the uruk captain, Thrákmazh the Mighty, One-Eye, Captain of Dol Guldur and the orcs of Mirkwood, had never even considered thinking.

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Firefoot's post

Thorvel blinked in surprise at Calenvása’s answer. He didn’t know? Thorvel tried to puzzle that out. Surely there had to have been some reason, though the words sounded honest enough. The Elves had been cruelly thrown into the wagon. The Orcs had been preparing to move. And yet they had still waited for the Captain to give the command, but he hadn’t. The question was why. Targil looked equally confused. Thorvel didn’t say anything; the important thing was that they were moving now, and further argument was one thing they did not need. Unfortunately, they had been unable to get a head start on the Orcs, which meant that they would have to move through the forest for a longer time, impeding on their swiftness and silence.

Thorvel paid careful attention to the ground beneath his feet, in order not to snap a twig or crackle a leaf. Either mistake could be fatal so close to the small band of Orcs, even though he doubted they would hear such a small sound. They had not gone far when a shout from a harsh Orkish voice was clearly heard over all the other sounds: “Farewell, O elf without a name, and may your death be slow and painful.” Thorvel smiled grimly. It seemed that one of the Elves at least had put up some kind of fight to elicit such a comment.

Slowly the Elves gained ground, until they had moved almost beyond sight of the Orcs. Thorvel walked moved more freely then, and ventured to speak, though softly. For once, they were all close enough for each of the Elves to hear him.

“How far do we go then, before we stop to lay plans and prepare to attack the Orcs? I daresay they shan’t get very much farther before they must stop for the night.”

Calenvása matched his quiet tone, glancing back at the Orcs to judge their speed and location. “They aren’t moving very quickly. I suppose we will need to start looking for likely locations when we get to that point, based on how far the Orcs have moved by sunset.”

Thorvel pressed further, not satisfied with the vague answer. “Then do you have any plans for an ambush? Or do we have yet to work those out?” The Captain looked over at him. “We will have to see how the Orc camp is laid out first, and decide exactly what to do then.” Thorvel grunted. It seemed he wasn’t going to get much information out of Calenvása right now. The Captain seemed to be thinking, and Thorvel figured that Calenvása would talk when he was ready, and not before. Remembering the Captain’s early admittance that he hadn’t known why they didn’t move, Thorvel supposed that it was possible that Calenvása didn’t have any clear plans yet. As long as you come up with something before tonight...

[piosenniel]

Arry's post

By order of Captain Gâshronk, the Elves had been kept bound hand and foot and thrown into the wagon like so much cordwood. Rough hands hauled the prostrate Elves up to the level of the wagon bed and rough hands pulled them feet first onto it. They were left face up, the two males on either side of the female, their feet firmly against the board that cordoned off the small area for food supplies.

Gâshronk took the lead, avoiding the dust stirred up as the wheels of the wagon rolled along at a steady pace. He had ten Orcs marching in a semi-precision square behind him, and he turned often to keep his one eye on them. Further behind, came the slower moving wagon pulled by six Orcs, their chests banded with makeshift harnesses, as four others pushed at the back, their leg muscles working hard to keep the momentum going.

‘I suppose he hasn’t considered the possibility that there is no one guarding our rear, here,’ sneered Snikdul as he gripped the back of the wagon bed in his large hairy hands and heaved it forward with each step. The Orc to his left snickered. ‘He only cares if his rear is guarded from what I can see.’

Gromwakh said nothing as the others grumbled along. He had already considered the fact that those Elves that had been lurking about the camp earlier might well have noticed that some of their own had been captured. And may even now be planning some sort of rescue. He twitched the skin between his shoulder blades, already imagining the searing slice of one of their arrowheads as it penetrated his hide and sought to cleave through muscle and bone. This little scene that played out in his thoughts, though, might not be one to happen, he realized; it might only be the product of a frightened mind run amok.

The very bad thing that was going to happen, he had reasoned out, was that should they survive this little mission - drop the prisoners at Dol Guldur, they then would be sent straight back to the coming battle, and be in the front ranks of those destined to make the first assault on the Elves of the Golden Wood. And against their Lady. A witch, she was, or so he’d heard. With a power to match what had been thrown against her up to now. Gromwakh felt himself break out in a cold sweat as he thought about her. A spell-using witch as well as an Elf! The notion of facing her made him weak in the knees, and he stumbled. Snikdul reached out with one arm to steady his companion, a puzzled look on his face.

‘What’s wrong! You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Snikdul said, hauling Gromwakh back up to his place at the back of the wagon.

‘Ghosts it was,’ snorted Gromwakh grimly. ‘Ours!’ He shook his head at what seemed an impossible dilemma. ‘We’ve got to stack the odds in our favor a bit,’ he muttered, considering what few if any options were available to him and his little band.

One of the Elves stirred as the wagon hit a particularly stony patch and jostled them thoroughly. Unthinking, Snikdul shoved a wadded up piece of old blanket under the roused Elf’s head to cushion it. His action was met with a look of surprise from the prisoner, as the Elf turned his head to get a look at his unlikely benefactor. Snikdul looked over at Gromwakh and shrugged his shoulders.

With an eye to opportunity, Gromwakh tapped the dark-haired Elf on his shoulder. The grey-eyed gaze of the prisoner came slowly round to take him in. Grom looked about, then leaned forward and spoke in a voice unlikely to be heard above the creak of the wheels on the stony road.

‘You help us?’ he asked with his limited command of common speech, one finger tapping on his chest. ‘We help you,’ he went on, his finger now pointing at the Elf’s face . . .

Gromwakh’s face lit up in an Orcish smile as he remembered one of the recent finds from the Elves’ capture. He pulled the silvered Elf draught flask from the deep pocket in his breeches, holding it up where the Elf could just see it.

‘Dusty, dusty . . . yes? Want drink?’

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The cords that bound his wrists had been woven by orcs, and the malice of their makers had gone into them, burning Ambarturion’s wrists. The cart jolted and tossed them about as they ground toward the evil tower, and Ambarturion wished once more that he could give way to the dreams that crowded about his memory. But with every turn of the cart’s wheels he could feel the distant power of the Enemy growing closer. The Eye had not yet seen the prize that its distant claws had brought it, but it soon would – and when it perceived the value and might that had escaped the careless and witless eyes of the orcs, that Eye would send its most dreadful servants to claim him…

It occurred to Ambarturion that perhaps in its own way, the urûk had been able to recognise the distant reflection of the light of the Valar that shone from the eyes of the Elf. Although Ambarturion had never beheld those who dwelt in the West with his own eyes, he had dwelt for many centuries with the Lady Galadriel, from whom there came always and forever the shine of the Two Trees in their days of glory, when there was no fear in the dark. The thought of the danger that was approaching her drove him into a frenzy of apprehension, and time and again he felt the despair that would conquer him well up within like a great black wave and only the greatest effort would keep it at bay.

One-eye’s parting words came back to him: may your death be slow and painful. Indeed it would, more painful than even the orc could imagine, but it would be welcome if it came before he were broken by the Eye – reduced to a gibbering and terrified shell, whispering all of its secrets into the black ear in desperation for its own release. The torments they had endured to this point, while terrible, were as nothing when compared to what awaited them before the Dark Throne. Ambarturion tasted once more the foul bitterness of the memories that Coromswyth had tried to hide from him when she had sent him her message of hope. The orc’s harsh hands and grasping mouth were upon him as clearly as they had been upon her, so fresh was her own revulsion. He could not quite believe that she maintained hope of their release after what she had learned of the ways of the orc in that brief time. Ambarturion had not seen the eyes, but he had felt the presence of their woodland kin in the earth and in the air. Hope it gave him, but not of deliverance, for their kin were too few against these orcs, and he could sense even at this distance that they were a disunited band of young and inexperienced scouts. His hope was thus guarded and constrained – he hoped for a distraction, for something that would keep the orcs’ attention from the wagon for but a few moments.

The ropes that bound him no longer cut into his flesh, for he had been straining against them with all the might of his many centuries’ growth. It had taken most of his strength, leaving him weakened and drained, but he had managed to loosen them to the point where he could snap them at a thought. But he dared not do so now, for they were surrounded and unarmed. Were he to free himself he could, perhaps, escape on his own, but that would be to leave Coromswyth and Megilaes to reap the vengeance of their captors. Better to wait and see what the Elves of Mirkwood could manage.

He felt of a sudden the hot breath of an orc upon his face and he looked up into two beady, yellow eyes. They were the eyes of a snivelling, cowardly creature, the likes of which he had slain in the hundreds. These eyes, however, were filled with a cunning not usual to the race. The orc produced the small flask of miruvor and held it above his face, taunting him. So unexpected was what he said next, that it took Ambarturion a moment to accept the truth of his ears. You help us. We help you. Was this orc actually proposing to bargain with him? For a moment, however fleeting, Ambarturion considered breaking his bonds and slaying the beast with his bare hands. Instead, however, he said, “How will you help us, orc? Will you slay your companions, set us free and convey us with safety to our own land? Why not promise as well to lead your folk to reject your Lord and join the Light for the safety of Middle-Earth and your own redemption thereby?” He laughed mirthlessly and spat with distaste. “Take your lies and your petty taunts to one who will be moved by them, orc!”

Instead of hitting him or spitting upon him or slinking away in defeat, the orc looked about him with what appeared to be stealthy cunning. He looked back at the captive Elf and peeled his lips back from yellowed and sharpened teeth. “Elf is stupid. Does not see how we help each other. I not fight for Elves. But I not want to die. We attack Elf-Witch’s forest then we die. Elves kill us. But not if we save you, yes? Maybe, we let you go, then you tell Elves in Forest to let us go.”

Ambarturion could not believe his words. He did not for a moment believe that the orc was in earnest; this could only be part of some elaborately cruel prank that he felt in his lowness the very height of mirth. But Ambarturion saw a way to perhaps convert his small hope into something more. “Cut my bonds,” he said, knowing full well what the response would be.

“No!” the orc said. “Not now. Maybe later.”

“I will not do anything for you until you have proven yourself in earnest. If you will not cut my bonds, cut the bonds of my young companion. He is unconscious and presents no threat to you. But his bonds, and give him the drink in that flask, and perhaps I will tell my kin not to slay you.” He watched as the creature turned this over in his small mind, and while Ambarturion was careful not to let his eyes rest upon the orc’s blade, he knew it was there. The instant the orc drew it and moved into the wagon to cut Megilaes’ bonds, that was the moment in which Ambarturion would snap his bonds.

Outnumbered and unarmed he did not stand a chance. Outnumbered and armed, on the other hand, even with an orc’s blade, was another story altogether…

[Arry]

‘I will not do anything for you until you have proven yourself in earnest,' Ambarturion hissed. 'If you will not cut my bonds, cut the bonds of my young companion. He is unconscious and presents no threat to you. Cut his bonds, and give him the drink in that flask, and perhaps I will tell my kin not to slay you.’ The words were barely out of the Elf’s mouth, when the loud insistent bark of command cut off Gromwakh’s response.

Gâshronk had come back to inspect his troops. ‘What’s going on back here?’ he demanded stepping near the back of the wagon. ‘You maggots are slowing down the wagon. You need to put your backs into it!’ He shoved Gromwakh and his three companions away from the back of the wagon, replacing them with four of the Orcs who’d been marching up front. Gâshronk gave a satisfied look at his new arrangement and was about to turn away when something shiny caught his eye. ‘What’s this?’ he snarled, turning on Snikdul who stood nearest him. ‘Thinking to keep this for yourselves, were you? Mountain scum like you have no need of such fancy things.’ He snatched up the flask and shoved it deep into the pocket of his breeches. Handsome present for the Captain when we get back . . . he thought to himself.

The grey eyes of one of the Elves unnerved the Uruk as he hovered near the back of the wagon, wondering if there were any other treasure about the prisoners that might be had. Gâshronk motioned the other six Orcs from the front to him, ordering them to get in the wagon and turn the Elves onto their stomachs, faces down; he’d had enough of their foul stares, he said. In the course of rolling the bigger male over, it was discovered his bonds were loose. Forced down with the tips of sharp blades to his neck and those of his companions, the Elf’s hands were rebound tightly with new, braided leather cord behind his back; and the rope securing his ankles was adjusted tightly also. Other rough hands saw to the tightening of the other Elves’ bonds.

The wagon started forward again. Gromwakh and Snikdul found themselves marching in front now, just behind Gâshronk, who’d resumed his place at the head of the raggedy column. The Captain’s broken, yellowed nails tapped against the flask in his pocket in an oddly syncopated rhythm.

Snikdul sidled close to Gromwakh and nudged him on his arm. Grom’s face was an Orcish mixture of resolve and resignation. ‘You going to try to talk with the Elf again?’ Snik whispered. Gromwakh pursed his lips and shook his head, recalling the self-calculating look he’d seen on the Elf’s face as he’d considered Gromwakh’s offer.

. . . perhaps I will tell my kin not to slay you . . . His sneering arrogance had struck a chord in the Orc’s thoughts, reminding Gromwakh of his other “betters” – the Southrons, the Uruks, and all the infernal Captains that went with them.

‘Best we look after ourselves, Snik,’ he answered quietly. ‘He’s naught but some Uruk in fancier clothes . . .’

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Ehan strayed, delaying his order from Koran to go pay a nice visit to Herding. Instead, Ehan looked on curiously as his Captain watched the Elves get carted away by a band of Orcs. Ehan had noticed his Captain acting differently since they had captured the elves, but the young Southron could not quite figure out what had changed. Koran watched the cart rumble off, turning back when Ehan called his name. He turned around and away from his spot wordlessly, walking with Ehan toward Herding's tent. Neither spoke for a while, and Ehan used the time to think about the Elves.

"Sir," Ehan began at one point during the trip to the other Captain's tent. "You like the female Elf?" The younger man used it more as a statement than a question. But he was not finished, either. "You spoke to her...what did you see in her eyes?"

Ehan watched Koran's face as his own voice trailed off. He had spoken softly, not wanting to anger his Captain or cross any invisible lines that he had not been able to see. Still, Ehan could see the indignation that had come to line Koran's face sometime during his speech. Soon, though, Ehan grew tired of waiting for an answer from his Captain, and decided to break the unbearable silence.

"Oh, but a right state we have gotten ourselves into with this capture. It is just like the old stories, with heroes and fighting, now with captives, and tension and arguments..." Ehan's voice trailed off once more, the silence too unbearable for him but the sound of his own voice awkward. "Well, the only thing that is missing is betrayal. Herding seems right for the part, don't you think?"

Ehan finished off with a smile as the two Southrons approached the flap of Herding's tent.

[Orofaniel]

The silence in Herding's tent was suddenly interrupted by the two Haradrims that entered it; Captain Koran and his soldier, Ehan. The look on their faces wasn't exactly what Herding would call pleasant. Sweat was pouring down from their foreheads, but slightly swept away by their hands.

As they spotted Herding, sitting in his chair, with a faint face expression, they stood still for a moment. Herding noticed that and got up. "Sit," he said, pointing at two other chairs as he once again seated in his own. Koran and Ehan looked at each other, seeming a bit surprised, but after a moment they too sat down. "Anything to drink?" Herding said, holding a bottle in front of them. Koran looked at him suspiciously. "It isn't poisonous," Herding said, with lack of interest. Koran looked very much confused as he turned Herding's offer down. Ehan of course, followed his Captain. Herding thought it was reasonable enough and took a sip of his own glass. None of the two Hararims had spoken a single word so far. Herding figured they were both so astonished and confused by his behaviour.

"Now, ” Herding started. ”I hope you have a report for me, Cenbryt,” Herding continued. Koran nodded and folded his arms. “Everything seems to be ready. If I’m right some of the wagons have already started to move actually,” Koran said, sounding a bit pleased about his achievement. Herding figured that this might be true, but maybe he was hiding something as well. However, he decided not to let Koran annoy him, for better or worse. After all, Herding had to gain his trust, hadn’t he? Some way or the other, even though their past had been well known for hash words and nasty arguments, he had to treat Koran carefully. Why? The answer was simple; Herding had to regain his trust, so that Koran wouldn’t betray him with all his anger just focused on him, Herding, alone. Herding knew of course, that it was quite impossible, but at least there was no point in making their hostile behaviour worse towards each other. Even though the outside atmosphere was changing didn't mean that Herding felt the same way on the inside; because Herding still couldn’t look at Koran without feeling angry, annoyed and a great deal of despise.

“The elves made no scene?” Herding then said. “They didn’t fight you at all? None of you?” He continued, trying not to sound too surprised as Koran shook his head. “There is always some…but none of importance. They’re well tied up in the wagons by now I suspect,” Koran stated.

“Very well then,” Herding said, straightening his back in the chair. He frowned, thinking about what he should say next. “I expect the main army to start moving too soon,” Herding then said. “We need to get closer to Lorien as soon as possible,” he continued.

“If all is settled….“ Koran then interrupted. “You’ll have to excuse us. Business to attend that cannot wait, I’m afraid,” he said ever so politely. Herding looked at him, narrowing his eyebrows as he figured that this too was a lie. His eyes darted towards Ehan who was already up from his chair. “Of course, Captain Cenbryt,” Herding said waving them off. “Hope you have a pleasnt evening,” Ehan then muttered, looking at Herding’s bottle of wine. Herding noticed this, and looked at it himself, before placing it on the table in front of him. The two Haradrims bowed and went out from the tent.

[Kransha]

The elf was everywhere, those eyes, those unmoving, unflinching, eyes that pierced, peering readily into the dark, marred soul of Thrakmazh the Mighty. His shadowy mind was infected by that viral strand of light, snaking through his veins. He could not understand, could not fathom why it had affected him like this. In his right hand he held the tapered Elvish weapon, clasped tightly to him now. The metal, finely crafted and as cold as northern ice, was as searing hot to him as the fires of Orodruin. It burnt his flesh, charring the skin from his bones, but no visible wound or physical pain was there. Instead, his head throbbed painfully, as the beating of war drums pounded upon steadily, and his hand, the limb that held the undesired blade, ached without end. He stormed hurriedly into the orcish camp, his pace continuing to increase, his head turned down and eye affixed on the sword that galled him so.

He could not exterminate the visage the plagued him like sickness. He’d killed so many, so many of all kinds. In his rage, he’d killed orcs, he’d killed Elves of the dark and light forests, men of the north, men of the east, so many creatures had fallen, and he’d dismissed their fate as device to further his own career. It was his destiny, his power, that was important here, not the death of others. He had to be victor, regardless of others’ fates. But it burnt him so, the blade in his hand, burnt his hand and his mind and, as he dashed through the camp, with orcish eyes now curiously following him, he suddenly slipped and wobbled, crumbling onto his knees, and the blade of the Elf clattered onto the hard ground. He grasped his sword-hand suddenly and roared murderously to the earth, causing all surrounding orcs to turn and dumbly take notice of their captain’s unknown plight.

His troops must have thought him insane, utterly devoid of sense, as he knelt on the earth, clasping his uninjured hand as if it had been poisoned by the vilest venom. They cocked their heads and brows at him stupidly, watching their captain in a state between pity, confusion, and disgust. They moved back cautiously from him, inching away as Thrakmazh continued to breathe his raspy breaths and pant, a well of incendiary flame having taken up residence where his eye had been a moment before. Some substantial energy wished now to burst from beneath his stony flesh and pour out onto the ground, take root therein, and draw all life from everything within the vicinity. He roared and snarled, growled and grunted in the fashion of a troll, not making coherent sounds but simply producing gratuitous noise that deeply injured all hearing, functioning ears with the great volume. The orc, the wiry fingers of one blackened hand curled and tightened around the now-white flesh of the other, pushed himself to his feet, his chest heaving wildly and cyclones ablaze and whirling in his eye.

“Cursed be the elves!” He cried, his booming voice great and maddened by dark possession, “Cursed be Elves and men and trees and light!” In truth, his men may have agreed, but were, in fact, severely intimidated by this crazed endeavor of his, roaring like a raging dragon, Thrakmazh soared downward and upward again, his fingers lacing around the hilt of the foul weapon of light. He pulled it up, throwing his form up onto two feet, and sped forward, driving the blade forward at the waiting air and whatever was unlucky enough to be in it.

A second later, an anonymous orc, gurgling and twitching slightly, crumpled into a bleeding heap on the ground with a gaping hole in his upper chest, already reddened by dark blood the spilled out and off the wound. He writhed spasmodically for a moment more before stiffening and going still. Thrakmazh looked down, panting still, at the unfortunate orc who he’d just slain. He looked up, a gaze filled with blood-lust and insanity on his grotesque face. The other orcs did not cringe, though. They looked bewildered, angered, and focused on Thrakmazh, stepping back again to distance themselves from him. No doubt they wondered what bizarre inclination had cause Thrakmazh to kill one of his own kind without provocation, but Thrakmazh knew. In his immense and irrational paranoia, Thrakmazh knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that this orc, like so many others, was false and traitorous. He did not know how he knew this, but he knew all the same. In reality, unattached from Thrakmazh’s muddled brain, the orc had not been false or traitorous, but he was dead now, and Thrakmazh One-Eye, as his men well knew, never made mistakes.

He had been right all along, and now he understood. The elf, the nameless being, would not die at Dol Guldur, for something, no matter how trivial or minute, would falter and allow his escape. But, that was why he had to continue on his path. The wicked, traitorous men must be slain, the wretched orcs who would abandon him must be slain, and soon. He would root out all those who could not serve the Dark Lord and he, not them, would gain favor in his eye. First, though, he must sew the seeds of dissent. The orcs could never be trusted, even his own kind could not, but the men would be traitorous. Herding, Herding could do it. The fool was already deep enough in his own mire of hate. That was it! Help Herding kill Cenbryt, or turn all against him. That man was outnumbered, and would fall with ease. If Herding, assisted and encouraged by Thrakmazh, slew or defeated Cenbryt, he would be weakened and leave opportunity for Thrakmazh to show his caliber. Then, the men too would follow him, and orcs and men would all be loyal. He would overthrow the Golden Wood, he would overthrow the woods of the north, he would hurl down the power of the elves, alone as leader unquestioned, and that filthy elf scum would rot in waiting, hoping in vain to slay him while Thrakmazh slew many with his own blade.

The irony of the fact was lost on Thrakmazh as he turned, his eye half-closed, and stepped over the fallen orcish body, not looking at his dismayed soldiers. He stalked off slowly, but readily towards the other side of the army’s camp, past the last orc abodes, toward the tent of Captain Herding where he’d been so often before. If Herding was to be an adequate accomplice in this scheme, there had to be at least the illusion of trust. He would persuade Herding of the benefits of Cenbryt’s death, and enlist his aid with ease. Even now he saw the tent, larger than most others, swaying gently in the mild breeze, before him. But, he also saw two figures, two recognizable, familiar figures, entering the tent. At once he knew one to be Cenbryt and the other his devout follower. A malignant grin forming on his lips, he slowed his pace and neared the tent, stopping as the two entered, and waited, turning his ear to the tent’s walls to hear their discourse.

He only caught a few words. By the time he’d aligned himself with the tent and snuck near enough to it to hear the noises from within, the conversation was already almost over. He picked up the word “elves” with tremulously quivering ears, and then “settled” and a number of other heavily accentuated syllables, but naught else. From the vague sound of Herding’s voice, though, Thrakmazh detected just as much tense dislike as before, but a more graduated amount of the same in Cenbryt. Suddenly, a new idea formed in his mind, an idea that drew on the unexplainable paranoia that he himself was suffering from. Neither Haradrim like the other, this was certain. Herding would be ready to battle Cenbryt, but the job would be made easier still if both captains put their all into the rivalry. Thrákmazh, though not trusted, could still do what he could to turn them against each other. Even if Cenbryt did not trust Thrákmazh as far as he could throw him, he would not be so foolish as to ignore dire warning. He would tell Cenbryt of an imaginary plan, Herding’s plan to overthrow him on the eve of battle and turn his own men against him. He would persist, and proclaim that he distrusted Herding as much as Cenbryt. A perfect lie, indeed.

Grinning undetectably, Thrakmazh began to edge away from the tent as Koran and Ehan exited. They did not take immediate notice but, soon enough, Thrakmazh had slithered alongside them. Koran, looking almost comically bitter, turned slowly to him. “You.” He said darkly, almost snapping at the orc who stood, hunched over, at his side. “What do you want?” Thrakmazh’s smile widened pleasantly as he spoke in response, feigning concern. “Why so hostile, Cenbryt? Has something happened to make your mood so sour?” Koran simply looked away, though his follower, Ehan, glared at Thrakmazh over his captain’s shoulder.

At last, heaving a small sigh, Koran replied quietly. “No, nothing.”

The uruk nodded studiously. “Good…for I fear what I have to say will.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Good...for I fear what I have to say will."

That wouldn't surprise me... The orc was evidently trying to hide any pleasure at what he was about to say though, and that made Koran suspicious. Koran had had little to do with the one eyed orc thus far, but from the short times in which they had been in the same tent, the Southron had felt the other's disgust. That wasn't unusual of course, but it amused Koran in a black way - usually it was the other way around.

But despite himself, the Southron captain was curious - not that he would let the orc know straight out. "I think anything from you may have that effect, Captain," he replied, every inch of his tone impecably courteous. If the orc understood the insult, he didn't let on - Koran wasn't sure a slight widening of his perpetual sneer counted as recognition. Every second that he was near the orc, all Koran could feel was is growing disgust at the orc's being. How is it that this creature and the female elf could have been of the same descent...the same creation...

"Captain, I have some things to attend to, if you will excuse me..." Koran moved to go past the orc, but Thrakmazh blocked his way with an arm. The Southron stepped back, hand moving unseen to be close to the dagger in the back of his belt, and made eye contact with the other, his eyebrows raised. "Captain?" he said curtly.

Thrakmazh paused dramatically, then whispered hashly. "It's about Herding..."

Koran didn't respond to the bait, but something in his expression must have changed, for the orc's leer grew slightly and he leant forward a little towards Koran slightly so that the Southron could feel his breath, the stench so heavy that it seemed almost tangible, assaulting Koran with it's foulness. "It's about Herding's...real intentions."

"What do you mean, orc?" Koran asked scathingly.

Thrakmazh hesitated, then continued. "You know the captain doesn't want you to succeed in this mission. He thinks you too young, too inexperienced, too foolish...vulnerable." The orc relished the word before continuing, his voice low and understated. "He told you as much, you know what I am saying is true. But...well, more than that. In his arrogance, he thinks he is sure of success when it comes down to the battle against the elves - but what if he could win a double glory? Yes, Cenbryt - what if he could have your glory as well?"

"And how exactly would be do that?" Though the question's tone was still mocking, Koran cursed himself for asking - to let on he had any interest in what the orc was saying was exactly what he had meant to be avoiding.

"Ah...Herding is older, and has fought with these men before - he's much more experienced than you, Cenbryt," Thrakmazh added nastily, including a little dig of his own against Koran in the proceedings. "They trust him, Cenbryt - they would follow him over you. Haven't you thought the same thing yourself? On the eve of the battle, he will give the signal - and overthrow you."

"Ridiculous, orc." Koran pushed past Thrakmazh roughly, actually making the orc stagger as he walked away through the trees to his tent.

"Ridiculous? I don't think so, Cenbryt!" Thrakmazh called after him, his voice now angry as he lurched to be even with Koran. Grabbing the front of the young captain's shirt, he slammed him against the nearest tree forcefully, pinning his arms. Koran, though winded, acted almost through reflex, his knee jerking up. He wasn't even sure of whether it would work for orcs, but it had some sort of effect, for Thrakmazh let go and staggered a few steps backwards. Koran's dagger was out in an instant, levelled towards the orc. "Never make the mistake of threatening one of the Cenbryt's, orc," he hissed dangerously, his eyes narrowed to slits.

"Threaten you?" Thrakmazh snorted and gave what might pass as a laugh, holding one hand to his chest as he watched Koran through one beady eye. "What does it matter to me what clan you're from, boy? When Lorien falls, my warriors can finally reap the blood of the filthy elves. Men? Why, I distrust Herding as much as I distrust you!"

Koran must have hesitated, even simply for a split second, before he sheathed his dagger and turned away. "Come, Ehan," he snapped, not awarding the orc another glance - avoiding him with his eyes as he walked away.

But something, some part of what the orc had said, had insinuated itself with him, burying itself naggingly inside his mind, appealing to the paranoia that raged inside him. But Thrakmazh knew of this, surely - all of them suffered from it, any leader in the black troops. No honour among thieves, however the saying might go. And one would not try to overthrow the other - Herding knew how much this victory meant! And he knew how foolish it would be to try to stop it for some petty dislike of his own - fear, if nothing else, would stop him conspiring.

...but hadn't the orc spoken the truth? The captain disliked him, but surely he hadn't made it that clear to just anyone - what if what the orc was saying was true?

Ridiculous.

...but all the things he had said...that Herding thought him too weak, too inexperienced, basically too young, that he would let them all down, not knowing how to lead them properly-

The orc could have guessed that himself. Probably thinks that himself.

But what if he isn't?!

And so on, the battle raged inside Koran's mind until he shook his head angrily, trying to clear it of the paranoia that grew, grown and tended from the years under the watchful vultures that were his cousins and now newly watered by Thrakmazh's words, like a maggot gnawing away at Koran's confidence. And all the time, two sets of eyes watched him: one set outward, the one good eye and one closed eye of the orc, a growing smile on his leering features from where he crouched unmoving, watching the seeds of his dissent grow in the young southron's mind; and the second in Koran's head, a pair of fair grey eyes, ageless and ancient all at once, set with knowledge and the light of the elves...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The failure of his plan galled Ambarturion only in that he would not be able to slay the orcs who had dared try to parley with him, as though any of their ilk could be trusted beyond the sharp point of a dagger’s tip. He lay with his face to the wooden floor of the cart and once more began straining against his bonds. This time, however, they had bound him with the tough hide of some foul beast, and he was tired from his previous efforts. It would take time…

His mind went back to the image of the eyes that Coromswyth had sent him, and for a wild moment hope unbidden and unfounded came to his heart. The Elves who tracked them were too few and too inexperienced. That they had been seen at all, even by another Elf, bespoke great carelessness. Ambarturion closed his eyes and felt outward through the land, seeking for their presence. For a long time he felt nothing, but then there they were – disunited and bickering, they travelled ahead of the party of orcs, looking for a place to waylay the caravan. It had been many years since Ambarturion had last had dealings with the Elves of Mirkwood. Not since he had completed the training of Thranduil’s son had he set foot beyond the eaves of that wood. They were, like him, Silvan Elves, but few were of such lineage as himself, and none were as ancient nor as familiar with the ways and minds of the Noldor. They were a failing race, in danger of becoming quaint and amusing.

His mind flew back to the green woods of his youth, when the Elves were full of life and hope, and even the darkness of Melkor could not dim their accomplishments of hand and mind. He heard as clearly as the first day the song of Melian, and beheld the great doors of Menegroth, crafted by the Dwarves before their corruption by the Dark Powers. Soon, he was lost amid the glowing halls of the ancient kingdom, blinded by the brightness of the torches and deaf from the ceaseless sound of music and fair voices raised in laughter. Further and further into the past he drifted, but then there arose in his mind the image of a great darkness that fell upon the land. Thingol fell, and in despair Melian fled the shell of her body and returned in mourning to the West. There were cries and screams, and a vast shape crowned with fire and torment swept toward the land…

Ambarturion awoke with a start. He heard Coromswyth’s breath beside him and he turned toward her. “Do not believe that they are capable of any good, lady,” he said. She looked at him in amazement, a surprised retort springing to her lips. “I do not mean the orcs, lady, I speak of the other – the one whom you feel saved you in his tent. Do not think that he saved you; he merely preserved you for a more terrible fate before the Eye.”

Coromswyth paused so long before speaking that Ambarturion feared that perhaps he had said too much, and that she had taken offence. “He is our enemy, I know,” she said finally, a note of quiet resignation in her voice. “But there is something different about that one, that captain. He did not relish the thought of the orc’s…depravity, and there was gentleness in his manner to me – at least, such gentleness as mortals are capable of.”

“You merely compare him to the orc, and there is no Man who will not be the better for such a comparison. If he were to keep better company it would suit him the worse.” He felt Coromswyth acknowledge the truth of what he was saying, but without the full conviction that he would have desired. “If I have the opportunity,” he said quietly, “I will not hesitate to slay him. He is sworn to the destruction of the Golden Wood, and for that he is worse than any orc, for he is not just the mindless slave of Sauron, but a willing ally.”

“You are quick to judge mortals, Ambarturion,” she replied, with some warmth. “I fear, a bit too quick – and too harsh in your judgements as well. Men are capable of more than you think.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” he replied acerbically, “for no Elf can fully understand the full extent of the triviality and selfishness of Men. I have met the highest and noblest of the race and they were but as children newly out of swaddling cloth to even the youngest Elves I have ever trained.” His mind went unbidden to Caranbaith, and as quickly as he tried to push the image of his student’s bloodied corpse form his mind, he knew that Coromsyth had seen it. He knew too that she had felt the blood-soaked rage that seethed within him about the image of the one-eyed orc who had slain the youth. Coromswyth sighed and sought to reach out to Ambarturion with her mind.

You must not allow yourself to fall into such evil thoughts. If vengeance becomes your only goal, then you will find your life an empty one – for even if you do revenge yourself upon the orc, what will you do then? Caranbaith will still be gone, and you will still bear the burden of his passing.

“At the very least,” he replied coolly, “I will be able to sleep at nights with the knowledge that the orc has been sent to the howling void that was made for him, and that I was the one who sent him there.”

“No,” a voice said weakly. Ambarturion moved his head and saw that Megilaes had finally woken up. “I will be the one to send the monster to his torment.”

[Arry]

The light from their small cooking fire had burned low. A large pot of stewed squirrel laced with bitterroot had appeared at the Captain’s table, keeping him well occupied for a good while, and then drowsing after. A small skin of wine from the larder of the main force had enhanced the effects of the heavy meal and soon the sounds of deep snoring issued forth from the reclining figure of Gâshronk.

Gromwakh and his companions withdrew some distance beneath the scrubby, twisted trees that grew in patches in this area. Their meal had been light . . . strips of some dried meat, a few of the dried tubers they had brought, and a few mouthfuls of water. There were grumblings from the little band of Orcs, soon quelled by glares from Gromwakh.

‘This place makes me uneasy . . . we’re too much out in the open for my taste. I want you alert and ready to move should something happen.’ He shivered a little in the warm night. ‘Feels like there’s eyes on us. Can’t see ‘em though.’ Snikdul nodded, recalling for them the story old Kreblug had told of scenting the other Elves in the other campsite. ‘Stands to reason,’ Gromwakh said, ‘that they’d come after their own kind, don’t it. Unlikely they missed seeing the battle, don’t you think – and us dragging the three live ones off with us.’

Gromwakh looked out from the cover of the trees and low-lying bushes to where the Captain dozed by the fire. Three of his specially chosen Orcs sat opposite him, their bellies full of his leftovers. The remaining four Orcs had been stationed round the wagon, weapons in hand, as if the prisoners might escape their bonds and jump out at them. The Elves, he noted, now lay face up, their arms bound behind them still. A few drops of water had served for their meal, nothing else save the jeers and pokes of their captors.

Late evening was moving quickly into night. And soon only the embers of the small fire glowed in the deepening dark.

[Durelin]

“Then do you have any plans for an ambush? Or do we have yet to work those out?”

Calenvása was slightly annoyed at the frustration that was clearly in Thorvel’s voice. He knew that this frustration could have been directed generally to the entire situation, but it annoyed him nonetheless. It annoyed him only because of his own irritation, of course. He did not bother to turn and look at his companions, knowing that both Targil and Thorvel looked to him, anxious for an answer to the question, their eyes demanding. The Captain did not need to see that. He did not appreciate anything being demanded of him. Finding a certain comfort in focusing on the ground before him, on his pace of breathing and that of his feet hitting the earth with a gentle softness, a certain respect shown to the Earth. When he finally answered, he found his voice was strangely cold, and distracted. He would not look at them.

“We will have to see how the orc camp is laid out first, and decide exactly what to do then.”

The only response to this was a grunt from Thorvel, and what was in this grunt, Calenvása was unable to tell. He hoped this was again simple aggravation. But the Captain was not at all sure. And so he worried in the silence that followed, that grunt the last sound heard from any of the elves. He fretted over its meaning to a greater extent than a simple grunt deserved. He was discouraged to think that this grunt might be an expression of dissatisfaction in his Captain’s words. And Calenvása needed no more discouragement. He spent his time mulling over the dispiriting thoughts, all the while avoiding thinking of what he had to. For he knew he had to reach a conclusion, at some time, and was afraid of what he might reach. And what it would take to reach any conclusion at all… There was so much to consider, so much guessing to do, so much judging and weighing. Judging left him with so much responsibility. The weight of it hung upon him as he ran and the world grew dark around him.

Knowing that it was time to stop for the night, stopping early to wait upon the orc party. At any other time, Calenvása would have chuckled at this. They would wait upon these orcs, yes. But he did not laugh, for he did not know what they would do after their waiting was over. Another thing he would have found quite hilarious. The convenience of returning trees and of various bushes as they drew nearer to Mirkwood once more was almost laughable. Coming upon a surprisingly thick, forest-like patch, Targil, Thorvel and Calenvása quickly spotted Lómarandil among the branches of the tallest tree. The silence of the air was broken by the young elf’s voice, as he spoke rather loud to be heard below. Calenvása practically winced with each word. Targil sighed heavily, while Thorvel’s mouth worked, waiting for words to come to clearly express his anger and irritation.

“I believe a rest is in order?”

The surety of his voice overstepped the border that separated confidence from arrogance, and Targil responded most fittingly with a snort. Thorvel was still preparing to speak, and though Calenvása knew that the elf’s anger should not be released at this moment and in such a way, he remained silent. As cold, harsh words emerged from Thorvel’s mouth, mirroring the tightness of his face and the burning of his eyes, Targil glanced at the Captain. Calenvása avoided his glance, and stared blankly in another direction. He heard a sigh come from the elf, but still did not turn to look at him. Thorvel barely kept his voice below a shout. Calenvása looked on, while Targil looked to him.

“I believe it best that you get down from your position, for the moment, Lómarandil.”

“And you, of course, voice the wishes of the Captain.”

“Of course…”

Calenvása shot a glance to Thorvel. The elf avoided his gaze, and it felt odd to the Captain to be in such a position. Tagil’s gaze passed from Thorvel to Calenvása. Lómarandil was of little importance. Thorvel was biting his lip, his voice had trailed off as the words were spoken on impulse, and a foolish impulse. The Captain frowned deeply, but his frown was not an angry one. It was one of sadness and resignation. What could be seen in his eyes were these feelings multiplied, for the eyes were windows to the soul. Calenvása was silent, as his soul felt that there was nothing to say. And as the darkness deepened, and the orc party escorting the prisoners was found camped nearby. Lómarandil had judged a strategic position surprisingly well. But I should have known that by Targil’s silence…he would have voiced his dissatisfaction. For some reason, Calenvása had to doubt this. But then, he doubted so many things that he thought…

Lómarandil has finally complied with what Thorvel had ‘suggested’, and they were gathered among the shelter of the trees and brush, all of them. They all sat close to each other, but Calenvása felt so far away from the other elves. And he refused to acknowledge that they looked to him, and rightly so, as their Captain. He had never thought of himself as the Captain, but for fleeting moments of some kind of triumph when Targil or Thorvel showed their approval of a decision he made. But what it took to reach these rare successes was so much; too much, his mind had decided for him. His mind was weary, and it looked for a way out. It found a disturbing comfort in avoiding what was directly before him. All three sets of eyes were upon him for some time, but the pair that pierced the most was Targil’s, for if Calenvása had the strength to look into them, he would see a certain understanding. He would not see sympathy or pity, but a grim realization and a small amount of disgust, not hatred, but simple revulsion at this behavior. And that was what Calenvása felt, coming from the right of him, the revulsion. The silence remained to be broken, but it seemed that Targil was prepared to do so. It was several moments before he brought his gaze away from his Captain, and spoke to Lómarandil and Thorvel. Calenvása was no longer there, in his mind, and the Captain felt happy about this. He also felt sick to his stomach.

“We will wait till dawn. And we will wait, once more, in a position that will allow us to, for our enemy. Our patience has served us well, thus far. Let it remain so.” Targil cast a meaningful glance at Lómarandil. He would not simply watch what the foolish one did, sitting on his anger. “We raced ahead of our enemy for the purpose of an ambush. Upon beginning their march, it is hopeful that they will be less organized, as well as less wary, with a time of rest just passed. But they will have had this rest to replenish strength, a strength that we know they have.”

“And I suppose we should take advantage of our time of rest, as well,” Lómarandil cut in. Targil met his gaze, and let the coldness and lack of interest in his eyes silence the young elf. He then continued, focusing more on Thorvel. “The prisoners are aware of our presence, cor-” he stopped, and he quickly brought his eyes from where they had passed to Calenvása. While Targil recollected himself, Thorvel finished his thought in a strangely soft voice. “And they should be aware of when we attack.”

Taking his mind away from the gloom that surrounded his ‘Captain’, he nodded. There was much yet to consider, and much that would not have time to be considered. For now, Calenvása was on his own in his thoughts. Targil thought he could imagine the torment those thoughts must bring. Out of the corner of his eye, he took a look at the silent elf, and saw a battle raging in his eyes. The elf was torn.

Calenvása noticed Targil looking at him without turning his gaze. He knew the elf could not understand what kind of torment his mind brought to him, for Targil would never understand that a mind could be such an untamed thing. The Captain had fought his feral mind for long enough, and now he decided to let it run free, and, o! he had not a care in the world, and yet every care he could.

[Firefoot]

“The prisoners are aware of our presence, cor-” Targil was saying. Thorvel’s mind worked quickly. How would they know of us? And how would Targil know this? He supposed it was possible that the other Elves had sensed their presence; their senses were much sharper than those of the Orcs. That would mean that the captives most certainly had their wits about them, and the realization brought hope to Thorvel, and that hope was strangely comforting. He finished Targil’s sentence when he showed no sign of doing so himself.

“And they should be aware of when we attack.” But how to let them know? He glanced at Calenvása, and caught him nodding. The Captain appeared to be thinking, if thinking was a strong enough word. Debating with himself. Targil was watching Calenvása, and Lómarandil was frowning, undoubtedly because of the many harsh words and pointed glares from himself and Targil. Thorvel winced. Why did I do that again? One side of him asked. Because he is a foolish young elf who is always assuming everything... Stop it! Stop it now! What makes you think you’re so much better than he is anyway? That was surprising, and rather subduing. He shut the thoughts away. He was getting quite good at that, these days. He looked to Calenvása, who Thorvel thought would be the next one to speak, but to his surprise it was Targil who took charge.

“Here is what I think we should do," said Targil. "We will set ourselves in a position that will be in the Orcs’ line of march that they should reach early tomorrow morning. Three of us will hide in a stand of trees - a fairly large one - and one will hide further away, on the other side of the Orcs’ assumed path. The three will then let themselves be known to the Orcs with a loud noise or some other such distraction. With any luck at all, the Orcs will go to investigate. This is where the lone Elf comes in. The Orcs will probably leave a scanty guard if any, and that Elf will go in to rescue the Lórien Elves.” Thorvel nodded slowly, thinking the plan over. It made a good deal of sense, but...

“It’s mighty risky. A thousand things could go wrong,” said Calenvása. He did not seem to be opposing the plan, but simply stating a point. Lómarandil took it further, however, and was clearly arguing the point. “They might not decide to investigate, or send only a scout or two to find out. Where would we be then? I do not think we will have much more chance to ambush them.”

“And yet it seems to be the more sensible than anything else we can think of,” said Thorvel thoughtfully. “In addition to distracting the Orcs, it will also let the other Elves know we about to do something. And we will be at a clear advantage in the forest for the fighting that will need to be done. We will have to take those risks.” Unconsciously he reached up to finger the green-feathered end of one of his arrows.

The next thought that occurred to him, however, was who would be the single Elf. He almost shuddered at the thought of Lómarandil going. However thankful the Lórien Elves might be to them for rescuing them, Thorvel did not think they would get off to a good start between the two groups if the arrogant young Elf went after them. He himself did not want to go; his bow had gone unused for too long. Targil appeared to be contemplating the same situation, and did not look as if he wanted to go either. Thorvel thought that Calenvása might also want to stay with the group, as he was the Captain even though Targil seemed to be taking control right now. Lómarandil appeared to be about to speak up, undoubtedly to volunteer. It would be just the sort of thing that he would volunteer to do. Thorvel wanted to avoid another debate, another division in the troop. Maybe he could make up a bit for letting go of his anger at Lómarandil - not towards Lómarandil, but to the Captain, and to himself. So he spoke up, half wishing he hadn’t and hoping the words didn’t sound to forced, for that was exactly what they were. “I will be the one go to the Lórien Elves.” Lómarandil scowled at him fiercely, but Calenvása’s look of gratitude and relief was worth it.

“Yes,” said Calenvása. “That would be good.”

“I will whistle when the Orcs are approaching my hideout,” said Thorvel. “And also the Elves are free and we are gone from the area of the wagon, like a bird and close enough that the Orcs will be unable to tell the difference.” Targil nodded.

“Our plans are ready then,” said Targil. “The night is growing late. We should find our positions, and rest in preparation for our ambush. I believe that this stand of trees will do as well as any. It is large enough to get the Orcs a good distance away from the wagon, and also provides good cover for us. The way we took to get here is the way that the Orcs will probably take in the morning. Thorvel, early tomorrow morning go find your position on the other side from this thicket. We will await your signal. We will find such rest as we may until tomorrow.” Thorvel nodded, and moved out without a word, walking quickly and silently. He soon relaxed against a tree. He was slightly surprised to be taking orders from Targil, but he accepted it, since it seemed to be what Calenvása wanted. Our plan will work. It has to.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Thorvel looked round to seeif Lomarandil had gotten to his position at the top of the tree. He didn't see him there, so he looked around the trunk, then looked right around the forest surrounding them. Lomarandil was gone, completely and utterly gone. Thorvel looked back up and down the tree, and then around him again. A small rustling of leaves caught his eye, but he saw it was nothing more than a squirrel. It was a long while before Thorvel winced as he though what this could mean, perhaps Lomarandil had keep captured, perhaps even killed...Shaking slightly he walked quietly over to Calenvasa. The older elf looked round as he approached. "Lomarandil is gone..." Thorvel whispered into his ear. Calenvasa's jaw dropped spectacularly and Thorvel could almost see the cogs in his mind grinding, trying to find the most likely solution. After a few seconds Thorvel saw the change in the captain's expression which could mean only one thing, that Calevasa had found the same conclusion as he had.

A way away, Lomarandil perched on a tree. He could see the orcs well from here, and could see them walking around the captives. His blood boiled and he slowly notched an arrow to his elaborate bow. He waited for an orc to stray into the forest, far from the camp. One did that, and came right underneath his tree. Lomarandil drew his breath quickly he flattened himself against the tree. The orc grunted and started to walk away. With the arrow still notched he let it fly with pinpoint accuracy. It penetrated the orc's skull, busting through his head and coming out of the left eye socket. The lifeless orc staggered for a moment before crashing to the ground. Luckily, not even Lomarandil heard him fall over the din of the other orcs, which meant that they couldn't possibly have heard it. Dropping lightly to the ground he extracted the arrow from the orc, leaving no trace of himself. He was about the climb the tree again when a whistling noise turned him around. He saw the arrow a fraction of a second too late, it embedded itself in his right shoulder, just below the collar bone. Coughing blood, Lomarandil sunk slowly to the ground in front of the tree, the last thing he remembered seeing was the orc that had shot him coming towards him...grabbing his legs and dragging him toward the camp. The arrow jolted violently in his shoulder as he was dragged, and Lomarandil tried not to let a cry escape him. He opened his eyes once more, and saw, in the distance, Calenvasa and Thorvel's crestfallen faces as they watched him dragged away...Lomarandil willed for them to help, but he knew they could not...he was too near the camp now...With one last gasp, he black out...

[Arry]

Just before dawn . . .

It was the foul, irksome birds who woke him - that hour just before dawn when they felt compelled to caw and warble as if the very day depended on their noise to rouse the sun. Gromwakh pulled his rough blanket up about his ears in an effort to block out the disturbance, but to no avail. Peeling open one eye with an effort he considered what might happen if all the bothersome birds were to suddenly drop dead. Would the sun not rise? Would the easeful darkness stay constant? He gave an Orcish sigh, wishing it were so.

Snikdul was already up, or perhaps he had never gone to bed. Gromwakh could see him moving about their little camp poking their companions awake. It was their duty that morning to start the cook fire and make the captain his morning gruel. Nasty stuff, thought Gromwakh, pulling out a strip of dried rat from his pocket to chew on as he lay abed. Never mind that it was a bit linty from whatever had been shoved in there previously – tasted all the better in his mind.

Gâshronk was still sleeping, a consequence of the pinch of valerian root they’d put in his stew last night. Late sleep for the Captain meant a leisurely start for the group. Gromwakh could see the night watch still guarding the prisoners in the wagon. And good thing the Elves were tied tightly he thought, since three of the four Orc guards were sitting down, slouched in the dirt, their backs against the wagon’s wheels; asleep - their weapons idle at their side. The fourth Orc was no better. He’d wandered a little ways away and was warming his hands at a small fire he’d obviously kept going through the night. His back was to the wagon; his sword leaning against a rock several feet away from him.

His breakfast finished, Gromwakh threw back the blanket and heaved himself to his feet. He scratched himself across the chest, yawning widely – his usual morning ritual. Hurried steps brought him to the nearby shallow ravine, dotted thickly with low growing bushes, to answer nature’s early morning call. Behind him he could just hear several of his companions cracking a few of the thinner branches from one of the downed trees for the needed fire . . .

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

It took most of the night and the last of his strength, but eventually Ambarturion was able to once again loosen the bonds that held his hands. There was nothing he could do about the leather binding his feet, but should an opportunity arise he could deal with those much more quickly with the use of his hands.

He lay upon his back and felt the sun rise over the horizon, and listened as the birds tried in vain to overcome the loathsome cries of the orcs. Most of those that had been set to guard himself, Megilaes and Coromswyth were asleep or inattentive, and Ambarturion considered snapping his bonds immediately, but he thought better of it. Most of the beasts that had been sent to bear them to Dol Guldur were stupid and slow, but there were some that possessed some keenness. The leader, for one, seemed more capable, and that other orc that had spoken with him was more than usually alert.

The sun climbed above the trees that lay to the east and filled the Vale with welcome light, and the orcs set about their morning meal, but nothing was offered to the prisoners. It did not matter to them, for none of them relished the thought of what orcs might give them to eat. When they were sure that none of the orcs were nearby they spoke quietly, taking counsel for the dangerous trial that lay before them. “Will they attack soon do you think?” Coromswyth asked.

“I think not,” replied Ambarturion, “for they are few in number and will want to ambush the orcs when they are on the move and scattered. We should watch for them around midday, when the Sun is at her highest and the orcs are subdued by her brightness.”

“What shall we do when they attack Master?” Ambarturion noted that his student’s voice was tinged with an iron now that it had lacked before. The death of his brother had done something irrevocable to the youth.

“We will do what we can,” he replied. “I have freed my hands, but I dare not undo my other bonds. When our kindred of the greenwood comes I will break my remaining bonds and attempt to arm myself. The orcs will undoubtedly try to slay us rather than let us be rescued. I will attempt to deny them that pleasure.”

“Ambarturion,” Coromswyth whispered, “I may be able to help you…” but she was cut of by a sudden outburst of orcish glee from all corners of the ragged camp. Rolling onto his side, Ambarturion looked out through the uneven slats of the cart and saw the orcs, waving their weapons above their heads in triumph, converging upon a small copse of trees. Through their huddled black forms he beheld them leading forth from the trees a wounded Silvan Elf. Ambarturion cursed beneath his breath.

“What is it?” asked Megilaes.

Ambarturion’s voice was as steel through long grass as he replied. “It would appear that we will not be the only Elves in need of rescuing this day.”

[Arry]

‘What’s that?’ asked Snikdul, shading his eyes with his hand. He and Gromwakh had been assigned the honor of packing up the Captain’s belongings and were now just stowing them in the small compartment beneath the wagon. There in the distance, from the perimeter of a small stand of low growing trees came the sounds of Orcs shouting their battle cries and the pounding of feet running toward the trees.

Gromwakh pulled his companion down and they sprinted in the opposite direction, throwing themselves beneath the cover of some densely packed bushes. Hearing no pursuit, they peeked out carefully from their cover. ‘Are we being attacked,’ whispered Snikdul, tugging on Gromwakh’s arm. He had his iron bar gripped firmly in his hand, his eyes wide with apprehension.’

‘Shhh!’ hissed Gromwakh. ‘Let me just creep a little closer.’ He bent low and eased forward to a better vantage point. ‘They’re dragging some one in,’ he said to Snikdul who had followed him like a shadow. ‘Is it one of us?’ croaked Snikdul, his gaze sweeping about for hidden attackers in the shadows. ‘Not unless one of us has suddenly sprouted long yellow hair,’ returned his fellow hider.

They both stood, their heads just peeking over the low bushes. A group of their fellow Orcs surrounded a single Orc who was dragging a blonde headed fellow in by his ankles. An Elf, Gromwakh said, by the looks of him. As the group neared the camp, the Captain came forward to look at the sorry prize. He poked him hard in the ribs with his boot, and when the Elf gave only a faint response, Gâshronk, rolled him over on his back and had several other Orcs hold him down.

‘He’s taking something off ‘im,’ Snikdul said, watching as the Captain’s hand reached down and came up with some shiny, yellow necklace he’d pulled from the Elf’s neck; something red on it, like a drop of shining blood, winked in the sun, before it was tucked into the pouch at the Captain’s waistband. Next, the pretty pin that held the captive’s cloak was undone and found its way into Gâshronk’s pocket. ‘Ooh, I’d like that cloak he’s wearing – looks like a nice warm one.’

Snikdul started to leave the hiding place, drawn by the promise of a possible prize for himself. Gromwakh caught his arm and hauled him back beneath the bushes. ‘If there’s one filthy Elf, there’s bound to be more.’ He looked toward the wagon where the three other captives were bound. ‘They seem to come in sets, I think. And they have those nasty bows with their biting arrows.’

He pulled two strips of dried rat from his breeches pocket and handed one of them to Snikdul. ‘Settle in for a bit . . . chew quietly . . . let’s see what else shakes out of the trees . . .’

----------

Bleeding and unconscious, the new Elf was dragged to the wagon. His hands and feet soon bound with thin, plaited rope. Three Orcs picked his limp body up from the ground and flung it unceremoiously atop the other captives . . .

[Kransha]

Thrákmazh had a good idea why he had been unable to sleep. He rarely slept, but he had actually tried throughout the length of the previous night.

He had taken, for a time, leave of his own tent, and sought the brisk but chilled breezes outside. He had taken with him, grasped in loosely clutching talons, the Elven blade. He had squatted again in the earth, breathing hard as if he’d been running, and pondered in silent meditation. For all intents and purposes, his plan was going well. Koran and Herding surely were at odds now, ready to slay each other in cold blood. When the armies united reached their goal, the unity would end. In the chaos wrought by the warring Southrons, wicked men of their kind, Thrákmazh would step in easily and rally the remaining men. If one either Cenbryt or Herding survived the possible fray, Thrákmazh could use grounds of disloyalty to slay the survivor, or at least keep him out of the way. Mutiny was still a criminal offense to the Eye, and even if the men would not allow their captain to be killed, they would not be opposed to his deposition in the name of their higher lord, the Dark Lord. All would work itself out in the end.

But, if that was so, why was Thrákmazh plagued thus? He knew why, or at least his logical side did. In his hand he held an Elven blade of Doriath, an heirloom of ancient days and a device used for light and its service alone. Thrákmazh was in the thrall of shadow, not of light, and this blade burned him still. Yet, strangely, he could not cast it aside. The last night, when the pale, icy sphere of the moon drifted gently in its customary arc, Thrákmazh had buried it contemptuously in the ground and tried to stalk back to his tent, but his legs would not carry him. He turned back, dragged by a force unseen, and rushed to the sword, both hands grasping it immediately and yanking it from the earth. He pressed it to him, panting again and harder still until his wobbling legs pushed him up. He now stood and raised the blade, is eyes tracing its narrow length and staring, mesmerized, into it. His dark pupil focused on the gleaming ivory of the sword and the watery reflection in the blade as the moon hit it, filling it with a powerful, brilliant white light.

In the blade he saw a reflection…his reflection, augmented by the withered moonlight. But it was not the reflection of himself he knew, not the orc who he’d thought himself to be. He saw one eye, and the rest of the blade held nothing but darkness, swirling shadow. The watery surface of the sword had been tainted by the horrible, nauseating color which coursed over it. It struck him blind to look upon it, and he turned away, dropping the blade again, feeling as if his stomach would turn and lurch from within him. Then, he fell again, and grabbed the sword, ignoring the reflection in the blade. He could not purge it from his hand, nor could he purge those most vile images from his skull. It burned him and held onto him, unwilling to allow its own release. He clung to it, edging back towards the tent to get away from the glimmering moonlight that shone down radiantly upon him. It was sunlight he despised, sunlight, but the whiter, calmer light from above was filling his lone eye and seemed almost as painful, despite its obvious weakness in comparison.

He had lived a long time, in the years of orcs or in those of men. He had felt some age, only in terms of experience, and had seen many conflicts, many battles. He was an orc who knew what his life was about, unlike so many others. He did not remember how or when he came to be. Perhaps in the first days of orcs and perhaps not, he did not know. He remembered fiery frays, minor skirmishes, and countless struggles between his kind and the forces that he’d learned to call ‘enemies.’ It had always been the mighty Eye he served, though a greater master had existed, a darker and more terrible one, an enemy of the Elves, or at least, had existed in his time. Early on in the time called the Second Age of the Sun, he sun that he so hated with a dank and murderous passion, after the first falling-out of his kind, but he had served his most renowned master gleefully and readily when he first began to taint the good and just lands of Middle-Earth when he came there from the island in the eastern waters, now sunken and devoured by raging oceans. In that time, when the orcs of Sauron drove the men and elves back towards the sea and north, into the darkest corners of the world, surrounded on all sides by shadow, Thrákmazh had first engaged the Elves and lost his eye there. To his later thanks, he was not present at Sauron’s fall, the battles in the south that saw the conquering of the Dark Lord and his troops, for if he had been he would not be present in this dark, decaying forest this very day. He had been north, troops newly under his command left with no option but to flee when a greater army hampered them, the army composed of both men and elves, allied for some common good, to besiege Sauron is his dark hold, cast down the peak of Barad-dûr. That Last Alliance had been too great a force for scattered, meager orcish hosts, so they fled.

After Sauron’s fall, the one-eyed captain of orcs had sought more men in the Misty Mountains, hoping their encircling shrouds that fell over him would shield him from outside eyes. There he was named a hero, titled and decorated with the trappings of a king among orcs, for no other commander in the north had lived past the downfall of Sauron. Hoping to counterattack, but dreading failure, Thrákmazh and the other mountain captains led a motley band of savage urûks to seek out some force they could defeat. They happened luckily upon an unsuspecting train of troops belonging to the victorious enemy, the next King of Men. To their amazement, victory was there’s. At the Battle of the Gladden Fields, miraculous to them and catastrophic to their foes, the enemy of Sauron who’d struck him down, fell at Gladden Fields with his kindred, and Thrákmazh brought the tale of the glorious success back to his own brethren in the mountains. Then, despite the harrowing fire of conquest, they halted their spread and the orcs of all surrounding regions let their numbers dwindle quietly as years passed in rapid succession. The next age, a colder, darker age for all, dragged on until the power of the Dark Lord was reared up again, his tainting hands gouging light and trust from the lands, darkening the light of the Elven Woodlands to make dwellings for his spawn.

That was what Thrákmazh the Mighty remembered of his days in the time before. He did not know many orcs who’d seen these things or done such things as he, such accomplishments as he’d achieved. This was what confused him; this was what drove his mind to further shadow than the blackness that enveloped it already. His thoughts swirled uncontrollably, never letting him determine which was which as they grappled together, a muddled mess of consciousness. If he’d seen so much, lived so long, why could he night hold an Elven blade in his hand? Why could he not think of a single living elf without feeling great aches and pains that stabbed at him, unmerciful and unrelenting? He still did not know, and did not wish to seek the answer. Dragging the blade in the earth and leaving an indented trail in the thick dirt, he had dropped the thing again and, with all the might his limbs possessed, he had staggered back to his tent feebly last night and fallen to the floor of it, wishing as he’d never wished before, for sleep. Then, again possessed from within and without, he thrust himself up, left his tent again, and sought the sword out, grasping it and holding it to his heart.

Now the rays of sunlight, bare and cold despite their shed warmth, crested the tree-covered horizon, peering curiously over the gnarled tips of high branches. Thrakmazh still sat where he had all night, clutching the blade, his one eye tightly closed. But, despite his closed eye, the sunlight still pierced him and he saw it through the thick lid over his watery orb of an eye. The one eye drifted open as he seemed to glide onto his two feet, sliding the Elven blade elegantly into his belt beside his orcish weapon. He looked around at the darkly colored tents, now illuminated by dull golden beams. It was time to seek the greatest prey, the greatest prize, time to do the will of Sauron.

“GET UP, WORMS,” he bellowed, his thunderous voice filling the atmosphere hovering delicately over the army’s camp, “GET UP! THERE’S ELVEN BLOOD TO BE SPILT THIS DAY!”

[Arry]

Captain Gâshronk fingered the prizes he had taken from the wounded Elf. ‘Why hide them away,’ he thought. ‘I’ll just wear them for now – put ‘em away before we get to Dol Guldur, so’s no one there’ll take them from me.’ The red stone glinted handsomely as it caught the light.

The other Orcs, especially the one who had dragged in the unfortunate Elf, drew away from the Captain and “his” prizes. ‘There’s others out there; I can feel ‘em,’ he grumbled to his fellows. He seethed with anger, looking at the Captain. By rights those Elf-things should be his! ‘Get your bows and let’s do a little hunting for prizes of our own.’ In a clattering cloud of stirred up dust, the Orcs took off for the line of trees the downed Elf had come from.

Gâshronk called out a few useless threats, to no avail – they had already run out of earshot. ‘Left me to guard the prisoners, did they?’ he growled, drawing his blade and walking toward the wagon. It appeared, though, there was not much to guard – the four Elves all seemed tightly bound and unlikely to escape, though the three they had captured first stared hard at him with their foul grey eyes. A brief chill made the hair on his arms stand up, his skin prickle. He shook it off, and moved a ways away from the wagon to sit on a rock in the sun.

Gromwakh and Snikdul, hunkered down in their little hidey-hole beneath the bushes. At one point, Snikdul nudged his companion, asking if perhaps they could go after the Elves, too. He wanted an Elf finger to put on his necklace. ‘No!’ was the quick answer Gromwakh gave him. ‘Just stay put. That one fool Elf was obviously after the prisoners we have. He got himself shot. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty more Elves out there with the same idea . . . and all of them with arrows that have our names on ‘em!’ He lowered his voice to a low whisper. ‘Remember back in camp, before we started. We got reports of Elves in the trees keeping watch on us.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘You plant your hairy behind right here in the dirt and stay undercover. We’ll sort things out . . . Elf fingers and all . . . when it’s safe . . .’

Snikdul grumbled, about to protest what Grom had said. But the sound of light steps in the camp caught the two Orcs attention and they ventured a look through the leaves.

‘See!’ hissed Gromwakh, pulling his friend back down. ‘There are more Elves! And they’ve come for their own . . .’

[Firefoot]

Thorvel crept silently towards the Orc camp. He had been waiting since dawn to move, and he felt that the time was right. During that time he had had plenty of time to think, and much of it had been about Lómarandil. At seeing the young wounded Elf be dragged away, he had felt worried, but now much of that worry had been replaced by exasperation and annoyance. What had driven him to go after the Orcs? Foolish, foolish, foolish young Elf, to go chasing after the Orcs alone like that. And arrogant too. What had he been trying to do? There would have been plenty of time for killing Orcs today, but now he was captured and there was yet one more Elf to rescue. He sighed softly. He still had no idea how he was going to greet the young Elf, but he determined that he would not yell. He would let Calenvása take care of that, or Targil, or whoever was in charge now.

When Thorvel reached the fringe of the Orcs’ camp, he realized that they were already starting to fan out into the forest, leaving a single Orc behind, who he recognized as the leader of the small party by his single eye. He let out a long, low whistle, made in imitation of a bird, to let the other two Elves still in the forest know the Orcs were coming. The single remaining Orc went to check on the captives, and then sat himself down on a rock in the sun. He shook his head at the Orcs’ arrogance and stupidity. This rescue was going to go even easier than planned! Unless there were other Orcs hidden nearby... Thorvel scanned the campsite and strained his Elvish ears for any sign of other Orcs. He thought he heard a few that were very close. That could be trouble, but it also might not mean anything at all. It was a risk he had to take. He loosened his knife in its sheath and pulled out his bow. He notched an arrow to the string and took cold, careful aim, smiling grimly. He loosed the arrow, but the Orc took that moment to shift positions, and instead of going straight through the heart it only lodged in his shoulder. Thorvel could not tell whether the Orc was dead or only unconscious. He waited a few moments for any sign of more Orcs before stepping out into the clearing, still on guard, and only then did he turn his attentions to the wagon.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

From where he lay in the cart, Ambarturion watched as the orc fell with an arrow jutting from his shoulder. The Elf scowled darkly to himself: whatever plans his distant kinsman had hoped to lay, they had been badly disturbed by the sudden capture of one of their number. Ambarturion strained to see if any were coming to his and his companions’ succour, but he had only a limited view of the lands about and could not tell fully what was happening. There was no more time for debate and doubt, he had to act. With one last mighty shrug he broke the bonds that held his hands and reached for those binding his ankles. Coromswyth whispered to him urgently, “My knives, quickly!” She rolled onto her stomach and held out her arms, and Ambarturion knew instantly what she was suggesting. Reaching into her long sleeves he withdrew the hidden weapons and slashed at the cords at his ankles.

He turned then to Megilaes, but a sudden cry of warning from Coromswyth drew his attention. Ambarturion barely had time to parry the orc’s blow. Three of the creatures had come scampering back to the cart at the sight of their captain’s fall and were now clearly intent on slaying the prisoners. They were enraged and in full furor, while Ambarturion was flat on his back, armed only with short knives and stiff from having been bound for nearly a full day. But he was in his wrath and as he rose up, his eyes blazed with the light of his age and those who looked upon him quailed.

Leaping upon the orcs, the Elf slashed the throat out of the first. The other two came at him, but he swirled below their attacks and spinning about on the ground like a striking adder he sliced through the leg of one, before coming up and burying a knife in the gorge of the third. He then coolly stooped and dispatched with his bare hands the orc he had hamstrung. He looked about for more enemies, but for the moment at least the only living orc was the wounded captain. In mere moments, Ambarturion had freed the other Elves. As he cut the bonds of the wounded stranger, there appeared at the side of the wagon an Elf dressed in the garb of a Mirkwood scout. “Come,” he was saying hurriedly, “come with me! We must be away before they discover your escape.”

Ambarturion drew himself up to his full height and looked upon the Elf with thinly veiled contempt. Ambarturion was unused to taking orders, and did not like the peremptory tone of this person. “Your companion cannot flee in his condition, nor will I run away from orcs. Coromswyth, you remain here with the wounded and see what you can do for him. If it is safe to move him, find shelter in the trees. Megilaes and you…”

“Thorvel,” the newcomer replied, stunned by the manner of this tall Elf with eyes like blazing stars.

“Thorvel, you will accompany my student and I in pursuit of the orcs.”

“Ambarturion!” Coromswyth’s tone spoke in equal measure of caution and resentment – resentment at being ordered once more to avoid battle, and caution for Ambarturion not to presume to lead where he was in debt to a rescuer. Ambarturion noted her meaning, but there was no time for such matters.

“No,” he said coolly. “You must stay here and see to his wounds. If the orcs return they will slay him.” Coromswyth merely nodded in mute acquiescence, but he could tell that she was unhappy with his manner.

Thorvel, having recovered from his initial shock, was the next to protest. “We should not pursue the orcs, they are too many. Let us seek shelter and come upon them in secrecy.”

Ambarturion paid little attention to the other Elf, not even deigning to look at him as he replied. “The orcs are many, your companions are but two. Would you allow them to be overcome by these monsters while we seek shelter for ourselves? Come, we are enough to lend your kin aid – if not, we are enough to die with them.” Not waiting for a reply he returned the knives to Coromswyth before stooping for an orc’s sword, and racing off in pursuit of the enemy.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

The jolt of the cart woke Lomarandil. Opening one eye slowly he saw Gashronk staggering, blood pouring from a wound in his chest. Reaching down slowly for his knife that lay on the cart bottom he muttered to himself, such careless fools orcs are...taking hold of the hilt he twirled it around in his bound hands and sliced upwards, cutting his bonds. Luckily for him the orcs had broken the arrow shaft...and by the looks of it had tried to stop him dying...ransomed, was the first thought that came into his mind. Smiling he stood up slowly. Gashronk was staggering to the cart with his sword, probably to try and kill him. With a huge cry Lomarandil threw the knife with his remaining strength, it embedded itself in Gashronk's neck, the orc gurgled for a second, then collapsed.

Lomarandil stepped onto the ground hesitantly, then walked up to Gashronk, turning the huge body over he saw the orc was still alive, but would die in seconds. "Elf!" the orc tried to say, but all that came out of his ruined windpipe was a gurgle. Lomarandil took hold of the knife's hilt, and wrenched the razor sharp balde right round Gashronk's neck, cutting through the spine. Lomarandil held the head up, before throwing it into the bushes near Snikdul...

Looking at the corpse, he saw a flash of gold and reached for it, the pendant of his dead wife came out in his hands and he put it back around his neck, giving the body a final kick, which jolted something out of a pocket. Looking closely Lomarandil saw that is was his cloak pin. Smiling he retrieved his cloak from the cart and repinned it. Walking over to Thorvel he whispered in his ear. "Thank you." before turning away.

[Durelin]

Targil stared with a look of disgust that bordered on hatred at the scene. He had moved slightly closer to the orc camp upon the disappearance of Lómarandil, and he now saw what his heart had been dreading since Thorvel had said the young elf was missing. Now that it had happened, it seemed that the capture of Lómarandil had been inevitable from the beginning of this mission. With the rest of the scouts having to look after the young elf, while still carrying on with their duty, the focus on this task was lessened, while its importance would never diminish. And its importance would never be forgotten. Not by Targil, at least. He glanced at Calenvása. Thorvel was still trying to believe make the elf his Captain, when he did not want to be. Targil supposed he was the only one who saw it, and this saddened him greatly. Calenvása would not lead, as he had lost all confidence in himself and his actions. Targil had watched for so long, disapproving of the leadership he followed, and now, when all leadership was gone, he smoothly took control.

Feeling a sudden dread come over him, he quickly rose from where he crouched and looked around him, ready to move, even though there was no reasoning behind this feeling. He had learned long ago not to ignore such signs. Today, it was of the utmost importance that he did not, for there was now no sign of Thorvel. Targil turned to look at Calenvása, who sat on the ground, staring at nothing. It was a rather pitiful sight, and so made the elf’s disgust grow. For a fleeting moment, he felt his eyes burn with anger and hatred, one that went beyond the surface, beyond simply annoyance. But this was a quickly passing moment, and one that left him feeling guilt. He did not look at the elf that he should be calling Captain as he spoke.

“Thorvel was with you a moment ago, Calenvása, was he not?” Targil no longer tried to remember to call him ‘Captain’. He now tried not to. The elf had lost the respect that went with such a title when he had gone beyond the greatest extent that Targil would put up with and given up. A Man given up with life and hope was a sad thing, barely worthy of being called living. But an Immortal who had given up was a disgrace to Elvenkind, and a disgrace beyond the reaches of human disgrace fell upon that elf. The fact that an immortal being without any hope or grace walked the earth marred the beauty of the Children of Illúvatar, who were one with Eä, their souls tied down by it and to it.

“He was…a moment ago.”

From several yards away, a small noise rang in his ears. Calenvása practically jumped at the sound, automatically brought out of his thoughts by a foreign sound, the habits gained as a scout not lost, even in his sad state of mind. He rose from where he sat to join Targil as the elf immediately made his way toward the sound. Perhaps it was not the wisest move, but they had few choices, and he knew how to silently come upon a single person or a group of people; enemies, he quickly assumed, in this case. Coming upon the sight he had expected, he did not waiting to see if Calenvasa had followed him before flying out upon several orcs snooping around in the trees, his two hunting knives drawn for the first time on this seemingly fated mission. Finally the elf had something to direct his anger towards, and he battled only to slaughter.

As his third orc went down missing an eye and with its throat cleanly slit, Targil frantically searched the area around him for another enemy, his heavy breathing caused by more than the simple exertion of the fighting. But he was surprised, and his breathing lost its furied heat, his heart slowed and his mind cleared, as he watched Calenvasa stab a quivering orc body on the ground through the middle. Head tilted slightly in a plainly curious look, Targil eyed his Captain. The elf's expression did not change as he pulled his knife out, took his eyes away from the dead orc, and looked his companion in the eye. Targil kept himself from shuddering, as a strange light that glowed behind the despair in the Captain's eyes sent a shiver up his spine and a warning to his heart.

Taking his eyes away from what should not frighten him, Targil scanned his surroundings, even though it was obvious that the rest of the orcs - he had briefly counted 6 - had fled. He knew the creatures, and after watching four of their comrades die, they would not stand to see any more. Another small sound among the trees and Targil tensed up, his eyes darting to where the sound had come from. Looking at Calenvasa out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the elf had not moved, had not tensed. The scout Captain looked disinterested. Luckily the face that emerged from the leaves was immortal.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel stared after Ambarturion and Megilaes as they disappeared into the trees. “The plan...” he started to say, but the words started soft and faded from his lips. The plan had gone to pieces starting with Lómarandil’s capture. Now it was time to improvise. He was too wrapped in his own thoughts to pay close attention as Lómarandil regained consciousness and made his way over to where the Orc lay. The young Elf clearly wasn’t fit yet to do any serious fighting, and the wound in his shoulder didn’t look pretty, to say the least. Somehow there had to be some way to get all the Elves back together. They were spread out now, as surely as birds were scattered when their perch was disturbed. They could do nothing effective as spaced out as they were Why did Ambarturion see that? Thorvel did not think that the other Elf was thinking very clearly at the moment. They needed to escape from the Orcs and regroup, not go plunging wildly in every which direction. Thorvel remembered a small stand of trees not too far from where they were right now; he thought he could see it. He noticed that Lómarandil had regained that which was his from the Orc camp, and turned to the female Elf who was now standing nearby. He thought he had heard her called Coromswyth. Despite her appearance, he suspected that she was very capable of defending herself if need be. Ambarturion had told her to stay there, but Thorvel saw no sense in that and said so.

“I think it would be better if we all gathered together away from here,” Thorvel said. “Do you see those trees over there?” She nodded. “Make your way to those, and take Lómarandil with you. He is in no condition to fight, so make sure he does not try to come after us. I think that he may be foolish enough to think he is a fair match for the Orcs that are around. I will try to find the others and meet you there. Does this sound all right to you?”

“I suppose so,” she replied, sounding resigned. Thorvel nodded, and started to walk towards Lómarandil when he noticed Lómarandil was already coming to him.

"Thank you," Lómarandil whispered. Thorvel was rather startled and somewhat confused; he had not expected it and was not sure what the thanks was for. He did not let it put him off for long though, and he knelt to retrieve his arrow from the dead Orc and replacing it to his quiver before speaking.

“You and Coromswyth,” - this was said with a movement of his head toward the female Elf - “are going to make your way to that stand of trees in the distance. Do not think you are fit to fight the Orcs; your shoulder needs tending to.” The last bit was added when he noted the younger Elf open his mouth as if to speak in argument. Now he scowled: it was a look Thorvel was becoming used to. He decided to take that as agreement. “Good.” With that, Thorvel turned and began running swiftly and softly towards the trees, and the sound of crashing metal.

Even as he went, he removed the knife from its sheath, wanting to be ready should he come on any Orcs. He found one, and slew it from behind before it was aware he was there. He wiped his knife on the fallen Orc, and continued where he found Ambarturion and his younger companion finishing off a pair of Orcs.

“Listen to me, Ambarturion,” said Thorvel, determined not to let the other Elf’s manner overcome him this time. “This is madness. Eventually we will come upon more Orcs than just a few stragglers, and it will be three against many, if we do not find the other two first. I do not care whether you do not want to run from the Orcs or not. If we are slain, it will do nobody any good at all, and Lothlórien will have little or no warning at all of the coming attack. We must regroup elsewhere! I have sent Coromswyth and Lómarandil on to a small stand of trees where the Orcs will not find them, and I said we would join them, and we will. It is in that direction,” he said with a gesture of his arm. “You say my companions need aid? What they need is to know that the rescue is complete so that they can escape!” His tone was soft so as not to alert the Orcs of their presence, but forceful. Ambarturion’s frown had grown deeper with each sentence. Thorvel could tell he did not like taking orders one bit, and suspected that an argument would come if he allowed it to. “Meet us there. I will get the others.” He turned to where he thought he heard sound of battle without waiting to hear the other Elf’s reply. He dearly hoped that Ambarturion would listen.

Sure enough, within a few minutes he found Calenvása and Targil hidden by the trees. There were some dead Orcs lying on the ground, and by the sound of it, more were coming.

“Hurry!” he said urgently. “The prisoners are free, and I have arranged for us all to meet in a group of trees not too far from here. Follow me!” Thorvel hoped they would all meet together. It all depended on whether the Lórien Elves and Lómarandil had decided to listen. He plunged into the trees, Calenvása and Targil close behind. Oh, I hope everything works out...

[Arry]

‘He’s dead! The Elf’s killed ‘im!’

Snikdul’s voice was squeaky as he announced the demise of Gâshronk, ending in a strangulated gasp as Gromwakh clapped his hand over his companion’s mouth and pulled him down. Elves, he’d heard, have a nasty way of overhearing things. The two Orcs were silent for the space of many heartbeats before Grom dared a look up. The captain was indeed dead and the Elf who had done him in was nowhere to be seen.

Nor were there any of the other Orcs about. He’d heard the big Elf and another go thundering after them, weapons at the ready, he supposed. Gromwakh wondered how many of his fellows would return. He’d also heard the big Elf tell the lady she was to stay with their wounded companion. Grom poked his head up to look for her, but did not see her by the wagon. He wondered if she’d managed to drag the wounded one off to the cover of the trees on the other side of the wagon. He debated with himself whether to take a little look-see about the apparently deserted camp, then thought better of it. She’d looked as formidable as the Big Elf. And lady, or no, he figured she was probably as set against dealing with Orcs on anything other than a dire level. He sat back on his haunches and thought for a few more moments.

‘Let’s pull back even further,’ he whispered to the white-knuckled Snikdul. ‘We can circle around under cover and find what’s left of the troops.’ He pulled on his companion’s arm, motioning for him to stay low and move quietly. He recalled a scrap of information one of the Uruks had let drop when they’d first heard about going to the Golden Wood. It wasn’t too far from the mountains in parts, the Uruk had said, and he’d wondered if they’d come down through that route.

In his simple line of reasoning, Gromwakh held on to that word – ‘mountains’. They’d go back to the main body of the army and even if the route didn’t go near the mountains, still perhaps he and his little band could drift away at some point and make for them. That little beam of hope in his Orcish mind, he urged Snikdul on toward where they thought the other Orcs might be

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ambarturion scowled at Thorvel’s retreating back. It was madness to stop the battle now: the orcs were scattered and leaderless, unaware still of their danger and more bent on booty and pillage than ordered combat. With swift action, the Elves could destroy them one by one, rather than face an ordered attack. His disdain for these Mirkwood scouts grew even more. So used are they to hiding in the trees and shooting their opponents from beneath the cover of darkness that they have lost the will to face them in open combat. He tightened his grip on his sword and paused, lost in a moment of rare indecision.

As though he had been waiting for just such an opportunity, Megilaes spoke. “Perhaps Thorvel is right, Master. If we rejoin the others we can take counsel for a more ordered defence.”

He had expected a tart retort, and was surprised when Ambarturion replied to him in an even manner. “Thorvel is not right, I fear. At the moment the orcs are dispersed into small groups and could be easily engaged by us. We could destroy half of them or more before they were even aware of their danger. Retreating now gives them as much time to regroup as it does us.” Ambarturion looked about, having already decided to press ahead with the attack, when he saw through the trees three Elves making their way for the meeting point described by Thorvel. Ambarturion cursed beneath his breath. “Come Megilaes; it would appear that we must follow the plans of our Mirkwood brethren.” There was little point in continuing the battle alone.

They ran back through the trees and saw no orcs, but their cries were all about them. Once, as they passed by a small growth of shrubs, Ambarturion sensed the sickly gaze of two orcs in hiding, but as they seemed more intent on avoiding combat he passed them by. They found the others waiting for them where Thorvel said they would be. Coromswyth had bound the wounded Elf’s shoulder and now stood with her blades drawn. No matter what Ambarturion said to her now, she would not be left behind in the battle. He smiled at that with grim satisfaction. The two new Elves with Thorvel were a surprising pair to Ambarturion. One bore about him a deep despair that Ambarturion did not have the time to think upon, although it was clear that this Elf was the nominal leader of the group. The other seemed in equal parts angry and dismayed by his leader’s manner. Ambarturion began speaking quickly.

“We haven’t much time. The orcs will soon realise that we have escaped and that their captain is dead. They will then seek to recapture or kill us rather than return to their masters with news of their failure. Now that we have withdrawn from the battle they will have time to take counsel for the attack, so we must do the same. You three,” he said pointing to Thorvel and his companions; “you are still armed with bows. When the orcs come, shoot as many as you may. The rest of us will engage them here, in the midst of the trees where their advantage in numbers might be lessened.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

The dark elf, quite as tall as Ambarturion and bearing himself as well nodded briefly as the latter doled out instructions, before turning away curtly and speaking a few words quietly to his companions. Coromswyth watched one in particular more carefully - the gloomy looking, fair elf. He was certainly the eldest among them: the air of age and wisdom that came only through long experience settled around his shoulders like the dust of time. He was evidently the leader of the group, and as Ambarturion began ordering the others around, the female elf kept her eyes on him from under her eyelashes, pretending to be fiddling with some detail on the binding of her dagger's handle. He did not seem to mind so much, nodding mildly, but as Ambarturion turned away, the elf stopped the other two and murmured a few words of his own to them. Interesting.

Ambarturion took a deep breath, surveying the area in front of him as if running through in his mind a mental vision of what would happen if all went according to plan. Then he turned his head to look at Coromswyth, and she saw the pained expression flit momentarily across his face. "Lady - are you sure you will fight with us? I would prefer it if-"

The female elf cut him off with a shake of her head, smiling lightly at him. "Please...please, Ambarturion," she said softly. He watched her with his keen, dark grey eyes, then sighed and seemed ready to turn away. Rather than leave it simply like that, Coromswyth gave a small smile and continued: "Besides - my bow is in the back of that wagon." She spun the dagger and sword in her hands easily in two circles around each other, flashing two deadly rings of silver through the air. She grinned dangerously at Ambarturion. "You don't think I'd leave it there, do you?"

The older elf smiled slightly at her even through his worry, then his brow crumpled in concern and his eyes closed up suspiciously. "Your bow is in the back of the wagon? How?"

Coromswyth felt her pulse increase marginally as she remembered the Southron captain's face and his kind actions. No matter what the male elf thought, that he was merely the lesser of two evils, she couldn't help but fight the certainty in her mind that there was something more in this youngling's kindness. She knew exactly who had put the bow in the back of the wagon. Not letting on for a second, forced herself to shrug lightly, and was pleased to note that her male companion had not tried to probe into her mind. "Who knows? Maybe the orcs meant to get something more out if it - it is a fine weapon, would sell to one of the Men on guard for something extra, I suspect."

Ambarturion's eyes rested on her only a for a moment more before he nodded, satisfied, shrugging as the suspicion departed from his eyes. Coromswyth relaxed slightly but it took a while for her pulse to slow down. The image of the Man's eyes were in her mind again - dark and melancholy, full of wisdom one so young shouldn't have to know. She smiled slightly to herself in confusion - of course, it wasn't surprising that he had made an impact on her, but why should she be grateful to him? He had 'saved' her from the orc's touch...the thought was immediately parried by the instantaneous response in her mind: it was he who had originally captured her. She sighed. She knew who had put the bow in the back of the wagon - but was no closer to knowing why.

Taking a deep breath and calming herself, Coromswyth swung her blades around deftly once more, getting the feel of both long and short together. As she did so, she caught the eye of one of the archers, who had shot a curious look at her as she did so, and smiled without thinking. He seemed slightly taken aback - after all, her readiness to smile was so different from the other, severe Ambassador. Looking away, Coromswyth watched Ambarturion's still form nearby, worry tinting her light eyes.

"Be careful, Ambarturion."

The other elf stiffened momentarily and turned to look questioningly at Coromswyth, wondering why she had chosen to share her good luck for the fight secretively rather than openly with spoken words. She held his eyes for only a moment, then let them flicker to the other elves before they returned to his. Her meaning was perfectly clear, but Ambarturion did not reply: he kept her gaze for a moment, then turned again.

[Durelin]

“You three.”

The curtness of the elf’s voice and the gesture toward Calenvása and the other scouts brought the Captain out of his thoughts with a shock. His eyes snapped up to stare at Ambarturion, one of the newly rescued ambassadors, part of an envoy from Lorien to the Woodmen in Mirkwood, with anger. Blinking, Calenvása realized he had no reason to be angry, and felt a new frustration arise that was directed at himself. His thoughts and feelings had no reasoning to them, and he had decided long ago that his mind required logical explanations to most everything, especially things that stemmed from himself. Very few things had been at all logical in some time, and it frightened him. He wanted so to run away. But he felt cornered as the ambassador spoke.

“You are still armed with bows. When the orcs come, shoot as many as you may. The rest of us will engage them here, in the midst of the trees where their advantage in numbers might be lessened.”

At a surprising thought that emerged his mind as Ambarturion finished, Calenvása brightened. It may have been a sad thought to cling to, but he of course refused to consider this. He refused to think of anything that might make him feel uncomfortable with himself and his state of mind. His state of mind was completely up to him, but he did not even wish to confront this fact. This would mean feeling a weight of responsibility. But all weight was lifted from him as he realized what Ambarturion was doing. The severe elf was taking charge. It felt good, in a way, to be following orders. And yet he could not help but frown at the ground before where he stood. Forcing his features to lighten, he brought his eyes up to nod in response to Ambarturion’s instructions.

For some unknown reason, though, he turned to face the other scouts, to speak to them himself. He felt the weight upon him grow slightly, but he ignored it. “Targil?” he asked softly, refusing to speak with any command. “I’m assuming that you wish to engage them with the others.” Calenvása knew Targil, and knew his weapon of choice. His companion nodded, eyeing Calenvása strangely. The Captain would never be able to ignore that elf’s gaze. “I’m hoping three bows will be enough to cut down the numbers enough that when we engage the enemy, our knives will be enough to cut them down to nothing.” It was strange. It seemed a small slip of his humor had caused him to say that last statement, and yet no smile played on his lips. He looked at each of his comrades. Where had the smiles gone?

“It is all we can hope for,” Targil said, answering Calenvása’s unvoiced question.

~

Targil

Taking his eyes away from his Captain, knowing that there was nothing left to say, Targil watched the two ambassadors speak with each other. He studied them, slowly discovering who they were simply through his eyes, and found his eyes resting on the female. She was a puzzle. Ambarturion was puzzling, as well, but… She, Coromswyth – Thorvel had loosely introduced them to Targil and Calenvása – smiled. Her eyes were full of a profound wisdom, a deep understanding, and yet any sadness did not overcome a brightness of innocent, almost youthful happiness. There was an energy about her as well, a positive one, that she was focusing on helping her land and her people. Targil was already beginning to admire her. She swung her two blades around with skill and familiarity. Yes, admiration was due. She caught his gaze, and smiled again. If he had not been caught by surprise by her eyes, and he was not busy worrying about what had shown in his eyes, Targil would have smiled back. It seemed she had an effect on people. He wondered how Ambarturion could remain so severe around such a warm and jovial presence.

Her eyes quickly passed from his, and back to the other ambassador’s she smiled no longer. Targil could practically feel the energy in the air as the two great minds worked. Looking from one to the other, he wanted so to tap into their thoughts, but refused to do anything to lose their trust. There was no reason for him to mistrust them, or for them to mistrust Targil and his companions. Giving up his quiet observations, he made his way over to the ambassadors and their guards, breaching the gap that had automatically formed between the two parties. He did not apologize for intruding, determining that any considered intrusion would have to be put up with. They were all fighting against the same enemy, and fighting for the survival of themselves and their brethren in Lorien, and they would fight together.

“I am Targil; my knives skin orc with yours, and I bleed with you.” He bowed slightly, with only the slightest amount of respect. Unlike Calenvása, he was not prepared to allow this Ambarturion to take the command that he most likely thought was rightfully his. He considered a separate greeting for Coromswyth, but her eyes stopped him once again.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Things had become quite interesting between the two human captains, and Ehan was able to comfortably watch the goings on from his own standpoint – outside the conflict entirely. The orc captain – Ehan did not know how to say his name, so stayed with the generic title – had decided to get himself involved in the inner battle between Koran and Herding. Obviously their little vendetta had become visible enough for others to decide to take advantage of it. That means that it has gone too far for a strange situation such as this, Ehan realized. When others are able to profit from such distaste between two captains, no good can come of it.

The story of betrayal had often been told by his sister, countless variations where a loyal subject is forgotten or a haughty king killed in mutiny for his trespass. Ehan had never heard a tale quite the same as the one unfolding in the camp among men – and orcs – of such high rank and reputation. Because there had never been an ending to such a story, as far as Ehan knew, all the boy could do was watch and wait for the result of all the battles of words.

But what are words, when actions will decide who is left? Ehan wondered, his mind racing as he and Koran left the orc and his captain pondered the words of both man and beast. What would happen next could only be guessed, and until the end was revealed Ehan would do what he could to make certain that he remained unaffected, and unattached. Surely, Ehan felt some sort of bond between Koran and himself, but Ehan had quickly learned in his life that bonds and ties were broken more quickly than flesh. If he let his mind slip and his heart take over, things would get ugly…as they already had between Koran and Herding. That is their problem, the Southron mused, they let their feelings and their anger and their pride get in the way of things. Koran would surely save his own skin before saving mine, so why should I not be willing to return the favor? Relations between Herding and Koran would have certainly made for a heart-wrenching and enticing tale, and Ehan still wondered who would come out the victor…the hero.

“Captain?” Ehan inquired, gently requesting the attention of the older, but still rather young Southron captain. Koran looked up, his eyes dazed and his face filled with pockets of indignation and contemplation. “Captain, do you know where it is we go next, and what it is we are going to do?” Koran had mentioned before in Herding’s tent that he had ‘business to attend that cannot wait’. Ehan was nearly sure that this had indeed just been a ploy to get Koran out of Herding’s stuffy tent, but still the boy wondered what Koran would do next in the game.

[Arry]

Of the fifteen Orcs left, Gromwakh and And Snikdul were able to ferret out ten of them. It was not that difficult a task. The Orcs were noisy as they crashed through the underbrush; the air was filled with the snapping of dried branches and the curses of those denied their prizes. As it was it took a few whacks of Snikdul’s iron bar to bring a number of them into a listening mode.

A brief discussion ensued. The Orcs snickered when Gromwakh informed them the Captain was now dead and the Elves escaped – freed by those others who had come out of the trees. The hoots and catcalls over the demise of Gâshronk were cut short when they learned the Elves were now hunting them.

‘There was only four of them in the wagon when we left,’ snorted one of the Orcs, leaning on his jagged sword. ‘How many others are there with them?’ Snikdul frowned, counting on his fingers. ‘Three more I think. Can’t be too sure. Me and Grom left in a hurry to find you.’

The eyes of the Orcs narrowed at the small number of Elves, calculating the odds. ‘You know we can’t just head back to the main camp with news that the Captain’s dead and the Elves have taken off,’ said one of the Orcs, voicing that same thought of the others. The rest of the group nodded at this assessment. Old One-eye would kill each and every one of them himself if they brought him that news. ‘I say we just attack the Elves and bring down as many as we can. Cut off their heads . . . we’d at least have something to show on our return.’ The group eyed each other, shifting nervously on their feet.

Gromwakh sighed and shrugged his shoulders; he had no better ideas to offer other than to make a run for it while they could. His companions were grunting for Elf blood now, and snarling, their lips drawn back over their yellowed teeth. He held his cudgel up in the air, calling for silence. ‘Right, then,’ he began. ‘You lot,’ he said, pointing his filet knife at six of the Orcs – circle around to the left. Snik and me and the other four of you will go right.’ The group divided, getting ready to begin the attack.’

‘Hit ‘em hard,’ he called, leading his little group right. ‘Any of us left – we’ll meet back here . . .’

[Firefoot]

Thorvel looked appraisingly at Calenvása. Something had... happened with him over the past few days, and Thorvel was trying to figure out what it was. Thorvel did not like it one bit that Calenvása had let Ambarturion take charge. He did not like Ambarturion particularly; the other Elf had come into their band, assumed charge, and started giving orders as if he had done it all along! Worse yet, Calenvása had let him do it, and that was what truly bothered Thorvel. He trusted Calenvása, but he was beginning to doubt the rightfulness of that trust. Thorvel did not want to be on his own again, but he did what he had to do, and he would not follow a leader he did not trust. That certainly ruled Ambarturion out, and Targil as well. Still, he did not let go of trust lightly or easily, and decided to give Calenvása a few days.

At this point, combat with the Orcs seemed inevitable to him, and though it grated with him somewhat to be doing what Ambarturion had said - or ordered, rather - he took his bow in hand so that he would be ready should the Orcs come upon them at any time soon. Ambarturion would learn soon enough that Thorvel only followed orders if it seemed wise for him to do so, and not always then. That brought to mind the greater scheme of things. The Elves would likely all be travelling together back to Lórien, and even at the greatest possible speeds it would still take a few days. It would be a long few days, if the past hour or two were any indication.

Thorvel became aware of the silence that had stretched over the three Elves - Targil had gone over to the others and was talking to them. Targil looked less wary of Ambarturion than Thorvel felt, but similarly seemed unsure of how to take Coromswyth. Before he could continue with his observations, however, his ears caught the sound of a stick snapping in the surrounding trees. He whirled towards the sound and at the same time fitted an arrow to his bowstring. He had very little doubt of what it was. He saw a flash of black armor gleaming in a patch of sunlight, and loosed his arrow at the point.

“We’re under attack!” he called out, as if it were really necessary; all the Elves had seen his arrow and were instantly ready. Very little mattered to him then; it seemed nothing existed but himself, his bow, and his target. A volley of black feathered arrows came from the trees: both from in front and behind. The Elves with bows returned the shots with their own arrows, and Thorvel was certain he had taken out at least a couple Orcs. He rarely missed. He found himself back-to-back with Calenvása, and the thoughts floated on the periphery of his mind that it was nice to know his back was guarded. The thought floated away, and he concentrated on staying alive and killing Orcs - nothing more.

[Arry]

The Elves were swift in their response, the arrows from their bows flying thickly at the two lines of attack the Orcs had mounted, before and behind their small group. The Orcs had let their own bowmen begin the attack, and under cover of the deadly black arrows, they moved in closer to the Elves.

One of the Elves, in the flurry of first encounter, had been wounded by a black-fletched Orc missile. Gromwakh, Snikdul, and two other of their companions rushed in, clubs and blades held at the ready intending to finish off the hapless Elf. The rut of war was full upon them as they harried him.

And on the edge of their awareness was the sense that the others of their group had put down their bows and raced in also . . .

[Orofaniel]

Once again Herding had thrown himself over his bottle - or should I say bottles-drinking the liquor faster than anyone could guess was even possible. The more he drank, the more distant he became from the world around him. It was only himself, his bottles and his endless swarm of thoughts left now. He tried to concentrate, but it was impossible as the liquor affected everything the man tried to do. His walk was a bit unsteady caused by the dizziness, so he stayed seated most of the time, except for when it was time to find a new bottle. He couldn't remember when he'd felt like this before; so utterly confused over his own confusion.

The man grew in rapidly tired of just sitting there with his own thoughts, opening another bottle now and then; he started to wander about in his tent. It wasn’t such a bad idea at the time, since he could still keep himself on his feet. He hummed a tune he had known long ago, although he couldn't remember where he'd heard it before or if he'd ever hear it again. He wondered where everyone had gone off too, as he longed form someone to accompany him and his lonesome thoughts. Who would want to spend some time whit some drunk Captain, he wondered, and laughed while he pictured the image of himself there he walked around with a glass and a bottle in his hands. Well, he wasn't completely drunk, was he? No, he could still walk without problems, although he felt his legs were somewhat weaker and perhaps not so trustworthy as they usually were, as Herding was a man of stern and steady steps. His mind was not weakened either, he assured himself, as his thoughts were still reasonable and clever.

Koran...

Once again, as every so often, his thoughts turned to the other Southron Captain. Why did Koran always appear in his thoughts, haunting him in his dreams like a disturbed ghost? He wondered. Of course, the annoyance by his present was slightly frustration, he continued, while he sighed. As he seated once again in his chair, he bumped into the table. Another glass, filled with wine, was caught by his clumsy hands as it almost hit the ground. He cursed; there was wine all over him. He found a cloth, trying to wipe it away, but to no use. The Captain’s rage was within reach. He wanted to bring an end to this. He wanted to get Koran out of the way. Then a thought hit him; what if Koran was planning on assassination of him? Koran would most definitely be thinking the same way was himself, wouldn’t? Of course, Captain Cenbryt wasn’t stupid.

The question was; how could Herding get further information about Koran's plans? By talking to Koran of course.

"Get Koran for me!" Herding yelled out from the tent. “Tell the Captain that Captain Herding wishes to speak with him over a nice glass of wine…” Hopefully the Cenbryt would receive Herding’s most gracious ”invitation", although nothing was for certain.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Captain, do you know where it is we go next, and what it is we are going to do?"

Koran looked back vaguely at Ehan for a moment, his eyes seeming to look straight through the younger man before he blinked, the cloud of dark thoughts clearing from his eyes.

"Captain?" Ehan tried again, his voice more tentative this time. Koran held his eyes for a second, his gaze quite serious, then he gave a great, melodramatic sigh and looked away. "Ah, well, we have got that business to attend to..." he replied heavily, as if some loathsome task lay ahead of them. Ehan looked alarmed. "'Business', Captain Koran?"

Koran grinned, his white teeth flashing brightly in the dying light and for a moment Ehan caught a glimpse of the carefree, charismatic Koran that sometimes rightfully asserted itself from within the solemn Captain's exterior as he clapped a hand on companion's shoulder. "The most serious business, dear boy, of finding the best dice and drink this camp can muster!"

~*~*~

"Cheat, it must be!"

Koran glanced up at the Southron who had spoken, his voice loud above the gasps, and gave a small grin at the red-faced man whose eyes were fixed on the double flames that showed on the two dice which Koran had just rolled - again. Picking up one of the coins he had just one, he flipped it in the air and caught it expertly, as he looked around his audience and gave a mock bow. "Well, I try..." he said softly in mock humility. The others around him roared with laughter in appreciation, and various comments were shot from all around the ring of firelight amid the trees where a score or so Southron's sat.

"Luckiest bloody man here, ain't that right, Koran?" said one man, rolling his eyes at Koran's good fortune at dice as the captain collected the little pile of bronze coins he had just won.

"'Tis fate, that's what it is," another ventured, clumsily stabbing a finger drunkenly at the tatoo on Koran's forearm, visible because of his rolled up sleeves - the Cenbryt flame, a black tatoo that seemed to flicker of it's own accord in the dancing firelight. "Guided by the flame of his forefathers..."

"Ha! Poetry doesn't suit you, Parrel, you're much better as your own dull, sober self!" It was the man who had just lost who laughed at the comment, spitting on the ground contemptuously before he took another huge quaff from the chipped and travelworn cup of ale in his hands, wiping his mouth clumsily with the back of one beefy hand. But his voice was slightly less joyful than the others, and in the depths of his drunken, piggy eyes circled a resentment against the man who had just won over him. He gestured with a violent motion towards Koran's long dagger where it lay beside him, then lunged towards it viciously, grabbing the weapon. Holding it with exaggerated delicacy by it's silver blade, he held it up to the firelight so all could see it, yet even the light of the flames didn't seem to full pierce the smoky red depths of the pommel. The man's eyes flashed wickedly as he laughed racously and looked across at Koran. "What say we up the stakes, Cenbryt? And hey, not just a pretty little dagger...what about that necklace you wear?" he added, in reference to the wooden necklace which the young captain wore, inscribed with the same flame motif - the symbol of his leadership of the tribe.

Koran hadn't moved from where he sat, casually leaning against a tree, his elbow resting loosely on one raised knee, the other hand holding his drink. But unlike most of the other Southrons in the circle, Koran had drunk little of the ale, and his eyes and mind were clear. The firelight danced dangerously on his calm features, alighting now on the scar that ripped across one cheekbone, now on his sharp, dark eyes unblinkingly fixed on the other man, now on his lips, slightly turned up at one corner as if in amusement. He raised one eyebrow and beckoned with his head. "Give me the dagger, Tanner," he said softly.

Though voiced as a request, some element of the silky smoothness of Koran's voice made one think not of civility, but of the hidden blade that could lie beneath such a tone. Something subtly changed in the atmosphere, as those gathered privately brought to mind all they had heard about Koran's reputation.

However, it seemed the drunken Tanner was completely oblivious to this - or at least, he was quite determined not to back down now he had made the challenge. He laughed again bawdily, but this time fewer of the other men joined him. "Hah! Haha! Ah, Koran, come on, go out on a limb for once - sure, you're young, risks are what being young is all about!"

"I'll quite happy beneath the tree rather than out on one of it's limbs, thanks," Koran replied, the corner of his lip rising a little more in a smile. He tipped his head to one side. "Come, Tanner, give me the dagger..."

"Come get it!" Tanner was on his feet now, holding it out in front of him. The man was either very drunk, or had an exceptionally strong death wish. He held it out, waving it slightly, like a child taughting a pet cat with a ball on a string. He grasped it more tightly in his huge fist and his tone lowered as he growled, "Come on, boy, let's see what you've go-"

The huge man got no further than that as Koran rolled to one side, ducking around effortlessly to come up behind the man where his strong arm encirled the thick neck tightly. Seizing the man's right hand, the one that held the dagger, he twisted it sharply behind his back until a sudden, grotesque click was heard, causing several around the fire to wince. Koran smiled chillingly, his black eyes seeming like terrible, empty voids, devoid of soul, demonic.

"Sorry, what was that you were saying?" he questioned quietly, his lips just beside the great man's ear. The drunk gurgled something from behind Koran's death grip and from his numb fingers the dagger dropped to the forest floor. Various expressions showed on the faces of the Southrons, from admiration and appraisal, to fear or resentment, but one thing was held in common as the dagger fell.

Not one man among the group moved to pick it up.

"Captain Cenbryt?"

The voice made all in the circle turn in surprise to the owner of the gutterally obnoxious, yet unnaturally nervous, voice: a small orc, standing half seen at the edge of the firelight as if the firelight burnt it with it's goodness. From within their circle of protection, the Southron's seemed to gather as one being, and their eyes and moods darkened against the monstrous intruder who dared to disturb them. The power of the mob seemed to quell the orc slightly, but it stood it's ground, looking straight above Koran and avoiding all eyes and any excuse for trouble.

Koran lifted his chin from behind Tanner, relaxing his grip. "Aye, that's me."

The orc didn't move from his rigid position, paused like a cat caught in suddenly lamplight, ready to flee at the sign of trouble or unwelcome movement. "Captain Herding wishes to see you in his tent, quickly, for a drink of wine," it stammered out in a rush, before vanishinhg as quickly as it had come.

Koran paused for a second, then let go of Tanner, who instantly turned and caught him a clip on the side of the head. "Bah, cheeky youngling!" He roared, but it was accompanied by a drunken laugh as he staggered back to his seat. Koran put a hand to the side of his ringing head and grinned back, then knelt quickly to retrieve his dagger, putting it back in it's customary place at the back of his belt, hidden by his open jerkin. He thrust an arm out after the orc. "I wonder to what means I owe this[/i] pleasure?"[/i] he said loudly to the circle, his voice mocking, inciting laughter and rowdy comments. The violent and unpredictable captain Herding was not popular among most of the Southrons, and it was well rumoured that he seemed to despise his own people. As the games of chance resumed and Koran turned to leave, he felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Ehan.

"Shall I come with you?" the younger man asked, his voice low so that the others would not hear. Koran shook his head, putting his hand on the other's arm.

"Nay - I shall be but a few minutes. I doubt the good captain will want to talk about much at this hour," he reassured his squire. Turning to the others, he doffed an imaginary cap and took a deep bow. "Gentlemen, I bid you goodnight!" he called in a singsong voice, before leaving the circle and becoming enveloped in the darkness.

"Hey Koran, you should be honoured - for once, he's sharing a drink rather than taking the whole lot!" The comment and the laughter that ensued followed a grinning Koran into the darkness. Taking a breath of the fresh night air, he made his way to Herding's tent, a rough, dimly lit shape beyond the edge of the trees. Casting a furtive glance around him - who knew what the Captain's real motives were? - he walked briskly across and opened the tent flap with little ceremony...to see a sorry sight in front of him: the captain, slumped across a chair, surrounded by split wine and bottles on the sawdust of the floor. The table was in the same state: altogether there had to be about five or six empty bottles and a few more full ones.

Koran smiled infuriatingly. "To what do I owe this...pleasure, Captain?" he asked, his voice mocking the captain, a night of drinking and dice making him bold. Herding's head came up from where he slumped and his eyes burned with drunken anger as his lip sneered with sudden and unexpected disdain.

"You tell me, boy," he hissed into the still, heavy air.

Koran's eyes narrowed, and he mentally felt for his dagger, making sure it was exactly where he needed it. Bracing himself, he forced himself to be more careful - he had to be civil to the captain, rashness wouldn't do. Not until this mission was over. "Pardon, Captain Herding?" he asked courteously, painfully aware of the atmosphere as it grew and lurked like some all-consuming monster at the sides of the tent...

[Orofaniel]

"Pardon, Captain Herding?"

"Don't be cheeky with me!" Herding said, raising his voice. He then calmed himself down, while he offered Koran a seat. Koran, surprisingly enough, accepted the chair that was set out for him and found himself seating just across Herding with a table in between. A glass was then offered, something Koran not too unwillingly accepted, just as he had done with the seat. It was a strange atmosphere.

"Some wine?" Herding said, causally, looking at Koran's empty glass. Koran nodded. After pouring some wine into Koran's glass, Herding himself, needed a refill. "What is this all about, if I may ask....?" Koran then asked him seeming confused, and curious. He obviously wanted to get some kind of understanding why Herding was in this mood. "Why had Herding invited him for a nice little "chat" anyway?" He must have wondered about that, Herding concluded. His face expression became stern and he didn't try to conceal any of his feelings towards Koran's question; ”You ask this question, as you didn't know, Captain Cenbryt...." he started curling his lips. Koran looked even more confused, but Herding figured it was just one of those masks this Captain wore when he didn't want to show his real intensions or feelings. "But you do know..." he continued. His voice had all of a sudden become quite harsh. Koran seemed offended by this, or at least in Herding's eyes.

"Excuse me, but I do not understand what you mean. Nor do I think you have any intension of telling me what you mean...so why am I here? To what do I owe you this.. pleasure....?" Herding noticed Koran's sudden change of tone when he used the word "pleasure" and he looked at him with great disgust. Besides, he was tried of that question; He had heard it too many times from this young man, and Herding could hardly control himself. "Get a grip", he told himself. "This will not me the time to kill him. Only scare him a little…Make him understand that..” His thoughts were interrupted by Koran; “Captain?” One moment there, Koran almost fooled Herding into thinking that Koran was completely innocent, but Herding managed to see though him. You don’t fool me, you filthy… He thought before he snapped; "You owe me nothing..." He smiled evilly, yet there was still something else about that smile that would everyone uncomfortable. He took another sip of his wine. He could feel that the huge amount of wine wasn't far of going straight to his head. The dizziness, he couldn't stand. Still, he managed to hold a straight face, keeping his tongue straight in his mouth.

Koran was surprised by the hostility and got up from his chair. "You summon me to your tent, asks me to drink you wine, yet you do not tell m why I'm here!" He almost yelled at Herding. Herding too, got up from his chair. "You know what I'm talking about! You are plotting against me you fool!" Herding said as he punched his fist into Koran's cheek. It was a hard punch, but not hard enough for Koran to fall. A red flame was seen across Koran’s eyes as he cursed. "You didn't think you'd get away with it, did you?" Herding then asked him, looking at him. "You...despicable..." He had completely lost his temper, not to mention that he had had too many glasses of wine.

Not many seconds passed before Koran replied with his own fist....

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran reeled, stumbling slightly, but the punch was too clumsy to make him fall. His right hand rising to his face, he gingerly touched the area where Herding had punched him and fierce anger flashed through his dark eyes. His fists clenched, but he kept his right in full view so the captain wouldn't think anything of the fact that the left had vanished behind his back. Herding didn't care a thing for Koran: the young Southron doubted he would remember such a little thing as the fact that he could fight just as well left handed as right.

"Herding, what in the name of your ancestors do you think you're talking about?" he hissed dangerously.

"Don't you use the name of my ancestors!" Herding bellowed. Lurching to the side, he grabbed a half empty wine bottle and hurled it at Koran. The younger man ducked, hands over his head as the glass shattered on the tent's central supporting pole behind him, showering him with drops of blood red. Despite the captain's drunkenness, the bottle had been well aimed: if not for Koran's reflexes, he did not doubt it could have caught him full in the face. But Herding was still ranting. "Their names become soiled from your lips!" he bellowed again, continuing from his last statement. His eyes narrowed and he stabbed a fierce finger at Koran, at the dagger in his left hand where he had grabbed it from the back of his belt. "Look, even now, even now - dagger in hand he enters my tent, sneaking and creeping, all the time ready to worm his way in and murder me!" Herding's voice rose from a whisper to a yell.

"You think I come to murder you?" Koran responded, his temper finally getting the better of him and flaring up. "If I had wanted to kill you, Herding..."

Herding's lip curled contemptuously as his eyes narrowed and he spat on the ground between them. "I would like to see you try, boy," he replied.

Koran covered the ground between them in less than a second, and this punch knocked Herding to the ground. Reaching down, he grabbed the man by his shirt front, pulling his face close. "You know I could do it, and do it without blinking," he hissed menacingly. A sudden white hot pain lanced across the top of his right arm and he winced, letting go of Herding as he grabbed his arm, staring at the long patch of red spreading on his rolled-up shirt sleeve. Herding laughed, pulling himself to his feet a few feet from Koran. "I have experience, boy, where what do you have? A young life of cotton wool and childish fights..."

Koran pointed at his cheek, where the long white scar shot across his cheekbone. "What, and nearly losing an eye to a man with twice my experience? That is childish fighting and cotton wool, Captain Herding?" He sneered. "You don't deserve such a title."

The older man sneered and rushed at Koran, pulling a long, serated knife from a hunk of bread on the table. But Koran was faster: dropping to the floor, he whipped out one leg in a wide arc, whipping under Herding's feet and dropping him. The older man grunted but rolled with surprising agility and stabbed towards Koran's foot, only narrowly missing as Koran dived backwards. Both retreated for a second, Herding sobering up quickly, Koran's fierce eyes hooded, waiting for his prey to attack again. He didn't wait long - Herding leapt at him, knife held high, and by sheer force he knocked Koran straight backwards. Winded, Koran barely got his arm up in time, knocking Herding's knife away as it came within a few centimetres of his eyes but slashing his arm at the same time. The bread knife flew away, embedding itself in the floor a few feet from Koran, his blood staining the sawdust around it. Taking advantage of the stunned Herding, Koran punched him solidly with his right fist, then again. His dagger came up and he rolled suddenly, legs pinning the older man's arms to his side as he knelt over Herding, the knife held at his throat.

"Give me a reason, Herding, and I will slit your throat-"

"Slit my throat?" Herding interrupted, his adam's apple bobbing over the knife as a few pinpricks of blood were drawn from it. "Well, that would make a fine end to this whole thing, wouldn't it? All would know, Koran, how you plotted against me, how you got me drunk and murdered me-"

"But my men know it didn't happen like that - I have been with them all night-"

"If my followers and I have found out over a long career of subordination, it is that anyone can be bought, boy!" came the snap, like a suddenly rising crocodile. "Bloody naivity, you foolish little whelp - anyone can be bought, and anyone taken out of the picture for a while!"

"And that is what you planned to do with me, is it? Hmm, Captain? 'Take me out of the picture'?" Koran's voice was soft but harsh. He held down his captive with almost no effort, his knees kneading Herding's elbows painfully as he sat back, knife still pressing on the older man's throat. Somehow his quietness was worse than when he shouted, and Herding didn't reply this time, although his sneering, dead eyes looked up at Koran with all the emotion of a fish. Koran leant forward suddenly, hissing fiercely, "You wanted the glory of my victory. You would have taken me out."

"Your victory?" Herding laughed, as much as he could past the dagger. "What victory, boy? The whole operation would be mind! Why would the eye taken any notice of a mere pup, a nothingness-"

"I am not nothing, Herding!" Koran bellowed.

"Koran!"

The young captain didn't look up as he recognised Ehan's voice, and heard the sound of other feet at the opening of the tent, breathing heavily, his eyes locked on Herding's, his knife steady against the man's throat. In the stunned silence that followed, his finally looked across at his companion - and one of Herding's men took advantage. Having crossed quietly behind Koran, he now pounced, grabbing Koran's arms and spinning him around, punching him sounded across the face. Koran reeled from the shock and his approaching tiredness, but replied quickly, ducking around behind the man as he made for another shot, and using both hands to thump him powerfully at the base of the neck with the hard, heavy pommel of his dagger. The man fell silently, but another came forward and Koran threw himself into the fight blindly, until he felt his arms grabbed and locked behind him. Struggling, he stopped as soon as he recognised the voice that spoke urgently behind him. "Captain, Captain, it's me, it's Ehan!"

Koran stopped struggling and relaxed, but Ehan kept hold of his arms. Having got up from the floor, Herding limped towards him, acting as if his injuries were actually far worse than had been inflicted. Koran watched him steadily, his gaze fiery, until Herding laughed in his face. "Nice try, boy," he taunted mockingly. Koran retaliated by spitting in his face.

Herding cried out and thumped him across the face as Ehan belatedly let go of his arms. He reeled, but was ready for it, and his head whipped back with lightning speed. "Those who plot against their own men are the contempt of whatever gods wander this earth, and they will deal with whatever is left after I am done with Lorien - after I am done with you, good captain Herding," Koran whispered. Then, bending down to take his dagger from where it had dropped, he turned and ran from the tent.

[Kransha]

Thrákmazh took his time wondering the length of the orcish camp. Each night, when the army made new camp in the time of the sun’s setting, roads were soon worn into weary earth by stampeding feet. Well-traveled paths had been forged by passing soldiers, paths that Thrákmazh now trod upon, watching as his sentinels and trusted lieutenants aroused there men, forcefully yanking them from their nightly slumber and wrenching them into harsh, humid reality. The air was crisp as the familiar blue of daylight skies began to overwhelm the dawn’s red which bled over the blackness that had been before. A flurry of color filled the sky, red tinged clouds billowing around the golden orb of the sun as it arched its way up into still darkened heavens. Thrákmazh’s one eye peered up, glaring straight through the thick plumes of gray cloud at the luminous sphere. His eye protested, trying to close, but the orc’s dark resilience held the lid back, torturing the eye into staring directly at the bright light that extinguished the sky’s more desirable cloak of shadows. It was barely morning, as heralded by the rising of the sun, but Thrakmazh wanted the day to begin, and, with nature’s passing irrelevant to his power, he sought to begin the march anew. He knew that the Southrons were not yet awakened, and cursed them for their lethargy.

They would betray him, all of them, unless he did it first! He knew this know and was surer than ever of what he had to do. He had to take control. Elven eyes were everywhere in his clouded, and Southrons breathing down his neck. The images of them, swarthy, dark, traitorous, riddled his infected, infested skull, deep down where they could not be purged. ‘You must slay them, slay them all!’ he told himself, his own voice darkly augmented, booming like some strange metallic thunder, grating on his being, ‘This is your chance, your day. The time of the orcs has come. Only the urûks of Gorthaur the Cruel, the mighty Eye, shall survive. A great flame has settled; a great a terrible fire that will scorch the land, darken the sky, shake the pillars of Middle-Earth and bring its lands crashing down, split asunder. Then, when the dust and smoke clear all that will remain are the orcs, mastered of their own designs, masters of all. You, Thrákmazh the Mighty, will be a lord among orcs.’ But, the only way to get these dreams, to fulfill them, was to destroy all the enemies of Sauron, and that included the disloyal men in his service. He knew this too, for, in his state of madness and paranoia, all the orcish naiveté in him had disappeared, evaporated from him fully, leaving his senses honed and sharpened like the tip of a jagged blade, or one of the blood-tipped bolts in his quiver. He needed to eliminate those who would eliminate him, or diminish the value of his deeds.

‘Herding, Herding is susceptible!’ he almost said aloud, still walking slowly, feigning supervision of the waking orcs, ‘Herding will turn. Koran is a righteous fool, a stupid boy. But, he is strong. They hate now, but soon they will hate with a passion so great it will tear them apart…just as this accursed sword devours me, they will be devoured by their suspicion, their anger. Use it, Thrákmazh, use what you were given by the Eye. You have power, Thrákmazh, and that is all you need to destroy those wretched fools. Make them feel the fear you feel, make them fear each other. Naught can go ill if all illness is suffered by others. Make them sick with the parasite of distrust. Let loose the hounds within them and watch them slay each other. Take command, Thrakmazh the Mighty, take what is yours!’

His reverie was shattered by Urkrásh, who, sidling up to him, slunk along beside, avoiding the blade that dangled at his side. As the whole camp knew by now, Thrákmazh had, for no apparent reason, slain one of his troops last night. Many feared he’d gone mad, others said he was producing the proper atmosphere for the fight ahead, and others claimed that he did it purely for fun, Whatever the reason, Thrákmazh’s troops now feared him more than ever before, and mutinous, dark feelings had been welled up in them, bottled up beneath their captain’s unending oppression. Thrákmazh was almost flamboyant in his distaste for them, and cared nothing of their newfound disliking of him. He was their captain, after all, and held all of their useless lives in the grimy palm of his hand. Urkrásh looked to him suspiciously, but remained ever his servant, with familiar unflinching loyalty. “There is something amiss at the Southron’s side of camp, Thrákmazh.” He murmured quietly, after a long, uncomfortable pause.

Suddenly, his eyes blazing embers behind their grate, Thrákmazh whipped around, swiveling on his armored feet, each having taken root like the dual trunks of mighty trees in the earth, and his hand dove up. His groping talons latched onto the hapless orc’s throat, dragging Urkrásh ignobly to the ground and constricting with the hold of a serpent bent on the extermination of its prey. Thrákmazh, his breathing distorted and erratic, pulled the trembling orc serf up towards him, his single eye and hooked nose and inch away from the other’s. “That’s Captain, worm,” he growled gutturally, “Captain Thrákmazh. I am your lord, not your equal, just like everyone else here.” He found his free hand snaking uncontrollably towards the blade at his side again, it’s moon-white gleam, ivory and pure, bathed in sunlight from the new day’s dawning. His eye was widened, trying to pry itself free of his misshapen skull. The veins that could be seen through his rough, leathery flesh bulged outward, making the orc captain look as if he were about to erupt. Finally, his hand quivering in bizarre anticipation, he settled, he tensed muscles relaxing and open hand tugging itself away from the Elven blade. With a breathy snarl, he dropped Urkrásh to the ground. The orc rubbed his sore throat tenderly, looking up at Thrákmazh with a truly fearful look on his face, one of unadulterated terror.

“Are you just going to sit there?!” he bellowed, almost maniacally, causing Urkrásh to sink even lower to the ground. He felt a familiar feeling welling up in him, pulsing in his veins and flowing, mingling with his blood. The same unbridled fury he felt in his sleepless nights, whenever he held the sword of the nameless Elf. Thrákmazh was literally vibrating because of the maddening fury he felt. His hands would not stop trembling, his legs would not stop wobbling, and his vision was obscured by the constant motion of his eye, darting from side to side in its socket. He tried to relax, but he could not. Growling in pain and anguish, he staggered backward through the muddy road. He saw shadows everywhere, dancing across his plane of sight. He saw only shadow, heard only shrill screaming all around him, smelled only the putrid stench of death and decay, and his throat and mouth could form no words. For a moment, he was lost, fading in and out of being in front of Urkrásh, who could not even begin to fathom the madness, the growing insanity of his master. The orc captain seethed and raged, his coughing gasps turning to roars and thunderous cacophony until…

He fell to his knees, level with Urkrásh; his one-eyed closed…He felt oddly better. His eye managed to open, coming into focus, and all things returned to their normal state. His swimming gaze sharpened and became again precise, the screaming and crashing in his ears turned to the vaguely recognizable thumping of orc feet on soft dirt, the smell wafting in his flared nostrils turned from sickly, nauseating stench to that of normality. Thrákmazh almost wretched, pulling in all the air he could after his episode, filling his lungs with it completely. At last, he exhaled, sighing deeply, and staggered onto one knee. He seemed more a feeble octogenarian that the mighty captain of urûks as he pushed himself wearily to his feet.

“Captain…you’re bleeding.” Ventured Urkrásh as quietly as he could, moving towards Thrákmazh to help him up. Thrákmazh felt the warm black liquid seeping from the creased corner of his mouth, forming a river between his fangs. He couldn’t guess where it came from, but he wiped it off all the same with a crude gesture and pushed Urkrásh away. “What…what is amiss?” he managed to say, his commanding voice an angry, disillusioned stammer instead of itself.

“Th-they say there was a fight, Captain Thrákmazh. Herding and Cenbryt were involved.”

The scowl on Thrákmazh’s face turned to a wicked grin. His plan was working. “Good work, Urkrásh.” He said, sounding pleased again, his fit fully ended, “Tell the lieutenants to ready all troops as fast as possible. We have much work to do.” With that, grinning sinisterly from ear to pointed ear, Thrákmazh clapped his servant heartily on the back, a most disconcerting gesture, and began trudging down the manmade path again, mumbling inaudibly to himself. He began heading doggedly past the ranks of awakening orcs, bathed in subtle morning light, and towards the Southron campsite, where his target lay.

He wondered silently who he should go to first. He had assured them both of betrayal, and the seeds of dissent, sewn a day ago, had sprouted in the night’s rain, blossoming into flowers that only held beauty to Thrákmazh One-Eye. He would head to his ‘esteemed colleagues’ and console them. An “I told you so” or two might not be out of place, considering the circumstances. He decided that it would be best to approach the vulnerable, corruptible captain, Herding. Certainly he would turn with relative ease. Also, as if to drive the point home, Thrákmazh was nearest to Herding’s tent, and could see slight commotion outside of it. Smiling to himself, he hurried towards it, ignoring the sharp glances of passing Southrons, and pushed through the small crowd that had gathered, dodging past several men coming from the Southron captain’s tent. Hurriedly, he darted inside, brushing aside the tent flap. He found Herding wandering the length of his tent within, with a few soldiers or guards still working within, perhaps talking with him, and seeking his counsel relating to the conflict. When their eyes fell on Thrákmazh, though, they scurried out.

“Captain Herding,” Thrákmazh said when he finally caught Herding’s eye, an almost mocking air of concern in his raspy voice as his brow softened to look pitying, “I have heard most ill news. Are you alright?” Even though the concern was fully pretend, it still seemed just as inappropriate on the face of an orc as true pity might look. His contorted face showed no semblance of pity, at least not within. Herding looked at him with no more than a glare of contempt, which was followed by a snappy comment which Thrákmazh had expected. “I don’t need your sympathy, orc.” Herding spat, somewhat violently.

Thrákmazh looked amused as he stalked towards Herding. He felt exactly as he had the previous day when he’d entered Herding’s tent. The orc crossed his arms, bemused, and ambled, tracing his steps precisely as he paced the length of the captain’s residence. “Word has reached my ears that you and Cenbryt had a…” he pondered hesitantly over the proper word, or a synonym thereof, “a falling-out. Is this true?” The concern in his voice more sounded like feline curiosity now as the orc glanced, one tuft of eyebrow strangely raised.

“What of it?” Herding snapped back. He was as quick as ever, and his senses seemed sharpened. He was angrier than he’d been yesterday, though in a more reserved fashion. He managed to look and sound very composed. He kept his face turned from Thrákmazh, stooping over an unidentified piece of furniture in one corner. He seemed to be brooding, and Thrákmazh knew why. Hammering down on the deceitful nail endlessly, Thrákmazh continued on, fulfilling the script as it was written. “You know well enough…I was right.” At this, Herding spun, not angrily, but with a concealed emotion fueling him. Thrákmazh now saw that Herding’s face was bruised and discolored, the lingering stain of dried blood on his lips. The fight had been more than a little scuffle and the orc found himself disappointed that he’d missed it.

“Were you, now?” Herding said, still gentle-voiced, but obviously seething, “You spoke to me of youth and foolishness. Cenbryt may be young and foolish, but he is a shrewd devil as well. You spoke in riddles, and that has gotten me nothing but a black eye and a broken bottle of good wine.” He jabbed a finger at the numerous crystalline shards of bright scarlet that speckled the ground around one of the tent’s support beams and then jerked the same finger at his bruised face, then turned away. Grinning undetectably – again – Thrákmazh advanced, hungry for satisfaction.

“He tried to kill you, but failed,” Thrákmazh murmured, “and so he pretended that his intentions were noble.”

“You truly think so, do you? Cenbryt is a fool, just as you said, but that is useless to me.”

Herding found Thrákmazh’s hand suddenly present on his shoulder, resting there nonchalantly, “To us, Herding, to us,” Thrákmazh whispered, in a most disquieting fashion. He paused, as if he had something truly revolutionary or controversial he was about to confess. His words sounded forced, unlike they usually did, and his eerie smile was most certainly not. “…I have a…proposition for you.” Herding looked to him, incredulous.

“Another conspiracy theory? Save your breath.”

“Koran wants you dead.” Thrákmazh stated bluntly.

“I had figured out that much.” The Southron nodded.

“He will attempt again on the eve of battle to slay you.”

“Once again the orc speaks the obvious.” Herding growled, his tone dark and sardonic, he spun, bearing down on the orc, who was shorter than him only because of his squatting, drooping posture. “Get to the point.”

Thrákmazh nodded back knowingly, taking a wary step back, and continued. “But…” he hesitated again, drawing out the silence in the air, “what if we attack him first?” Herding’s gaze turned to a very mild curiosity, possibly even interest, and Thrákmazh could tell he was at least hooked by the orc’s delectable bait “…On battle’s eve,” he continued, droning, “when we are camped near Lorien, we must strike, you and I, together. There will be some manner of signal we share, one of your choosing. The orcs under my command will gladly attack the Southrons of Cenbryt’s, and your will surely follow you to the same end. All at once, we cut off the power of our foe. He will be surrounded and only a few of his men will remain loyal. If we offer them the spoils of war…and the option to live, many will surely come to our side. Then, we take Cenbryt and the remaining ‘rebels’ captive (most unfortunately, we could not kill them all right away, for the Eye would look upon that as unnecessary action). Then, after we have proved they were traitorous to the troops, they will corroborate the necessity to slay them…Then; you can have your way with Koran Cenbryt.”

He stopped, letting silence return again and Herding absorb all he’d said. The Southron was looking down at the ground, his eyes averted from the foul, single-eyed [i]uruk[i]. Still grinning, though more noticeably now, Thrákmazh took back the ground he’d lost, taking a step towards Herding. Slowly, cautiously, he extended his hand, palm open, towards the captain of Southrons, index finger twitching strangely (though, as far as he could tell, Herding didn’t notice). The man looked up at Thrákmazh, taking note of his outstretched hand. Thrákmazh knew that the moment of truth had come. What level would the wretch stoop to? He could only hope his ploy would be a believable one. All he could do was quietly wait for Herding’s response.

“What say you?”

[Orofaniel]

Wasn't this the best time to discuss such matters? Herding thought and gave a deep sigh. He thought for a moment about what the Orc Captain had said; “He tried to kill you, but failed,”

Herding gloated. It was true; the young lad had tried to kill him, with his very effort, but he had failed. Koran was defeated by a drunk Captain. Herding suddenly burst into a great laughter, feeling nothing but joy, the pain from his wounds were long forgotten. "What are you laughing at?" Thrákmazh growled seeming both annoyed and offended that Herding wasn't taking his question seriously enough. He didn't know though, that Herding was thinking about something else. Herding was too caught up in his own thoughts to even notice the annoyance in the Orc's eyes and continued as before, until his thoughts returned to Thrákmazh's question.

He didn't really know what to do about it. To kill Koran was of course what had to be done, and it was going to happen as well - it was only matter of when it was going to happen and how. Herding then concluded that Thrákmazh's idea wasn't bad at all. In fact it could work pretty well, with everything well planned of course. Herding was still suffering fromgreat hesitation regaring the Orc's porposal; Herding wasn't too sure though if Koran's men would betray him. Would his own men do that? Herding swallowed, as he realised the answer to his own question; if they were given the option to live, then perhaps, some of them would betray him. Some would stay truthful, wouldn’t they?. He was aware of the situation now- so all of a sudden.

"But what if Koran's men still remains true to him when we strike?" he then asked the Orc. Now fully returned to civil manners, without any obnoxious thoughts or ideas of his own. "If they remain true to him, we'll kill 'em anyway. They are fewer than us; we'll rip 'em before they even lay a hand upon us. Believe me," Thrákmazh said. It seemed comforting on Herding's part, but Herding was too wise to think that this would be likely; Koran's men were great soldiers. They wouldn't have any problems at all killing several of those filthy Orcs each. But then again, it was the question of those who would stay faithful to Koran Cenbryt in a situation like that.

"You still haven't answered my question," Thrákmazh then reminded him, speaking quite loud. "That's because it's folly to make such a decision right now," he said, looking at one of his wounds. "Ah, you're right. I didn't expect that though," the Orc said mischievously.

"Didn’t expect what, if I may ask?" Herding then asked him politely, bur curious about the meaning of Thrákmazh's most recent words. "I would have thought you'd figure out a plan of your own to revenge Koran's attack on you. But here you are, not willing to take any risks, nor even considering anything of your own. Besides, my proposal is as good as it gets, still you are hesitating..." The Orc Captain then said, looking at him with the only eye the Orc possessed. Herding felt annoyed; he could kill Koran all by himself, if it was needed; Today Koran had tried to kill him, but even if Herding was a bit drunk he hadn’t managed it. Cenbryt was weak, and Herding could crush him whenever he wanted too. As simple as that. But instead of telling this to Thrákmazh he said;

"You're wrong…"

"I haven't found time yet to plot anything against Cenbryt after the fight; remember, you entered my tent, with such a proposal in your mind as the only intention of coming here," Herding the continued. "I don't reckon there has been much time for me to think about anything yet...See my dilemma?" Herding then said finally without any interruptions.

"I see," Thrákmazh then said, unwillingly. He obviously didn't like Herding's conclusion. "You've had a lot to drink this evening..." he said, looking at the broken empty bottle..

"I'll let you rest, and think about it until tomorrow morning," Thrákmazh said trying not to seem too annoyed over not having an answer until tomorrow. Herding felt treated unfairly, as he didn't see himself as drunk to be incapable of making decisions of importance; he was fully capable of making any decisions, no matter what decisions that needed to be made.

"Hold on," Herding said, as the Orc was about to take his leave. "Captain..?" he answered. "We'll do it; we'll surrender him near Lorien, then we'll kill him," Herding then decided spontaneously, feeling the blood rush to his head. A twisted smile came across Thrákmazh face as he heard the news, and he didn’t try to hide it either, as delighted as he seemed to be. "Alright Captain Herding," he said, respectfully;" You'll get your revenge....I promise you...we'll both get what we want.."

"Let me kill Cenbryt when the time has come," Herding then said; "Let me finish him off...Let me be the very last thing he sees upon this earth until he falls into shadow...”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ambarturion sought shelter from the rain of black-fletched arrows that streamed toward them from the underbrush, cursing the fate that had left him unequipped to respond to the attack. Megilaes pressed himself behind the tree adjoining Ambarturion’s own and the two waited with eager impatience for a break to come in the archery battle so that they could engage the enemy. Coromoswyth had taken up a position not far from theirs and she was firing into the brush, but without apparently much success. The orcs had come upon them with some plan in mind and, as Ambarturion had feared, they were making the most of the time the Elves had given them. They were being assailed now from both sides, and though the eyes and arrows of the Mirkwood Elves were keen, it was a hopeless battle: no group of archers, no matter how accomplished, could long withstand an attack upon two fronts.

Ambarturion whipped out his sword crying “To me! To me!” and stepped from his shelter. A movement in the corner of his eye made him swirl to one side, but not quickly enough to avoid the vicious barbs of an orc arrow. There was a sudden pain and then nothing as it sank into his arm. Ambarturion knew instantly that the arrow had penetrated no vital artery and that it had missed the bone, and without further thought he ripped it from his flesh with one agonising motion. His cry of pain became one of rage as he and his student ran toward the nearest group of orcs.

Two of the creatures had been slain by the arrows of the scouts, and the other four fell before the blades of the enraged Elves. Ambarturion’s stolen orc weapon shattered upon the armour of his last victim so he was forced to take up the only weapon that came to hand, a short jagged dagger. He then spun and ran back toward the other force of orcs, but the scouts had finally found their nerve and engaged them. Three lay dead, and Megilaes quickly killed a fourth. Ambarturion ran at the remaining two who tried to flee before him, but he quickly outpaced them. He punched the larger of the two in the back and sent him spinning into the trees. The other whirled upon him, snarling out his hatred through his yellowed teeth and lunged at him with his blade. Ambarturion easily avoided the blow and struck the orc upon the head, driving him into the ground. He drew back the orc’s head and prepared to slit its throat but a voice commanded him to wait.

Ambarturion looked up in surprise to see the leader of the scouts advancing toward him with his hands raised. “No!” he said. “Do not slay them. We might be able to discover from them where their army is headed.”

Ambartuion nearly spat at the idea. “They are but the maggots of Mordor, they do not know anything of use.” He made to slit the throat once more.

“NO!” the captain cried. “I said do not kill them!” And he took hold of Ambarturion’s wrist.

Ambarturion rose to his feet in fury of the insubordination. He gripped the orc dagger and advanced upon the captain, and had it not been for Coromswyth’s hand upon his chest he did not know what outrage he had been prepared to commit. “Ambarturion!” she said softly, as though to a maddened animal. “What would you do? Are you not ashamed to offer violence where you should be paying gratitude? Were it not for these our brethren we would surely have been taken and…killed by the orcs.” Ambarturion noted her slight hesitation as she omitted the unspeakable word that had haunted her since the incident at the Southron’s tent. She saw this but continued as though she did not. “Do not forget yourself! Our duty is to the Lady, and Calenvása is right, these orcs might know something.

The rage in his heart faltered and failed, and for a quick moment, he almost felt the shame that Coromswyth spoke of. But rather than respond to her appeal, Ambarturion dropped the orc upon the ground and strode off in search of better weapons.

[Arry]

The blows of the enraged Elves proved too much for the leaderless band of Orcs. From where Gromwakh stood he could see two of his fellows cut down by a return of fire from the Elvish scouts. Then, blades in hands, the Elves who had been held captive and their deliverers fell upon the remaining Orcs. Four more of the group had been killed almost immediately.

Snikdul’s eyes had gone wide at the deaths of two of those who had come with them from the North. Before Gromwakh could catch hold of him, Snikdul raced forward, his club and blade beating a wild tattoo in the air before him. The jagged blade caught one of the rescuer Elves hard in the arm, causing the Elf’s blade to drop. Snikdul pushed forward, seeking to take advantage of the injury. Gromwakh yelled at him to beware . . . too late!

The male Elf they had captured, the injured one, cut him down with little effort, his rage pouring through his blade. Snikdul crashed to the ground, death already glazing his eyes. Gromwakh came to the aid of his friend, intent on dragging him from harm’s way. A blow to the back from a well-aimed arrow drove the Orc to his knees, and he fell forward just inches from his companion. Gromwakh heard another approach him, saw the long shadow of yet another Elf slice across the two of them as they lay there. There was not long to wait for the inevitable blow that seared through his neck, bringing darkness and the final release.

[Durelin]

It was the thrill of battle? No, Calenvása would never call it a thrill. Though it heightened something within him, it numbed his mind, his heart, and the movement of his body felt unreal, all feelings, both physical and mental, were those of a separate person. His conscious being was separate of his body as an observer of what occurred surrounding his physical being. It left his body feeling numb, and his head in a haze. But since no thought could penetrate that haze, Calenvása was relatively content, even feeling a bit free. For those thoughts were quite a burden, and for them to be completely lifted from him, for his mind to be completely blank, even for a short time, it was blissful in a frightening way. Yes, it frightened him. But it was the thrill of battle that set him free.

But it lasted so short a time in his mind. In one moment he was with his back to Thorvel, downing an orc with a slash across the chest. He risked a glance around him, and saw Ambarturion, with one of his guards by his side, looking as cold as ever, any fury he might receive in battle seeming little different from his normal state. One could wonder what went on in that elf’s mind till the Last Music, it seemed, but now was not the time to start. Coromswyth fired her bow nearby, of course, but who was guarding who was hard to tell. In another moment, the orcs were all but eliminated, certainly scattered and finished. It seemed they realized this, as Calenvása made his way over to the two ambassadors, breaking into a run as he watched Ambarturion prepare to slit the throat of an orc There were two left, clearly captured and of no danger. And yet it seemed hatred called the elf to make them forever of no danger.

“No!” he cried out, watching the ambassador put his dagger up to the orc’s throat. “Do not slay them. We might be able to discover from them where their army is headed.” Ambarturion was supposed to be a wise diplomat, and yet he acted on a gut instinct, and hatred at that. Of all the people who might see the mistake in this, he should be the one. Calenvása had seen him as cold and collected, thoughtful and considering. He had been wrong. Sighing quietly and bitterly, he realized what he had done. He had had a feeling, when he watched the ambassador take automatically take command with a forcefulness that would have been offensive to anyone with a more heated temperament, and that feeling was an uneasiness that told him that, for some reason, he should not like what Ambarturion did. A gut feeling he had not listened to.

“They are but the maggots of Mordor, they do not know anything of use.” The fierceness in his voice, while remaining his severe self, made Calenvása remember that feeling he had had concerning Ambarturion clearly. It was not at all a good feeling. He watched as the knife went again for the orc’s blood. “NO!” he cried out again, finally listening to that feeling, and letting it fill his voice with anger. “I said do not kill them!”

Ambarturion’s eyes were filled with his own anger, one of indignant disobedience that would have stared down Calenvása only moments before. But now the Captain had come to a decision, come to a conclusion. He did not like it, but he was free from constant doubt and worrying, a constant need to think about everything logically, that never brought him to conclusions that he felt were fitting. For now, at least, he did not care if any of his decisions were ‘fitting’, whatever that meant. All that mattered was that he would be making decisions, driven by feelings and logic, using both in as much of a balance as he could. They did not mix well, though.

Holding the ambassador’s gaze, he felt his grip tighten on Ambarturion’s arm, finally realizing that he had grabbed his wrist. Coromswyth started to speak to the elf softly, and Calenvása found himself feeling grateful for this. “Ambarturion! What would you do? Are you not ashamed to offer violence where you should be paying gratitude? Were it not for these our brethren we would surely have been taken and…killed by the orcs.” She paused for a moment, and Calenvása lost the rest of her words in his mind as he concentrated on the minds of both of the ambassadors. In a strange way, it seemed they complimented each other.

Ambarturion pulled his arm away from Calenvása, and the Captain watched him drop the orc, and then sheathed the knife. The order in which he did this was important to note, and was of no surprise. He quickly left, and Calenvása followed him with his eyes to find that he was searching for weapons. The Captain sighed, and turned back to Coromswyth. He gave her a short bow, passing a thanks to her through his eyes. He did not like words, at least not anymore. Perhaps at one time he had found them useful. Now he found them troublesome and mostly empty. Targil soon joined he and the lady elf, and Calenvása charged him with looking after the prisoners for now. “Notify me when they find their minds,” he said briefly, and was surprised to find Targil chuckle softly at this. The Captain simply smiled, and it felt good on his lips.

But then he heard someone speak behind him. It was Thorvel. “Calenvása,” he whispered urgently. “I have found Lómarandil. It seems the orcs remembered him and his weakness, and that was used to their advantage. He received only one more wound, but I am unsure of what kind of shape he is in.” Calenvása gestured to Thorvel to lead him, and he followed his companion without a word. The elf took the time to voice some of his concerns to his Captain. “I do not trust Ambarturion with any kind of authority, Captain.”

Now he chose to call him Captain. Those under his command confused him to no end, and this had brought many worries to Calenvása in the past. Today he chose to listen more closely and observe more closely, and know what he could about what went on in their minds, and not concern himself with foolish worry. “I know,” he said, with the most surety that he had felt in weeks. Thorvel looked at him for another moment before realizing that he would get nothing more from his Captain. Calenvása expected him to be content with that. But then he found Lómarandil, within a patch of bushes and other growth, and he worried.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel found himself standing alone on the edge of the clearing. He was unhurt except for the few nicks that should be expected in a battle, however small. There were no living Orcs that he could see, save one: a sniveling Orc on the ground between Calenvása and Ambarturion. Coromswyth and Megilaes were close by, as was Targil. But Lómarandil... Thorvel did not see him. He frowned. He hoped the younger Elf had not gotten himself killed. He strode over to where Lómarandil had been before, paying attention out of the corner of his eye to the confrontation between the Captain and Ambarturion. It was more out of the habit of being aware of everything that was going on around him than anything else; a scout who did not learn that was soon a dead scout.

He found Lómarandil very close to where he thought he would be, and Lómarandil did not look good at all. He was laying in some bushes, and was clearly in quite a bit of pain. He had acquired a new injury. It looked serious, possibly fatal. He bit his lip, unsure of what to do. He extremely small skill with any kind of injuries and healing. Calenvása should know, he decided. And Coromswyth. She seemed to understand that kind of thing.

He turned around. Calenvása had his back to him, and Thorvel watched in satisfaction as Ambarturion stalked off. The Captain had had his way, and the Orc was alive, prime for questioning. He did not know why Calenvása had chosen now to stand up to Ambarturion and not earlier, but he was glad to see it. The other Elves nearby soon formed a group a little way away, leaving Calenvása with the captive Orc. Thorvel headed over there. He got close enough so that only the Captain could hear him.

“Calenvása,” he whispered. He surprised himself to no end at using his Captain’s name. He did not think he had done that before to any Captain before. He did not let it throw him off, though, and continued. “I have found Lómarandil. It seems the orcs remembered him and his weakness, and that was used to their advantage. He received only one more wound, but I am unsure of what kind of shape he is in.” The Captain motioned for him to lead, and Thorvel did so. He decided to use the time alone with the Captain to his advantage. He had seen Calenvása stand up to Ambarturion, but still...

“I do not trust Ambarturion with any kind of authority, Captain,” he said, the proper title back in place.

“I know,” he replied. Thorvel looked at him sidelong, and nodded. If that was all the Captain chose to share with him, he would take it. Leadership was a quality a Captain needed, and it reassured Thorvel. Thorvel said no more until they reached Lómarandil. Calenvása appeared worried, confirming Thorvel’s suspicions that the injury was serious.

“Should I... should I go get Coromswyth? She seems skilled at healing...” he said. Calenvása nodded, and his voice was tight. “Yes. Go get her, and only her.” Thorvel acquiesced, not hurrying exactly but certainly not slowly. Anything faster would draw a good deal of unwanted attention, if they hadn’t already. When he reached the group, he placed himself in front of Coromswyth, and addressed her softly enough that the others would not hear without straining their ears.

“Coromswyth, I think your skills will be needed once more. It is Lómarandil... he has been injured again, and the Captain and I think it may be serious.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

As the elf spoke, Coromswyth looked up from where she knelt, startled: he had moved so quietly, more so than any she had been around in a while - the elves of Lorien did not disguise their footsteps when in the Wood, for what was the point? When he spoke, his voice, also, was soft. Did this actually reflect on his nature, she wondered absently. She wasn't sure why she wanted to work out the natures and minds of the elves so quickly and so much - it seemed more than simply idle curiosity. They seemed...different. Not quite hostile, certainly not towards Coromswyth herself, but the tension which was growing between Ambarturion and the Mirkwood elves was impossible to ignore.

"Lómarandil..." Coromswyth narrowed her eyes questioningly. "His shoulder again?"

The elf - Thorvel, she now remembered - nodded, but said no more. Stabbing her sword into the ground hastily but keeping hold of the dagger, Coromswyth stood and gestured for him to lead the way as she dug in one voluminous skirt pocket for the little equipment that she kept there. She shook her head regretfully - the pouch with much of her healing equipment, collected and created over years, had been lost when the Southrons and orcs had overcome them. Sighing inwardly, she followed Thorvel briskly to a patch of half flattened bushes...and winced as she saw the state of the elf sprawled within them. Kneeling immediately beside Lómarandil she rolled the now unconcious elf over onto his back with great care, her eyes running critically over his wounds. Putting two fingers to his face, she turned his head over to face her and winced as she saw the gash across it, already speckled with dirt and small bits of stone where it had been lying on the ground - and she was fairly sure not all of the blood was his. Coupled with the newly bleeding shoulder - she hadn't had much time to deal with that before - with a more serious, new gash beneath it, and a long, spreading patch of blood on the side of his tunic...

"Your Captain, much as he disapproves of myself and Ambarturion, is wise," she murmured softly. Thorvel opened his mouth and she half smiled, not looking up from her patient. "Don't protest, Thorvel, you know it is true," she added, sounding like a schoolteacher. Her smile faded and her expression became grimmer as she began to unbutton the front of Lómarandil's tunic, pulling it back so she could see the wound and she winced, her frown deepening: the gash across the young elf's side was not particularly deep for the most part, but the blackening of blood in the middle of it was ominous, and obviously deeper. As gently as she could, Coromswyth put her fingers on either side of the wound and pulled it very slightly apart. The elf groaned and his eyes flickered and she released her grip, her fear confirmed by the glimpse of a glint of metal in the gash.

"Poison..." she murmured, then looked up at Thorvel. "His...the orcish blades are poisoned, and it is one of them that has caught him across she side - and part of it, I think, has lodged itself there."

Thorvel bit his lip nervously, nodding. "What can I do?"

"Firstly, call over the other - what is...Targil! Yes, call over Targil. Secondly..." Coromswyth took only a split second pause as Thorvel complied, knowing that to ask whether he was squeamish would be a waste of breath, and would be a pointless insult besides. The elf knelt beside her at her bidding and she bid him put two fingers on either side of the centre of the wound as she wiped the dagger as best she could on her skirts to remove the blood, spitting on it and wiping again vigorously as beside her Targil arrived. "Targil, take off your belt please, and tie it around Lómarandil's arm, at the top, just above the gash - tighten it considerably." Sensing his hesitation, she looked up and caught his eyes. "Please, the gash it deep: it needs a tourniquet, to cut off the blood so he can lose no more."

Her voice dropped as she rubbed frantically at her dagger again. "I wish I could sterilise with fire, but there is no time..." she murmured in some absent explanation, before turning back to Lómarandil and clearing her throat, preparing herself and settling herself by his side. "Thorvel...when I say so, I would like you to apply pressure quite strongly to the wound, but only around the edges. Push inwards and down: the fragment is not too deep and it will force it up. Press harder with your right fingers than your left, but only slightly: it cannot be too uneven." Her voice had assumed a clarity and authority that was not questioned or resented by Thorvel, and for that she was grateful. Taking another deep breath she adjusted her grip on the dagger, knowing the finely honed blade would be keen enough but wishing it was more delicate: she could only hope that she would not do even more damage.

"Ok, pressure...apply now," she barked quietly. Thorvel complied, Lómarandil groaned more loadly as his eyes opened...and Coromswyth saw the hint of metal that was her prey. Her left hand resting lightly on Thorvel's, she approached with the blade, her eyes only inches from the gash, and she stuck the blade into the elf's side and twisted. Lómarandil cried out, quickly stifling his cry as his fists clenched and he shut his eyes tightly. Coromswyth barely thought of him even though, as she twisted again, he tensed and every muscle in his body stiffened; then, as the fragment of metal settled on the tip of the dagger, just visible through the blood that almost obscured it, Coromswyth paused for a split second, holding her breath. Not taking any chances about the reliability of moving the dagger further, she darted forward and pinched it out between two fingers: a piece of black metal, dark as the heart of an uruk and now covered in the elf's blood. Thorvel begin to relax. "No! Don't let go!" she barked authoratively. The elf stopped out of pure shock and she shot an apologetic glance at him before reaching beneath her outer skirt and ripping off quite a long, wide strip of the soft underskirt. Holding it to the wound, partly inside, she murmured, "I need to soak out some of the 'black blood' - the poisoned blood. Is there a stream near here?"

"We are not far from the palace." It was Targil who replied. Coromswyth nodded. "Good: we shall need to clean it out more thoroughly there." She removed the now blood soaked material and dabbed a few more times around the wound area, which had stopped bleeding with such vigour and was now only weeping slightly. Nodding to Thorvel, she told him he could release his grip and he did so, with some relief it seemed, before he stood, saying he would tell the captain. She ripped off the rest of the bottom of her underskirt all the way around - soft, thin material - and began to bind Lómarandil's side. Meanwhile Targil had applied a tourniquet with some profficiency and was now binding it tightly with a similarly makeshift bandage.

"Nicely done, Coromswyth." The female elf looked up in surprise at Targil and smiled, inclining her head.

"Thank you. Your friend will be simply need a few hours rest and hopefully another healer to look at his wounds: once the poison is out, it is but really a rather shallow wound. wound. I..." She shook her head, frowning as she looked away. "I wish I had my medicine bag with me: some salve needs to be put on his side ideally. Still, I am sure your physicians at the palace will be able to deal with that..."

"It was well done, Lady," he soothed. "And getting the fragment from his side...how are you accustomed to doing so?"

"Let me tell you a secret, Targil," Coromswyth replied, softly. The Lorien elf hesitated, then leant forward conspiratorially over the elf's body, causing Targil to subconciously lean in as well. "That was the only time I have done so," she whispered.

[Durelin]

"Let me tell you a secret, Targil.” He watched the female elf hesitate before leaning forward over the body of Lómarandil, still but for ragged breathing. Targil leaned forward as well, and it felt strange to be so close to her. "That was the only time I have done so," she whispered close to his ear, her breath tickling his face. She immediately leaned back once more and stood up, and in a way he felt regret that she was no longer so close. He had felt that he could hear her mind working when she was that near, and that was something to be desired. He glanced down at Lómarandil, who was beginning to stir, before rising. He had left Megilaes, the Ambassadors’ guard, to watch the prisoner, and he wished to see the orc still safely in bonds and with two eyes watching it. Finding the prisoner and its guard as he had left them, and with the Captain nearby.

Calenvása was not paying any attention to the orc on the ground behind him, but Targil still felt a certain amount of relief at finding the Captain present. But Ambarturion was also present. It seemed he had just come from collecting weapons, finally cooled off, for now. He was back to his stony face and icy eyes. Targil watched them for any sign of that ice melting in a great heat of anger. To his relief, they only flashed slightly when the ambassador looked at Calenvása. And yet Targil felt a fire light in his eyes as he watched Ambarturion approach his Captain. He felt a certain amount of pride as he watched his Captain, his expression almost as hard as Ambarturion’s, and yet more relaxed. He seemed at ease, while the ambassador was stiff with barely suppressed anger.

“We cannot wait around for this creature to wake.”

Calenvása had not looked at the ambassador yet, and he spared him only a glance after this statement. “If we do not wait, we move forward blindly, and with a wounded comrade.”

Thorvel joined the group at this moment, leaving Coromswyth alone to keep an eye on the wounded Lómarandil. For some reason, Targil felt a touch of anger toward Thorvel for doing so. It wasn’t as if the female elf could not be left alone, even without the orc party defeated. But then Thorvel spoke: “Lómarandil has had some real luck, Captain.” Calenvása looked up from the ground, looking almost surprised that he had been addressed. Thorvel continued: “The orc blade he came in contact with was poisoned. He needs better treatment.”

The Captain let out a bitter sigh, and looked back down at the ground before him. Ambarturion took advantage of Calenvása’s despair, and spoke with a fierceness that was so commonly in his voice. “He needs better treatment, and where can that treatment be obtained?”

“We must take him to the palace…” Thorvel replied, beginning to say something more to the ambassador, his mouth working angrily. Ambarturion cut him off with his own anger, turning now to speak to directly to the Captain. “Your man says so himself. We must move, Calenvása.”

Targil felt his own anger sharpen with these words. It was how they were said, mainly that disturbed him. But there was also the missing title. Strange that he would feel that the Lorien elf had wronged Calenvása. And what was even stranger was that it felt as if he had been wronged. “That’s ‘Captain’, Ambarturion. We must move, ‘Captain’.” Calenvása looked up once more, and their eyes met in silence, the tension around them, the air filled with anger, all ignored, as a silent thanks passed between them. Respect had been earned, and it was mutual. Something came into Calenvása’s eyes, and he turned to face Ambarturion, looking him in the eye, forcing his eyes away from Targil. Then the Captain spoke for the first time as a captain. “It is of my intention to save Lorien, Ambarturion. If you are of the same intentions, you will acknowledge my command.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“I acknowledge your command of this scout troop, and in the absence of your King Thranduil I will obey your every behest in this land of our Mirkood kin. But I am bound to none save the Lord Celeborn, nor will I grant mastery to any but him or to his Lady.” Ambarturion’s words were cold and haughty, but they rang like shining steel taken from a scabbard, and all who heard them knew that they could ignore those words only at their peril. Megliaes shifted in his clothes uncomfortably as he watched the confrontation between his master and Calenvása from a safe distance. Ambarturion was the taller of the two and clearly of the more ancient lineage. But he was not in his realm, and he had been humbled by his capture. The cold danger that had lurked beneath the surface of his master’s demeanour since the murder of Caranbaith was cloaked now, but to those who knew the ancient Elf well, it was still there to see, lurking like a predator in the shadows, awaiting its moment.

Calenvása seemed to shrink in Megilaes’s eyes before the steady gaze of Ambarturion, but the captain’s reply put heart into his followers. “A fair answer, Master Ambarturion, but I do no ask you to swear allegiance to me, only to obey me in the lands of my king.”

“You speak of saving Lorien,” Ambarturion replied. “How do you propose to do this? The army that attacks now will be repulsed by the power of the Golden Lady as have the two that precede it. Or do you plan to attack the army yourself, and save my Lady the trouble?”

The younger Elf bristled visibly at the mocking tone. “We are not so rash. Where some might consider attacking, we prefer wiser and more profitable counsel. We had already decided to warn your kin of the attack, and would have done so already but for the need to rescue you.”

“We needed no rescuing. I would have soon removed my bonds and destroyed those who dared to carry us to their masters.” None there laughed.

“Be that as it may,” Calenvása continued, “we intend to continue with that plan now. But we must take thought to our wounded comrade.”

“Indeed, but there is no time to return him to the palace of Thranduil and chase after the armies of Dol Guldur. Your palace lies many days’ march north of here, and Lorien is at least one full day’s run to our west. Your loyalties are thus divided, but mine is clear. I grieve for your companion, but his fate is his and yours to determine, not mine. Whether you choose to leave him and come with me, or return with him to the palace is for you to decide.”

“And where would you have us follow you, should we decide to follow your direction?” His tone made it clear that such a decision was hypothetical at best.

“To your ending, but to one that might be worthy of a song and would win for you such renown in the memory of those who dwell in Lorien as to make it a worthwhile conclusion.”

Calenvása’s eyes narrowed. “You propose to lead us to our deaths? And how might those serve the high ones in Lorien?”

Ambarturion sighed and closed his eyes momentarily. It was becoming wearying speaking with these youths. He had forgotten what it was like having to debate and counsel with other Elves, so long had he been included in the closed circle of his Lord and Lady. In most cases, such exchanges would be unnecessary, as each opened their mind to the other and conceived of the wisest course as though there were harmonious singers in a choir. This clumsy talk was like the cawing of ravens to such music. “The main force of the army is no different from those that my people have destroyed before, and will continue to destroy for as long as the Lady keeps Lorien. But there is another force attached to the army – surely you noticed them – who are bent on another way. They will soon break away from the main force and attempt a desperate raid upon some undefended border of my land. While my people are occupied slaughtering their comrades, this force will attempt to take Caras Galadhon and destroy my Lady.”

There was a silence in the grove as those listening took this in. It was Calenvása who broke it. “Even if this is true, how will our deaths bring the Lady aid?”

“As I said, the army itself will be destroyed, but I fear that this smaller force might succeed. It is a suicide mission but one that might do terrible damage to us. We are not many, but yet we are enough to prevent the force from reaching the eaves of Lorien, or of reaching the Golden Wood in such disarray that their stroke will go awry. The number of the force cannot be much above two hundred orcs and men. My student and I alone can account for at least two score, and I daresay that each of you could destroy at least a half as many each. Well then, that’s almost half their number. With luck we might be able to destroy more. Such a blow would leave them crippled and unable to attack with any hope of success.”

“Wait a minute!” Ambarturion swung his head to regard the younger Elf, Thorvel where he stepped forward, ignoring the warning look shot him by his captain. “You propose that we should abandon or companion here and attack the smaller force by ourselves? Six against two hundred? It’s madness.”

“Perhaps, but it is what I intend to do. Help me or hinder me as you will.”

[Firefoot]

Thorvel had listened with growing satisfaction as Calenvása argued with Ambarturion. The Captain was doing what needed doing, as far as Thorvel could see. However, his eyebrows rose skeptically at hearing Ambarturion’s plan to attack the smaller force, and he could not keep quiet any longer. Earlier he had thought that the Lórien Elf’s dash into the woods was the result of clouded thinking, but Thorvel was starting to wonder if that wasn’t just how he always thought. He was hardly surprised any longer that they had been captured in the first place.

“Wait a minute!” he said. He thought he saw Calenvása shoot him a warning look, but he ignored it. “You propose that we should abandon our companion here and attack the smaller force by ourselves? Six against two hundred? It’s madness.”

“Perhaps, but it is what I intend to do. Help me or hinder me as you will.” Thorvel stared at him for a moment. Where was the other Elf’s sense? That would not help Lothlórien or the Lady, and it would get all of them killed! Ambarturion had said they could kill a full hundred of that force. What if they were killed first? Thorvel shook his head. Arguing with Ambarturion did not seem to be doing any good, and so he turned to Calenvása, who was frowning slightly.

“I think,” Thorvel began slowly, “that we should take Lómarandil with us to Lothlórien. It is closer than the palace, and he can get the care he needs there. He has been lucky so far, but I do not know if he would last the entire way to the palace. In addition, we will be able to alert the Galadhrim of the coming attack.” The last was said with a darted glance at Ambarturion. He had purposefully spoken loud enough for the others to hear. He stepped back. He had stated his opinion, one that made a great deal of sense to him, and was done speaking for the moment. Calenvása was doing a fine job debating with Ambarturion, and Thorvel intended to let him continue to do so.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Lomarandil woke from his pain with a gasp as Coromsyth squeezed the blade out. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth as he felt the metal ripping is flesh as it came out. He fell back as they walked to join the group, slowly gathering strength in his arms to push himself into a standing position. Reaching, with great pain, for his belt he opened a pouch and took out a small vial of colourless liquid. Gripping the bottle a little too tightly, he took a deep breath and poured the liquid onto his wound.

The cry could probably have been heard for miles around, and Lomarandil fell to his knees, shaking, hyperventilating, as the liquid burned into his flesh. The skin around his wound turned black and crusty within seconds, and small amounts of smoke curled their way up his tunic. The others looked round, Calenvasa looked aghast, Ambarturion impassive, and Thorvel almost impressed. Lomarandil dropped the vial, and it shattered on a stone, falling onto all fours he began to gasp for air as he tried to control the pain.

A tear fell from the corner of his eye, and using all his strenght he pushed himself to stand up. Shaking still, he walked forward towards the group and murmered as loudly as he could, "I'll be fine...just show me where they are..."

[Durelin]

“I think,” Thorvel began slowly, “that we should take Lómarandil with us to Lothlórien. It is closer than the palace, and he can get the care he needs there. He has been lucky so far, but I do not know if he would last the entire way to the palace. In addition, we will be able to alert the Galadhrim of the coming attack.”

As if he had heard the discussion turn to him, a cry was heard from the direction in which Lómarandil and Coromswyth were, clearly a yell of pain from the wounded elf. It seemed he had finally awoken to the pain of his wound. For a brief moment, Calenvása wondered what exactly that poison was doing to the elf. He came only to the conclusion that it was of a great evil, born from the minds of creatures of the greatest evil that was Sauron. It was enough to make any Child of Illuvatar shiver in a sickened fear.

It was at that moment that, to the shock of everyone present, the wounded elf himself walked toward them with an extraordinary amount of balance and strength. Coromswyth followed slowly behind him, her eyes upon the elf’s back, filled with amazement, then passing to look at Calenvása. A silent understanding passed between them that she knew nothing more than he did about what was going on. If Lómarandil’s recovery was not enough of a shock for them all, it was Targil who stepped forward to help the elf walk the last steps he needed to make to join the others.

Lómarandil glanced at the elf as he took his arm, careful of his wounds that had now grown to be several of varying severity, but the young elf said nothing. Most likely it took too much strength to speak, though it was obvious that nothing needed to be said. Calenvása watched in wonder, and found it hard to focus on the words Lómarandil was saying, his mind abuzz with thoughts that would not rest until they all had been run through his mind.

"I'll be fine...just show me where they are..."

The Captain assumed that he spoke of the army, though it was hard to tell. The elf had found the strength to rise from where he had lain and to walk the distance to the group, but it was clear that there was little other strength left in him. His wounds were seemingly – miraculously enough - not doing him any immediate harm. He spoke softly, his breath too short for much to be spared for speech. It was strange to see the young elf in this weakened state, without his usual vigor and energy that so often was manifested in recklessness. But the voice of Targil sounded even stranger to Calenvása’s ears.

“It was spoken in haste that it would be best for us to return to the palace,” Targil said, his voice almost as quiet as Lómarandil’s, and his tone surprisingly calm. “And now even to speak of Lómarandil as a burden at all.” The way this was said made it clear to the Captain that there was more meaning to it than what was found on the surface of these words. A burden was what Targil had always seemed to see the young elf as. And a burden that was not worth being carried by him. Of course it had also been clear that Targil had not particularly approved of Calenvása himself. Never had Targil been seen showing much respect to anyone. Not until recently…the recent times had changed them all. He could feel the world changing.

“Haste, indeed…” Ambarturion’s voice was no less spiteful than before, and only slightly less calm. “You speak of haste, and that is what is required of us.”

“I speak of a haste that had consequences. You speak of a reckless haste that will bring us to our deaths,” Calenvása said quickly, snapping at the Lorien elf. “The haste you speak of is unnecessary. There are many things on our side that you refuse to see, Ambarturion. You see the roughest road as the only road, and take it. The path you wish to take at this time is one that ends in the needless deaths of us all. And what is your reason for taking this path? Renown? To be remembered in a song as those who died for Lorien? Why not be remembered as those who lived for your land…my brother.”

They were of a kindred, the remainder of a kindred who lingered in a darkening Middle-Earth, refusing a call to other lands to live in these. To live in these lands, and for these lands. Ambarturion was his brother, as were all those present. It was wrong for them to find, even create divisions among themselves, the Children of Illuvatar, who knew best in this world what evil was, and who would neither allow it a place in their hearts, nor in their lands.

There clearly was a change in Ambarturion’s eyes, if not in his face, which was still set hard and cold. They cooled, just as the voice of the Captain had. Coromswyth was of course standing at the male ambassador’s side, and she now reached out to touch the elf slightly on the arm. He jumped ever so slightly at her touch, obviously caught lost in his thoughts. At this moment, Calenvása would give anything to know what those thoughts were. But as Ambarturion turned to look at his female companion, it seemed Coromswyth was doing the thought reading for him.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

It shocked him to know how little the other Elves understood about him. He had no more desire to die than they, he only wished to make that death worth while. But why do you think only of death? He did not turn to Coromswyth. Instead he returned Calenvása’s gaze. Because it is inevitable, he replied. Aloud he said, “I have been fighting the long defeat for the length of memory. I have come to accept that there is, in the end, no hope for Middle-Earth and for those whose fate it is to remain here. My only wish is to save what can be saved. For many long years I have sought to convince my Lord and Lady to take the straight Road into the West, but ever have they remained. I cannot save them from this folly, but I will not let them be destroyed. If my death is the only way to save them, then I will give away my life gladly.”

Calenvása’s eyes grew wide with shock. “I had not idea, Ambarturion, that you were so sick at heart with despair.” The younger Elf’s face and voice were utterly sincere, and the expression of his feeling was of such purity that it shocked Ambaturion into silence. “Have you really forsaken all hope for this land? Do you truly see no path to life and victory over the Enemy?”

“No.” The word slipped from him before he had noticed, and it hung there in the still morning air like a reproach.

Ambarturion swayed slightly, like an oak whose time had come to fall to the earth. But Coromswyth once more steadied him with a touch. He turned to her, and was stilled when he saw in her gentle smile that she did not condemn him despair. It stabbed him deeply that she acknowledged it at all.

Into the silence that had fallen upon the glade, it was Megilaes who spoke. “Master,” he began, and there was in his voice a timbre and age new to him. “The Captain is right. You must not fight this war in despair of failure, but in hope of victory. My brother was slain and I will seek his vengeance, but I shall not find it by throwing away my own life.”

Ambarturion turned to his student, and those gathered about were stunned when he asked softly, “What should we do?”

Megilaes put his hand upon his teacher’s shoulder. “Let us do as Calenvása has suggested. Let us return to our land and warn them of the danger. Then, with some more of our kin we can march out and meet our enemies upon the field of reckoning.”

Ambarturion put his own hand upon Megilaes’ forearm and nodded. The faintest hint of a smile crossed his face, like the feel of sunshine through clouds. He turned to Calenvása. “Come,” he said. “I have heard that the feet of our Mirkwood kin are fleet, but they shall have to be swift indeed to keep pace with me this day!” He spun and ran toward the West, and his passing was as of the wind in the grass. The others ran after him upon feet as light. And as they ran, they heard Ambarturion laughing.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel sighed in relief as Ambarturion took off running. They were finally on their way to Lothlorien once again. Thorvel and the other Elves were not far behind. They went at a swift pace, for they had a race to win, a race with the army. If they lost, the stakes would be high. So they ran, on and on. Mostly they ran wrapped in their own thoughts, but occasionally someone broke the quiet with conversation.

There were a good many things to think about. How far the Orc army had gotten that day, for one. They had been making decent speed before, about what would be expected of a mass that large. However, Thorvel figured that the Elves were now a few days behind. They had great need of haste indeed. That made him wonder whether they would stop for the night. Somehow he doubted it: the sun was already sinking low, casting long shadows in the fading light, and they had only been running for a few hours. They couldn’t go all the way to Lorien without stopping, but Thorvel did not think they would stop so soon, even though it had been such a long day. He would not presume to guess out loud; he did not particularly care to guess wrong in front of the Lorien Elves. Thorvel was amazed at how much had happened in such a short time, and the day hadn’t ended up half bad for all the troubles they had had getting there.

Thorvel glanced over at Lómarandil, one of the said troubles. The younger Elf seemed to be holding up all right, outwardly. Thorvel did not believe that he was as strong or healthy as he seemed to want them to think. Thorvel was tired of the needless burden he had caused thus far though, and if he wanted to pretend to be fit, Thorvel wasn’t going to argue. Yes; it had been a long day, and Thorvel would be glad to see the end of it.

[Durelin]

His mind raced along with his feet, which carried him across the earth with a haste that Calenvása had never known. He supposed this was true need that he was feeling, which he had not known before. It surprised him that he had not known such need before, and he would think of it further if the need at hand did not fill his mind as it did. But for now he was plagued by worries and decisions, all of which demanded to be considered immediately. His mind called for haste, as did his heart, which ached for a way through the darkness that surrounded it. Despair was waiting just outside the edges of it, waiting to fill his heart to the brim. Today, it was hard pressed to make its way in.

The Captain was feeling strong in an unexplainable way, though he had been strained both physically and mentally for too many days now. He was refreshed in heart, though his mind and body had received no rest. Calenvása had found a release himself from the heaviness that mere thoughts had been able to bring down upon him. He did not know how he had done so, but it seemed only to be a simple acceptance of everything that was. It was certainly something new for him to see beyond what his own life encompassed and see the world his life was a part of, but the words of Ambarturion, as well as the words that had emerged from his own mouth were more than just words formed by the mind to express something in the heart, they were formed by the heart to express what was in it.

Words said could form a being, and beyond just how others saw them. What anyone put on display as themselves, whatever mask or veil they wore, hid what was beneath. The soul reflects upon the face, and the face upon the soul. Whatever face was put in place to hide the soul beneath was giving face to that soul. A darkened veil or a black mask that would not let eyes or sunlight penetrate would shade a soul. Very rarely was a soul allowed to be seen. But it seemed that words could give a soul a face.

Targil ran at Calenvása’s side, a strange new mutual acceptance come between them, bringing them to an understanding. It was so strange because for each of them, the other had been seen as the least likely person for them to ever understand. Each had held on to doubts that kept them from seeing a brother, of the same kindred, of the same land, with the same goals in mind. They were fighting the same battle, on several fronts. Finally the two had learned to stand together on all of these fronts.

The two kept their eyes on Lómarandil behind them. Thorvel, who was a short ways in front of them, seemed to be doing the same, but with a different concern in mind. A glance passed quickly between Targil and his Captain, and then Calenvása called to Thorvel. The elf dropped back, and immediately began voicing his concerns about Lómarandil. They were hardly concerns for the wounded elf. Targil had always made his disapproval for anyone very clear, but Thorvel’s irritation caused by the young elf came as a surprise.

“It is clear that Lómarandil will prove of great trouble to us, Captain. As he always does.” He added the last phrase in a quiet murmur, seeming embarrassed to say it and yet certain that he would speak his mind. Calenvása sighed. This was a surprise he knew he should have seen before this. Targil was silent on the other side of him, and looked ahead of them, keeping his eyes away from Thorvel, who did not even attempt to keep his own gaze, full of irritation and a sort of disgust that came from his lack of understanding for what was in his companion’s mind and heart.

Calenvása was in no mood for argument or complaints, as it was time for decisions to be made. “Lómarandil is our comrade and our kinsman. We have fought beside him and will continue to do so.”

“He is a burden…”

This time Targil cut Thorvel off before Calenvása could answer. “A burden that we will carry.”

Thorvel’s eyes flashed to look at Targil with surprise, but quickly grew angry. Luckily he did not find words to express this anger before Calenvása could bring them to more important matters.

“Along with the burden of the safety of Lorien. And we all know that means reaching the forest as long before the enemy does as possible. There is reason for Ambarturion to despair as he did, at least at first glance…” he paused, wondering if Ambarturion had reasons that went deeper. “But there are advantages that we have seen: one being the sheer size of the army, which makes its movement more difficult. Another we saw the day in Mirkwood, when all our troubles began…or simply worsened. This was the trolls. There use has yet to be seen, but they are slow moving, and often can serve a purpose other than in battle. My thought is that they are not foolish enough to attempt to use trolls in such a battle. But whatever their purpose is, they are slow moving creatures.”

As he spoke, Calenvása began to realize with bitterness that he was bringing all of these thoughts together to relieve himself of his worries and doubts more so than to convince or comfort his comrades. He hesitated, but soon decided to continue to the end, as his pause brought only silence. Remembering who ran on either side of him, that was a surprise. “The final and perhaps the greatest disadvantage the enemy has is the crossing of the Anduin.” He smiled slightly as he glanced from one of his companions to the other. “They will learn of the Great River and its nature.”

For a brief moment, the three shared a smile. It was not a smile of amusement, or even truly of happiness. And though it lasted for such a short time, Thorvel coming to remember his current bitterness against all three of his fellow scouts, Targil remembering his disgust with Thorvel’s agitation, and Calenvása sighing at the both of them. Another sigh followed in the silence, this one in irritation with himself.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Calenvasa was right; the army was to learn of the nature of the Anduin - even as the elf captain said it.

At the edge of the river, the water lapping at their toes, three huge, thickset trolls stood unhappily, knee deep in the churned up mud. All around them the dwarfed figures of Southrons and orcs scurried like so many ninpins, shouting in vain at the massive creatures, but their commands and whips only made the stupid creatures angrier. Standing a safe distance away from the riverbank, Koran winced as one of the creatures let out a massive bellow and took a swing at several of the orcs around it. Shrugging into his dark leather coat, Koran turned in disgust from the chaotic scene to where Ehan was standing nearby, apparently mesmerised by the scene, his eyes bright and a slight smile hovering on his lips.

"It's not a sport, Ehan," Koran said dryly. The younger man blinked and looked at him sharply, then smiled sheepishly, before turning his eyes once more on the riverbank, where the orcs were attempting to whip the trolls into doing their will.

"What a sport it would make though..." he murmured in reply, his eyes starry." Just pit the orcs against the trolls in a battle, add a muddy river to give the orcs a fairer chance...why, given enough time, I think they would probably mange to wipe each other out."

Koran snorted, shaking his head as he looked down at the ground. "Bloody sport..." he grinned, glancing up at Ehan. Looking back up, he threw his head back onto his shoulders and sighed wearily, closing his eyes. They had been dragging the trolls with them for the past few days, and what with Herding's complete disassosiation with anything to do with the beasts, it had been chaos to move them at all, and they had claimed half a dozen orcs so far - not that Thrakmazh seemed to care. And it was a wonder - no, a miracle - that the elves of Mirkwood seemed not to have followed them. Yet. So much for the famed and terrible far-sighted scouts of Mirkwood...

"Whose bright idea was it to use trolls to make bridges- no, in fact, to use trolls to make anything of use?" he asked, his eyes shut.

"Probably not your friend Herding," Ehan replied sardonically. "Unless there are now bright ideas painted on the sides of wine bottles," he added just for good measure. Koran grinned and raised his eyebrows, opening his dark eyes to look up at the stars. Unwillingly, he turned slowly around to look back at the riverbank, his expression one of dismay and disdain, and took in the scene for a few moments with impassive eyes. They had been working for several hours now, and had managed to bully the trolls into constructing...one raft.

Koran's thoughts were not to be mistaken: he had admired the idea of getting larger, stronger creatures to do the work, and the fact that they could now stand daylight - well, it seemed perfect.

In theory.

He just wished they had some brains.

Another of the orcs swung his whip zealously at one of the trolls and the massive creature had finally had enough. As the whip wrapped around it's giant forearm it bellowed fiercely and pulled backwards sharply; as the hapless orc at the other end of the whip didn't quite let go quite fast enough, he was catapulted into the middle of the river with an abruptly cut off scream. As Herding was nowhere to be seen (probably lost in the depths of a wine bottle, Koran thought darkly), the younger captain waded in, waving an arm fiercely.

"Stop, stop! Oh for the sake of- look, you two, come here." He pinpointed a Southron and an unusually scrawny looking Uruk, calling them over. When they were within talking range, he carried on. "Look, chain them up to the trees for the night - we'll get no more work done here. It's a bloody marvel we haven't got every elf in the forest on our backs with that racket..."

"Stop?" The Uruk looked at Koran dimly and the Southron stared back, trying halfheartedly to restrain his disgust. "Only the Captain Thrakmazh gives orders to Uruks. We listen to no Man now-"

"Your bloody captain is nowhere to be seen, and if you try to defy me, I shall have you make the trolls build rafts - by yourself," Koran hissed dangerously, his face close to the Uruk. The monstrous being growled but didn't hold the man's gaze, his yellow eyes flitting away. Without another word he turned rudely and yelled fearsomely at the orcs in the black tongue, laying his whip into all those around him who were slow to react. The other Southron cast a baleful look at Koran then hurried to carry out his orders. The Southron clenched his fists fiercely then released them, turning away from the scene towards the Southron camp that lay to the North. The evening was coming on now, and, regardless of puffed up Uruks, theoretically excellent (but practically hopeless) trolls and drunken captains, he was going to get a drink and a game of dice before they tasted 'the blood of the beautiful'...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Their long race ended at dusk upon the banks of the Anduin. The great river stretched away upon either hand disappearing into the gathering darkness, and the Elves took a moment to bathe their heated limbs in its cool waters. The silence was broken only by the slight ripple of water and the distant call of waterfowl as they gathered once more upon the high bank and took counsel.

Calenvása spoke first. “We have made such a chase as is worthy of the song you crave Ambarturion.”

Ambarturion smiled at the slight jibe. His mood since the race began had been unusually light, as though a great burden had been lifted from him. In the long leagues that they had run, he had used the time and exertion to think back over his long years of battle and strife, and for the first time in an Age he had seen them in a new light. For too long had he regarded the long defeat as a source of despair, but there had been hope as well. Lorien remained steadfast, and there were still those within it who bore with them the memory of the West. Imladris, too, remained strong and Elrond ruled there with wisdom and courage. The thought of Elrond had brought to mind the Lady Arwen. Her choice of the Man Aragorn had long been a source of bitterness for Ambarturion, but as the miles had uncoiled beneath his feet, he had felt that perhaps it was not for him to question it. For so long he had been used to taking the counsel only of himself and his Lord and Lady that he had forgotten that there was other wisdom, other counsel, in the world. He had been so sure that his course of action was the only right one… It was not the disagreement of the others that had shaken this certainty; it was not even his own recognition that he had been wrong. The admission of his own despair, however, had shaken him deeply, for it had shown him the dark and dangerous realm in which he had lived for so long, and from within which he had acted.

He had long known that the greatest danger to his continued existence in Middle Earth was that in his retreat from the pale reality of it, he would lose himself in the glories and the light of the past. The sunshine of noon in the glades of Doriath, the pale hovering sheen of the moon upon the waters of the western sea, the unsullied glint of Earendil upon his first voyage across the sky – these had been the lights that he thought guided him, and that beckoned to him from the past. But in reality, it had not been the light at all that threatened to overwhelm him, but the darkness that lay behind and beyond the lights, and against which they had sparkled the more brightly. It was not to the lights that he had turned, but away from the darkness, and in this he had given the night precedence over the day. His flight into the past had not been a pursuit, but a retreat. He had come close to embracing the night entirely, so ready had he been to throw his life away in despair. But he had been saved by, of all things, a chance encounter with a group of youths who were as children compared to him. But before the light of their courage and hope he felt as though he were the younger.

Renewed by this encounter, he had run all the way from Mirkwood without once turning to the past. His feet had felt the grass of the Vale, and his eyes had beheld the far horizons of the present. And he had been happy.

The talk soon turned to how they were to cross the mighty River. They had made for the Anduin in a more or less straight line, and as a consequence had met with him at a point where he was broad and deep. The Mirkwood Elves asked how they were to cross. Ambarturion’s brow creased as he considered an answer. They were still some miles to the north of Lorien, for they had sought to avoid the army of Dol Guldur by circling around it. But now a difficult choice lay before them. “There are two possible crossings for us,” he said slowly. “One lies fifteen leagues to the north, where we were captured by the orcs. It is the safer route for our enemies are somewhere to the south of us, but it takes us in the wrong direction. It will take us at least a day and a half to reach Lorien should we attempt that route.”

“Where is the second crossing?” Calenvása’s voice betrayed that he suspected the answer.

“It is not far,” Ambarturion replied. “But it is, I fear, too far for absolute safety. The southerly crossing is but five leagues hence. Should we take it, we will find ourselves upon the very eaves of the Golden Wood and within hailing distance of the outer sentries of my land.”

“You fear that it is already held by the enemy,” Targil said.

“Or that it soon will be,” Ambarturion replied. “If we have guessed the enemy’s plans aright, the main press of the army should even now be attempting a crossing of the Anduin somewhere further to the south. Perhaps at or below the meeting of Anduin and the Nimrodel. If we are correct, then the smaller group will undoubtedly make for this nearer ford.” He saw the questioning look in Targil’s eyes. “It is the crossing closest to Caras Galadhon,” he explained simply.

“So which way do we go?” Ambarturion asked. “To the north, where we will find both safety and a longer road, or to the south, where we will either find ourselves beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood by morning, or a host of enemies intent upon our destruction?”

[Durelin]

“So which way do we go? To the north, where we will find both safety and a longer road, or to the south, where we will either find ourselves beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood by morning, or a host of enemies intent upon our destruction?”

Calenvása sighed. Safety would be found in the longer road. They would be safe, at least. But what could they say for those in Lorien, if they took the longer road, seeking their own safety rather than that of the land of their kindred. So it seemed to come that Ambarturion’s wish for deeds and deaths worthy of a song would come true, or at least have it’s chance to. But this time the Lorien elf spoke nothing of songs, nor the glory of their deaths. He merely spoke of an enemy set to help them all find their deaths, and spoke of it without fear or a feverish focus on the end. All there realized, though, particularly at these words, that some kind of end had to come.

There was silence for a moment. A silence that was well justified, he knew, as he scanned the eyes of his companions. Their minds were struggling to come up with any words. There was much to consider, much which could be dwelt on for a lifetime. Calenvása laughed bitterly in his head. Death could be dwelt on for a lifetime…

“We go to the south, and we will find the safety of Lorien, in one way or another.” It was time to dwell on living with the time they had to live. And right now they should be concerned with time.

~

“We have faced attacks such as these before, and have yet to falter.”

Helkaur of Lorien frowned as he spoke, seeing sorrow in the eyes of Moraniel, his wife, and mirroring it. He waited for her to speak, to say that she knew this and that she knew that everything would be all right. His heart desired those words to eradicate his own heavy sorrow. He wanted to hear that everything would be all right, from the lips of his love, so that the dread they shared would be proved baseless. But then he closed his eyes, knowing the words would not come. He could not say them himself.

“But why must you face these attacks?”

Her voice was taut with emotion, ready to break at any moment. She barely held on to any calm, and Helkaur opened his eyes to watch the sadness in her eyes begin to cover her face in a veil of grief. Why did she still have to look so beautiful? His own face twisted in a painful feeling that did not know how to express itself. Moraniel asked a question that she knew the answer to, that she never would have asked had she been herself, and not behind that horrid veil. Helkaur did not answer, and he knew his wife did not truly expect him to. Then Moraniel dropped her eyes, hanging her head in sorrow, seeming embarrassed of the veil she wore, and Helkaur wanted so much to just lift that veil and kiss her.

“You always have a choice…” she said quietly, and he searched frantically for a way to lift that veil that separated him from her for the moment. He knew only to say what was in his heart, as he always had, to her.

“And I always choose, my love.”

She looked up, back into her husband’s eyes, her eyes brightened for a brief moment, something behind the grief, mixed with the grief, showing through and over-shadowing it. And her face…it was radiant, though it shown with a soft glow. Helkaur still felt that it should blind him. She had torn off the veil herself. Now he knew the elf before him, and he felt his heart unwind itself from being twisted in pain. His heart could not remain sad or afraid under that gaze. Then she kissed him, and he felt himself begin to glow. She almost smiled. And it almost hurt him, that she did not.

“I’ve always trusted you to make the right choices. I will not stop now, as I have no reason to. I have no reason to do anything but respect your decision. You amaze me. You have always been so strong.”

“It is you who gives me the strength to live at all on this earth.”

“Then do not leave this earth without me.”

“I have already promised you that you will never be without me, and I will uphold that promise.”

For a moment, Moraniel seemed to search his eyes for more, as if these words were not enough. In truth, they were not, but Helkaur could give her nothing more. He watched his wife give up the search after a moment. She knew she would not find anything. Helkaur turned away, knowing that it was time for him to hold his longbow, the bow he used for war. As soon as he had turned, he felt a sharp pain, and he felt the eyes on his back look upon him in a new way. When he turned again, bow in hand, he saw in his love’s eyes that she had found something after all. What it was, he did not know, but it brought to her beautiful eyes and her face hardness. It did not take away from her beauty, but she now shown with a sharp glow, rather than a soft warmth. She stood physically and mentally unwavering, as she had always been in his mind, though he had watched her fail, fall, and falter. She had always helped him find strength, and he had always tried to do the same for her. Now she had found it. But had he helped her in doing so?

“I wait for you, Helkaur.”

And so he departed, and she watched him walk away, with one last kiss, a loving embrace, and without any tears.

[Kransha]

Many days had passed since Thrákmazh the Mighty approached his fellow conspirator, a day since those conspiring were confirmed and set into swift motion. His scheme was working; his plan was coming closer to success! Herding was, perhaps, more than convinced. It would all fall into place easily. Quietly, studiously, Thrákmazh reviewed the devilish scheme: On the eve of battle, this very night, the coup would take place. Herding could imprison Cenbryt on charges of treason, and then kill him. While the wretched Southron gloated, Thrákmazh could take his chance. He would slay Herding, and Cenbryt would be dead already. The Southrons would have no choice but to follow him and, if they did not, Thrákmazh’s orcs and uruk-hai far outnumbered the southern men. Besides that, he had ranks of lesser folk, mercenaries, trolls, and the like that were loyal to Sauron and not to Harad. If worse came to worse, disposing of all rebellious Southrons would be no more than a bland annoyance, an unwelcome thorn.

The sun was now nearly set behind the trees after a long, monotonous journey through the dim sky, unlit by a great brightness. The golden vessel that Thrákmazh so despised seemed dulled, like a brilliant, shimmering metal rusted over time. Clouds billowed above, moving quickly to escape their proper course. The orc captain moved with subtle swiftness through his side of camp, eluding stray glances with ease. It would be best to get the army moving, now that night had fallen. Stars began to glisten meagerly in the high heavens. Doubtless the lot of them would be, as usual, opposed to moving in daylight, but they would do it nevertheless. Thrákmazh had to see to such things, it was his responsibility, and he knew that no orc or other creature would dare to stand in his way when doing his duty to the Eye. The camp had to be summarily roused early each day and where prepared for another day of early awakening beneath dawn’s cold sun after very little sleep. They were but a day from the Woods of Lórien and would cover much ground before the day’s gold vessel completed its slow-paced arc through cloudless skies. But, they would not rise in calm tranquility tomorrow. They would rise in the evening, beneath Thrákmazh’s guiding hand.

Tonight…Tonight Sauron’s Eye and the eye of Thrákmazh the Mighty would see together.

The army assembled by the Captain of Dol Guldur, Khamûl the Nazgûl, consisted of the scattered remnants of the Uruk-hai (most of whom were slain with the fall of Orthanc), goblins of the Misty Mountains, Urûks of Mordor and Mirkwood, Southron tribesmen, and, finally, Olog-hai. The Olag-hai, or Ologs, were simply trolls to anyone who cared to look upon them. They were bred with the urûks in Mordor, but were gifted by the Eye with uncanny abilities, unusual for common troll-kind. The Olog-hai at least had some mild intelligence, and, unlike most trolls, were unfazed by the dreaded beams of the sun. They were easily compatible with orc hosts, useful as dreadnaughts or heavy infantry, crushing and annihilating all in their way. The problem was, no matter how much brain the Dark Lord gave them, they were no more than overbearing trolls, and thus, dull and slow like their smaller, weaker kin in the north and west.

This slowness had cost the host much time. Trolls could not be incensed to quicken their paces, as they had no means to move faster whether or not they wished to. Thrákmazh had never been obligated to work or correspond with trolls of kind. There were few trolls in the forests of Mirkwood and they appeared only sparingly in the Misty Mountains, where some campaigns had taken Thrákmazh in his younger days. In his three millennia of remembered life, Thrákmazh had had a mild aversion to trolls, ever since their constant and conspicuous absence at all the battles where he might have needed their services. Now, they were costing him again, with their aversion to his pace, or their inability to match it. They were slowing the orc-host down, and their weakness might go so far as to add another day to the journey from Dol Guldur to Lórien. But, they had a purpose, one that Thrákmazh the Mighty could use and exploit with ease. The trolls would accommodate him during the overthrow. Koran’s men might be able to kill orcs and men, but killing trolls was an art form still not mastered. For the last days, these trolls had had dragged behind, a quailing rear flank for the monstrous host. Tonight, they fell, slowly and wearily, grumbling and yawning stupidly (a sound that more resembled a grunting growl that rumbled in troll throats before bursting out, unwanted), into slumber, chained by iron collars to the sturdiest woodland trees…

They would not sleep for long.

Thrákmazh sat, his only eye firmly shut, blocking out the little light of the stars as the sunlight disappeared, before his tent. He was squatting in the dirt, pondering, as he had pondered every moment of the long journey since his conversation with Herding in the Southron’s tent. Tonight was as apt a night as any to do the wicked deed, but Thrakmazh’s mind was elsewhere, preoccupied. His rough-skinned hand glided up and down the length of his orcish blade, which now hung at his right in a secondary place. Having taken its place, the glimmering Elven sword shined still, absorbing the cold, watery moonlight as it swept as a tide over night. He was preoccupied by the blade, its hold still firmly on him. Faces, as white as ice and lacking of earthly pallor, appeared continually before his eyes, flashing strobes of painful fire. It was maddening as it had been at first, but so much now that it blinded the orc’s mind against all ulterior motives. He was thinking of the Elves, those he had killed in the past…and those he would kill tomorrow, but one elf still lingered, one that he hoped and wished was dead. A voice, though, stirred his reverie…a voice that came from within.

‘The Elf is dead, don’t be a fool. He has perished.’ The voice spoke slowly, icily, as if digesting the sour words before it spoke. It was a voice that lingered in Thrákmazh, a voice whose cold sound scratched against his skull as talons would, rending layers from his thick bones and exerting great force to cause pain. It was orcish, his perhaps, but smoother and darker with a strangely subtle elegance that Thrákmazh’s own voice did not possess. The orc considered the words that this voice from within spoke, the message concealed in the melodious oratory. He knew, somehow, deep in his dark and stinking heart, that the voice, as convincing as it was, was wrong. Slowly, his tattered lips moved to mouth the words of his reply. “The Elf lives…he lives…I know it…I feel his fire in the sword.” His hand unconsciously moved, worming down like a snake, separate from its earthly master, towards the blade that still hung at his left hip. Its moonbeam gleam shone weakly through the scabbard of torn leather that Thrákmazh had bound around it to quell its preternatural glow. He felt the same distinct burning feeling that shot through him, coursing into his pulsating veins each time his hand neared the Elven blade he’d stolen.

‘That sword will be the death of you, fool.’ admonished the dank voice within, ‘Discard it and turn back to your mission.’ Again, Thrákmazh heard the words in passing, as if he had somehow heard them before and was recalling a past incident in reverence of contemplation. His eye closed more firmly, the lid and saggy skin about it folding into a wrinkled pouch of flesh. He disagreed with the voice, fully now. He knew at this point that it would disagree with him. Whatever dark source it sprung from and whatever tributaries it held to it in his mind, he was not inclined to listen to it out of any more than necessity. His brow furrowed in annoyance. “My mission will be complete by the next sunset.” He said to himself, his unspoken words wrought with arrogance that he had not expected to come from him. He knew he was prideful, but he was also cautious. His usual wary, circumspect demeanor evaporated, absorbed into the offending voice, which spoke with it.

‘Unless you falter,’ chided the voice delicately, pausing a moment after, ‘...Koran will fall, but can you slay the darker man?’ Again Thrákmazh felt an unreasonable need to argue and seek fault in the words of the voice. It was manufactured as a tool for argument, a resilient mannequin that would take Thrákmazh’s blows and bounce back uniformly. “He will fall as his foe shall.” Thrákmazh silently growled, no vocal sound coming from him though he still spoke, “I will lead when the sun has risen. I will lead orc, man, and troll alike to victory.” The voice paused, and Thrakmazh’s mind fell into a further trance, near slumber, as the counterpart of his personality digested again, preparing the adequate, sardonic, dark response. An instant later it burst, its loud fervor filling Thrákmazh’s pounding skull. ‘With what?’ it queried, with a dry wit lingering in the tone, ‘...What tool have you do mastermind Lorien’s defeat?...The sword of an Elf?”

The words struck a nerve. “No!” Thrákmazh said, this time out loud, but still softly, “I will slay Elves with an orc blade!” His hand switched from left to right flank, fingers curling protectively about the horn-carved hilt of his scimitar. He saw the elf before him, or at least his face, through the bars of a cage. It was the cage that he’d been confined in during their parting conversation, one-sided as it was. The image passed with the speed of a passing bird, set on other things, and was replaced by a swirling whirlpool of murk and debris. As he felt the hilt, he felt the same emptiness he’s felt, the same soulless blackness. The same vigor that usually accosted him was gone, replaced by that emptiness. Whenever he killed Elves or men or even orcs, he felt blood rush through him and passionate fire inflame him. Now, ice encased his panting, heaving lungs, his blood ran cold, and the beat of his orcish heart slowed to a standstill. He felt nothing...Quietly, the voice continued, swelling soon to greater volume and power. ‘Your soul is no longer there.’ It murmured disdainfully, ‘Your soul is with the Elf! He’s stolen it from you!’

“My soul is here!” he cried, louder now, “The Elf, dead or living, does not hold it.”

‘Then look in your sword, O Mighty Captain, and see what lies in its blade.’

Slowly, reluctantly, Thrákmazh’s hand moved again, to his left hip. He had to be the victor. The voice was just another challenge, and an unneeded one at that. He could slay it and its weak, abhorrent brethren, along with the Elf. The Elf, dead or alive, would pay for the pain he’d caused Thrákmazh. He would pay for making Thrákmazh remember, in such agonizing, gruesome detail the deeds he’d once held as landmarks in his life. He would slay more Elves, and he would cleave their heads from their shoulders, rend their arms from their sides, and slice their wobbling legs, quailing in fear, out from beneath their fragile, porcelain forms, delicate and as weak as autumn leaves. He would bathe in their blood when the time came, and laugh at the pitiful being who defied his will with vile trickery and Elvish sorcery that had cursed him. His fingers closed, feeling a fire more painful than inflaming wrap around his hand, worm up his arm, and overflow there. Flinching, his hand shot away again, latching on to the orcish sword, he whipped it from its sheath and stumbled up to his feet, trying to gain a firm foothold in the earth. His one eye passed over the land beneath him and settled on the sword.

The voice was gone, gone from his mind and would no longer pester him, but he still had to prove it wrong. He slowly unsheathed the blade, clasping it hopefully in one hand, and raised the blade parallel to the ground. Somewhat hesitantly, he leaned over it, his one eye closing involuntarily. He, at first, could not force himself to look into it. Something about the very gesture pained him, but only slightly. He was only reluctant because, at this stage, he would not stand to be wrong. All was going as planned and, to be victorious, he could not let any form of fear or seeds of doubt infect him. He was firm, strong, mighty, and his reflection in a blackened sword could not change that, no matter what. The orc captain was resolute and would not move from his position. Ready for anything, his eye snapped open and the space where his other eye had been contorted, as if some inner eye was staring into the reflective sheen of the polished weapon.

What he saw horrified him to no end, beyond the very depths of his nightmares. He saw fire, fire and shadow, swirling cyclonic around him. The sword burned him now, searing the flesh of his hand just as the Elven blade had. He felt his heart racing, his head pounding, and his veins throbbing. The healed injury in his leg suddenly pulsated furiously, the innards of him beating like drums against his ribs. He cast the blade from his hand so forcefully that it was buried in the ground when it fell, reverberating. The blade rippled, singing a song of death that filled Thrákmazh’s ears. Letting loose a monumental roar of pain, Thrákmazh reeled and fell to the earth, clasping his empty hands to his head. He needed something, anything, to purge him off the pain. At first his mind sought physical pain to divert the mental pain. He yearned momentarily to bury a knife in his arm just for distraction, but the dying fragments of logic in him told him not to. He needed drink, orc-draught, liquor strong enough to alleviate his troubles and woes. His eye, still clenched tightly closed, turned beneath it’s lid to the area surrounding his tent as his painful roaring began attracting a great deal of attention.

“URKRASH!” his voice boomed, as his left hand wrapped protectively around his burning right. He sunk to his knees again, his one, dark eye flitting sideways to the tent of his servant, a smaller sheltered erected not far from his own lavish pavilion. From it, almost instantly, issued a groggy-looking Urkrásh with a weary yawn on his lips and sandy debris clinging to his low eyelids. The tired orc tried in vain to hurry towards his master, having heard the call which echoed still in the sky. “Yes, lord.” He said glumly, but still purposefully, as he neared Thrákmazh, “What is it you want of-” Thrákmazh interrupted the slow-moving voice with his maddened own. “Orc-draught, now!” He snapped, jabbing a finger at the flask which he had known would be hanging on Urkrásh’s flank. His finger was moving up and down, rapidly, like the fluttering wings of a swift bird and his eye and face had lost their pallor, drained of all color. His whole demeanor had shrunk and his look was pallid and weak…almost afraid...He had never been afraid before...never...

Reluctantly, and not quite understanding, Urkrásh unhooked the hide-leather flask from a tattered belt slung across his shoulder. His hand shaking uncontrollably, his thin, nearly emaciated arm extended outward to Thrákmazh. The hand of the captain shot out carelessly, tearing the flask from his servant’s hand. His talons tore into it, causing the thick, brownish substance to spill out onto the grass. Disregarding that, Thrákmazh crammed the torn muzzle of the flask between his teeth and guzzled the foul liquid. He needed it, needed it to alleviate his pain, his fear. But, in horror, his eyes widened, and he pulled the flask away, heaving it to the ground where its remaining contents began spilling out. From his lips blossomed a red liquid, dark and bearing a very specific consistency, one Thrákmazh knew all too well. The orc suddenly sputtered and spat the substance out, trying to purge it from his throat. “Blood! Blood!” he roared madly, as the crimson liquid fell in rivers down onto his armor and the ground. His mouth was filled with blood, not orc liquor, blood! Reeling furiously, Thrákmazh grabbed his sword from the ground and with the flat of it batted Urkrásh away, aiming the tip at his throat at last. He breath hard, steamy breath shooting out of his throat like a geyser.

“You drink it!” he bellowed, gesturing to the nearly empty flask, “Tell me what is there!”

With ultimate reluctance, his entire pitiful form quivering, Urkrásh knelt, Thrákmazh’s blade following him to his knees where his shivering fingers hooked onto the ripped flask and picked it up, trying to maintain the draught within. Hesitating greatly, he pulled it towards him and took a conservative sip. He contemplated the taste momentarily, throwing the draught around inside him, and then slowly swallowed with a sound akin to a frightful gulp. A second later, he let the flask fall, emptied, to the earth and got onto his feet, trying feebly to steady himself. “It is orc-draught, sir.” He murmured fearfully, “A few days old, yes, but not-” Thrákmazh cut him off before he finished, his flailing blade knocking Urkrásh backward. The orc captain’s eyes were incendiary again, his figure alight, bound with an unholy aura radiating off him as shadow would. “LIAR!” he cried through blood-soaked lips, “You lie like everyone else, worm! You lie like the Elves! Traitor, wretch! Do you not know who I am? What I am? I am Thrákmazh One-Eye, mightiest of Sauron’s servants, invincible, unbeatable, im…” his ranting voice quieted and slowed suddenly, the fire fading from his eyes as he whispered the last word, “…immortal.” His eye closed solemnly, the lid fallin in defeat, a feeling the captain had never felt.

The orc backed up, turning away, and slid his sword back into its scabbard. “Arouse the host, but do it silently, and instruct all lieutenants to have their troops prepare themselves for battle. Tell them that we are finally going to deal with the traitorous Haradrim, for the Southron captain called Koran Cenbryt is a foe of the Eye and must be dealt with. Ready them, loyal Urkrásh, and you will get your just rewards. Be quick about it as well, for the Southron must be dealt with before the sun rises.” Urkrásh nodded confusedly and turned, heading off towards the nearest line of tents to awaken the troops, though he still didn’t fully know why. Surely he had not so soon recovered from the effects of Thrákmazh’s eruption. But, Thrákmazh wasn’t bothered by any of this. His eye coldly swiveled in its socket. From tents all around him orcs were already issuing. They had been awakened by his nightly howling and the cacophony he’d created. They looked at him with a strange look, resembling one of concern, but Thrákmazh knew they were not concerned…they were afraid…Their captain was mad, lost to sanity, and now, they knew it.

Snarling under his breath, Thrákmazh tried to ignore them. He turned, rubbing his sore throat, and hurried off in the direction of Herding’s campsite, away from the countless pairs of eyes fixed on him. He had to wake his ‘ally’ so that the process of ridding himself of both Southron captains could begin. It did not take him long to reach the Haradrim camp, since the swarthy men were all sleeping, unlike the orcs back at their side. In the night, with little visibility (and the fortunate absence of the moon’s cold light), it took a bit longer to locate Herding’s tent, but, unlike Cenbryt’s, it was a larger, more decadent pavilion erected on the fringe of the Southron camp. Thrákmazh snaked his way too it, slinking through the shadows as he always did. He neared it soon and, watching as his goal came closer and closer to his grasp, entered.

“Herding…It is time…”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran lay motionless on his back in the tent, his fingers laced behind his head on his folded up coat, used as a pillow, his legs stretched out and crossed as he stared up at the roof of the tent, his brown eyes sightless as in his mind he watched the stars beyond. Despite having found the drink and dice he sought, there was something unsatisfying about them tonight, and the thoughts that plagued him refused to remove themselves despite all the coaxing from his jovial company.

Desperately jovial. Tomorrow we die... The unpleasant thoughts made Koran close his eyes tightly, screwing them up tightly then sitting up restlessly. Stifling a yawn, he rubbed on eye with the heel of his palm and listened to the noises outside. He had been lying in his tent for hours and still sleep refused to come - as she had refused night after night recently. Koran had been born and brought up as a soldier to a fine family - part of one of the most treacherous armies in Middle Earth. You slept with your sword at your hand and one eye open - fact of life, it always had been! But it had never stopped him from getting a decent rest before, so why now, when he had men loyal to him, a good captain, about to attack an unsuspecting foe, did he feel so restless?!

The answer, of course, was obvious. Herding. That single word, as hateful to Koran as the mention of Sauron to the elves. Koran had attacked him once, even if it was in defence, and would have won - and Herding would not forget it, although he was likely to erase in his mind the fact that if Koran had wanted to kill him, he would be dead. No, men like that have long but selective memories, and lack of imagination could bring about a very steady focus on doing what they wanted - in poorer men, the thoughts of revenge would simply fester away, twisting their minds, bringing them to petty violence against those too weak to defend themselves. But Herding - Herding had the power to carry out his wishes. A foolish, drunken man, with too much power than one of his sort should have, a clone to so many others in the Dark Army. Too quick to both sword and bottle, too stupid and proud to look at what he was doing and prevent quarrels, feuds, loss of life...

Koran threw his head back despairingly and flopped back down onto his makeshift bed once more, hands covering his face, then sat up abruptly again. What was he thinking? You're a soldier, Koran, loss of life is what you do! Do not confuse your thoughts with ideas of the enemy...

The enemy. Elves. One elf. The second cause of his sleeplessness: that bloody female-

He stopped, his head hanging between his drawn up knees, eyes closed. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to try to relax, to lie down again and to expell thoughts of both of the causes for his concern. The battle was tomorrow - maybe tomorrow was today now, he had no idea of knowing how long he had tossed and turned in his tent, trying to tempt Lady Slumber to lie with him, for minutes seem like hours with such a demanding and stubborn mistress. Outside, he could hear the muted murmurs of men still talking, and the occasional quietened laugh rang through the air as the last of the Southrons retired to their tents. Beyond that, the omnipresent gurgling of the river could be heard, a soft rippling that seemed amplified to Koran's tired and paranoid ears, even through the walls of the tent. That was an unsettling sound by itself - having grown up in the dry and dusty land of Harad, the captain was not used to the sound of water just gushing past like that, and even when travelling he had spent little time so close to the water. The occasional cry of distant waterfowl made him start, hand on his dagger, before he realised and relaxed a little, still remaining taut. Those cries - the sounds were unnatural and seemed too like screams, or the yelp of a wounded dog, sharp and piercing and so abruptly cut off to leave terrible silence in their wake. He shivered and turned his thoughts back to the sound of the river, sliding like some terrible beast outside. What if it was to overflow? The thought seemed rational and shocking to his tired mind - sure, it had seemed rather too full when he had seen it earlier, and it lapped at the banks constantly, always seeming to come closer up. Was it like that which he had heard of the Sea, always rising, creeping forward to take you unaware while sleeping on it's banks, vengeful waves rising and falling with crushing power.

He sat up with a stifled shout, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, his dark curly hair awry and eyes wild, sword in hand as he faced the mad, turbulent river of his dreams as it forced it's way through the tent flap. Sea...river...waves... He blinked a few times, lowering his hand slowly. So sleep had come to him for a while, but she had brought unpleasant gifts indeed in the form of such a dream. Outside, the men had finally retired to bed, and all was silent save the river - but that is not to say that there was no sound. Koran froze completely, listening to the sound outside - the sound of about three score men and orcs moving completely silently.

His sword still in his right hand, Koran stowed the dagger at the back of his belt, now in full view as he was not wearing his jerkin over his shirt. Pulling on his boots swiftly with his free hand, he stood silently and moved lightly over to the door of the tent, where he nearly fell over another figure. Sword raised at the ready above the still form at his feet, he twitched the door open a fraction, and the moonlight fell on a familiar face: Ehan's face, looking even younger in his sleep than usual. What the- The boy must have had a little too much to drink and slept in here rather than going back to his own tent with the other soldiers. Squatting, Koran covered the younger man's mouth and Ehan jerked awake immediately, his eyes wide and scared as the looked up at the dark form above, hovering like some malevolent spectre. The malevolent spectre raised a finger to it's lips and sat back slightly to allow more light onto his features for his squire to identify him as. Ehan looked confused, sleep confusing his mind, but Koran motioned for him not to speak and pointed to the sword beside him in a clear message. Standing once more, he looked through the crack between the tent flaps - and the sight made him go cold. Outside, standing with sword raised high, his eyes and grin terrible, was Thrakmazh - and around him, and the other tents, there were a swarm of orcs. And at the feet of Thrakmazh were two Mannish bodies - presumably the sentinels of the Southron camp, their necks now twisted at impossible backwards angles: broken for a silent death.

Mouthing a curse vehemently, Koran backed away sharply from the flap, his knuckles white over the sword handle. Having arrived so silently and armed so well, the orcs led by the fiersome Uruk were probably not just here to have a few early morning drinks. Tugging at his hair with his free hand, he looked around desperately - they had the tent's one entrance and exit surrounded. How could he escape? Think, Koran, think...If I throw myself out suddenly, I can probably take a few of them down, and if I yell loudly enough, my men are sure to recognise the voice and come to my aid...

Unless they were in on this as well...

There was no time to contemplate that, and no time to think up a better or more structured plan - it would have to do. Ehan's eyes shone in the darkness as he positioned himself beside Koran and the older man exchanged a glance with him, nodding briefly and reaching out to clasp his hand firmly. Tensing his muscles, he prepared to rush to the door-

-when a gargled scream rent the air. Piercing and drawn out, the sound made both men jump, and from the sound of clattering armour chinking against itself, the orcs had done the same. Koran didn't pause to wonder what it was - throwing himself through the tent's entrance with a yell, he sliced his sword around in a wide arc to lop of the head of one of the orcs. But through the rows of tents, it seemed a different foe had beaten him to the swarm of orcs: even in the twilight of the very early morning, the small group of elves seemed to shine with some radiant light from a hidden source. The one at their front, now recognisable as the male elf who had been sent off to his supposed death, raised his sword high and yelled in a voice both beautiful and terrible like a ghastly spirit.

"Lorien!"

The single word was like a signal: immediately, the orcs and elves surged forward to meet with clashing weapons and battlecries...

[Orofaniel]

“Herding…It is time…”

"Time for what?" Herding growled. His arrogance and attitude, as he said this, was distasteful and digusting. Herding knew of course what Thrákmazh meant, but he was too moody to face the Orc now. But he knew that it was serious, and he had to take a grip if they were going to be able to get rid of Koran. It depended on him - and the orc. No, mostly on him, he figured. At the same time, it was the Orc who had first brought up the suggestion of killing Koran, wasn't it? He couldn't remember all the details, but he thought the situation had had carried on something along those lines. What Herding never really had thought about was why Thrákmazh wanted Koran dead as badly as him. Or did he want him dead as badly as him? He didn't know that for certain. Did he need a reason?

Moments had gone by since Thrákmazh had entered his tent. Herding looked up on him, sighing. "I know," he muttered. Thrákmazh stood quietly, saying naught. He didn't seem angry or offended over the reply he had received at first, but Herding didn't know it was only a mask. "What brings you here?" Herding then said, surprisingly enough. He knew of course what Thrákmazh meant by what he had said. Herding was just stubborn.

"It is time," Thrákmazh then said again, not without annoyance in his voice. "I'm not here to play games, Captain Herding," he then said. "I'm here to get rid of that filthy Cenbryt. I was a fool to think you wanted it as badly as me," He said, about to turn away. "No, Captain. Forgive me," Herding protested. "I'm just insecure about your intesnions..why do you want Cenbryt dead?" Herding just burst out. He didn't mean to say it. It was as if he was thinking out loud, not managing to control himself. He shouldn't have questioned Thrákmazh intensions, he knew that. He probably had ruined the whole plan by saying the last sentence. He had been too ignorant, and too offensive. Herding knew he had made a mistake, and that it wouldn't be easily forgotten by the Orc.

"This is not he time, Captain Herding, to discuss such matters. I thought we had been through this already, but it seems to me that you've either forgotten or..." The Orc said, his voice rising. "You're questioning my motives- how dare you!" he growled. "I do not think you're ready to kill Koran, and that's why you're acting like a fool...You’re being childish and paranoid," he said. Herding frowned, because he knew that Thrákmazh was right.

"I want him dead," Herding growled back, instead of an apology - it is simple not in his nature to ask for an apology. "Then let's move!" Thrákmazh cried back.

"Alright, but lets just get some things straight first," Herding said. "Please sit," he then added. The Orc seated at in the chair he had been seated in before - several times.

Together the two of them went through all the details so that it would be easier for them to succeed.


*********************


“Go and find him now!” Thrákmazh yelled at Herding. The elves were fighting a reasonable fight, and Herding had difficulties holding them off. “Hurry!” the Orc continued. Herding admitted that he disliked taking orders from an Orc, but this was the time; it was now or never.

Herding spotted Koran in short distance and fought himself towards him. “Now is the time to defeat your greatest enemy..” Herding whispered to himself beneath his clenched teeth. The lust for revenge and victory was great and Herding didn’t want to fail.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel knew there had been no choice. South had been the only way they could go and still hope to come to Lorien before the Orcs. It was risky, yet a necessary risk. The Orcs might well hold the ford; Thorvel had a nagging suspicion that they did. Still, they had pressed on through the night, and soon they would know. If the day brought battle, death was almost inevitable. If the ford brought Orcs, battle was inevitable. It was a bleak prospect. They were drawing near now. They approached the area warily, so as to get an idea of what lay ahead.

Thorvel crested the last ridge before the mighty Anduin just behind Ambarturion, who had led the way that night. What he saw caused hope to die within him. The full strength of the enemy’s army stretched out before them, blocking the ford. There was no way to reach Lothlorien. Then Ambarturion drew his sword.

“Lorien!” Ambarturion cried. All at once the Orcs were alerted to their presence. If any had still been sleeping, which seemed likely enough at the early hour, they would wake soon. Confusion would reign for a while, and then would be death. Somehow Thorvel wasn’t ready to succumb wholly to the despair that threatened to engulf him. He raised his bow, and fitted an arrow. He would not die without a fight. He loosed the arrow, squarely hitting his target.

“For Mirkwood!” He descended into a cold fury. He lost track of his companions, vaguely aware that those without bows had charged into the Orcs. He fired arrow after arrow, each one taking out an Orc or Southron. And strangely enough, in the midst of battle, he found he was at peace. The stresses of the past few days drifted away, for they were all in this together, none fighting for leadership or over any other small matter. They were all fighting for their lives, for the freedom of Lothlorien, against the Shadow that willed to overtake them all.

[Kransha]

Everything was falling apart, everything he’d worked for, everything he’d hoped for, everything. He’d been standing, eyes agleam like sparkling stars, hellish as they were, over those who opposed him and the overthrow. Herding was behind, his men rising. Koran would’ve fallen, Herding would’ve fallen, they all would’ve been slain in their accursed turn and Thrákmazh would’ve taken the helm of this now-sinking vessel. What had happened? How had his plan, his whole world, gone so horribly awry? Around him, battle began like torrential waves, crashing, one against the other, and for once Thrákmazh was not on the prow of his troops, steering and reining them in with his military expertise. He stood, motionless and dazed, drunk off the success that had eluded him. All the power he'd dreamed of was slipping through his fingers.

All these thoughts left him, though, as his eye moved through the crowd. As he’d thought, there were not that many Elves, but one of them was far too familiar. The face and the fair voice on the wind that came from him, all was recognizable. It was the Elf who’s sword Thrákmazh held, the Elf whose compatriot he’d slain, the Elf who swore an oath to kill him a fortnight ago. As the Elves, Southrons, and Orcs collided in battle, the one noticed Elf plowed past the enemy ranks, cutting down several primitive orcs in simple succession. As the battle raced, Thrákmazh’s vision slowed. The Elf was drawing nearer, slicing his way through orcish ranks. Thrákmazh felt strange, disconnected from reality. The cacophony of conflict faded and his eye closed. His mind swam as he heard the voice that had haunted him for far too long. He had known the Elf was alive, he had known all along, he had simply never admitted it to himself. He was alive because it was Thrákmazh’s purpose to kill him, not that of some filthy slave-driver in Dol Guldur. Realizing this simple fact, the orc captain’s eye opened, filled with renewed verve, and fell upon his sworn enemy. Finally the Elf had cleared all obstacles in his way and stood a body’s length away from Thrákmazh with his blood-covered sword at his side, soundless and still. The two of them, reunited under these bizarre circumstances, stared at each other as the fight continued, their eyes locked together, both waiting for the other to make the first move.

“You…” the orc said at last; half in a sinister whisper as his fingers tightened on the hilts of both weapons he held. His heart was pounding again, it’s beat, rhythmic eternally, began to speed up, thumping against the armored shell of his chest. His blood chilled and his bones quivered in their appointed places throughout his body. At last, he was looking upon this most dreadful and hated enemy. The mixture of anticipation, glee, and fright overflowed in Thrákmazh, filling his every mental orifice. His only eye, glowing a ghastly yellow, narrowed into a precise slit that peered at the Elf. “I knew you would be here,” he said after a silent moment had passed, “…Why do you plague me, Elf?” The Elf looked back, his eyes as cold and hard as ice, dagger-like, piercing the gaze of Thrákmazh and deflating his last pang of arrogance. Though the uruk maintained the façade expertly, his confidence was slowly shrinking. “You are the plague, urûk,” the unnamed Elf murmured in reply, his words audible despite the low volume of his voice, “upon all of Arda, you and your foul kind.”

Thrákmazh winced as unnoticeably as he could and managed to crack a false grin, hoping to mask the strange twitching of his eye. He held out his right hand, the hand that held the Elven blade, its white glint shimmering like silvery ivory in the light of the dawn sun, which had just crested the far horizon. “Do you want your sword back, then,” he growled, still managing his withered smile, “or would you prefer it if I ran you through with it?” The Elf stared back, continuing the game of enemies, his form like unmoving steel, bereft of all emotion. The only visible movement or tension lay in his hand, which was shivering very slightly, in anticipation or rage perhaps. His sword, though, was frozen in place. Thrákmazh could see, despite the distance, his own reflection in the broad weapon, though the visage of it was blurry and obscured by sparkling sunlight being redirected by the blade’s watery surface as it shined down upon it from its comfortable seat in the sky above. That light hit Thrákmazh’s open eye, causing him to wince again and step back once, trying to evade the course of the bright ray that illuminated his dark face.

“Whatever blade I hold will draw your blood.” The Elf said, still fully unemotional. He did not blink, did not move, and did not budge from his place, fixed like a statue into the earth. Thrákmazh’s lip curled disdainfully and he took a step forward, his right index finger nervously tapping on the smooth Elven hilt. Around them both, battle raged, but its fearsome din was subdued, allowing the two opponents to focus solely upon each other, disregarding their surroundings. “So,” he said at last, easing into a conversational tone, “you still desire vengeance for your fallen comrade? If it consoles you at all, he is but one of many and he fell with more ease than most.” The orc was at least comforted by his familiar streak of sadism, when it took hold of him. He was thankful that he not so far gone that he did not take pleasure in the pain of others. A dark cackle billowed in his throat, ready to come out at full strength, but some form of restraint took hold and all that the one-eyed orc uttered was a pitiful croak, followed by a fragile-sounding cough, which didn’t suit Thrákmazh the Mighty.

“My student fell with his honor intact, which is more than you shall take with you into death.”

“He was your student, was he? It is a shame you did not teach him better, or perhaps he might be alive today, to see his teacher fall.” He grinned again, but that grin soon evaporated. His right hand pulsed again, the veins in it filled with fire rather than blood. The muscles of his arm throbbed painfully, and at last he knew what he must do to alleviate that pain. Thrákmazh’s arm whipped around and forward, his hand and clenching fingers suddenly releasing the gleaming sword. The weapon flew, soaring in the fashion of a majestic bird, and collided with the earth, burying itself in the ground and wobbling for a few moments before it returned to a quiet state of stillness and tranquility, resting, upturned, in the mound where it had landed. “Take your sword, Elf of Lórien,” spat Thrákmazh, throwing his orc scimitar from his left hand to his right and with the free hand reaching down to extract a long, jagged knife from his belt, “for it is useless to me.” His grin widened as the din of battle began to fill him again. “It is more fitting that you die under the same blade that slew your student.”

Simultaneously, both warriors flew forward, with the speed of the wind carrying them. The Elf swooped down, his hand releasing the blade he held, which clattered uselessly onto the ground, and scooped up his forgotten weapon, spinning it deftly upward and out of the ground and into a battle-ready stance as he ran. Thrákmazh leapt up nimbly, all the anger and hatred he’d ever felt for this Elf welling up and pouring out as his weapons shot out, seeking flesh and blood to rend. The Elf swerved beneath him and his sword, aimed down, struck dirt instead of bone. Angrily roaring, the orc veered sideways, careening towards the Elf with his sword and knife flying madly. Each attack was easily parried. The orc was loosing all his fear-inducing luster in this combat and he felt the love of war drain from him. His only goal was to kill, not to kill for Sauron, but to kill for his own evil, villainous purpose. That was the focus of his mind and the singular reason why his heart still beat in his chest. Eye ablaze, he surged forward.

With a resounding clang, the three blades in use met. Thrákmazh staggered, both arms trembling, but recovered soon enough to deflect an elegant slash from the Elf. He maneuvered to the side and his opponent tore past him, allowing the orc to turn and pounce on his prey. But, the Elf was still able to swiftly spin. The blind force of his sword bashed against Thrákmazh’s weary left hand, causing it to pull back like an injured serpent. Growling under his breath, Thrákmazh hammered his sword onto the Elf’s sword and flew at him. The two of them fell together, rolling onto the ground. They hacked at each other for a few seconds, furiously trying to make some headway, but each attack was either blocked or went madly askew. Finally, Thrákmazh pulled himself away from the immediate fray, landing on his knees some feet away from the Elf. Breathing hard, he looked up just in time to see a sword whizzing towards his face. On pure instinct, he lurched backward and the blade fell short. Taking his chance, Thrákmazh lunged again at the falling Elf and tackled him for the second time, but this time he managed to do damage. The knife clutched firmly in his left hand sank halfway up its blade into the Elf’s shoulder. The orc, as he saw his weapon find its mark, cracked another gleeful smile, but the expression was torn from his face as the iron hilt of the Elf’s sword found his unshielded face, crushing his hope of immediate victory.

Releasing his hold on the knife, Thrákmazh stumbled back and landed ignobly on his back, grabbing his throbbing jaw. Knowing that the fight was not over, he pulled himself to his feet, his eye, which had been closed tightly, opened in a flash, glowering at his foe. A short distance away, the Elf managed to stand, limping meagerly forward, and tore the offending, red-stained knife from his shoulder, casting it aside as he sucked in a sharp, pained breath. Dark crimson fluid ran from the wound down the length of his unarmored arm, but he retained his stance and resoluteness. Thrákmazh managed to smile for the third time, drawing a clenched fist along his chin to wipe away the blood secreted there. A river of muddy black now slid from the corner of his mouth. After a silent second in which both warriors regained their composure, Thrákmazh spit a reddened tooth from his mouth and spoke, letting the eerie silence settle again around the two of them. “You do not fight with your heart, Elf.” He said, “You have already failed your student, do not give up your own life so easily. I hoped for a challenge, but I see I’ll get none.”

The Elf swung his sword expertly, ignoring the loss of blood from his wound. His piercing pair of eyes met Thrákmazh’s lonely one, filling the orc’s gleeful soul with a sudden fear and dread. Thrákmazh’s expression changed, souring and darkening as the Elf looked on. Quietly, the Elf stood his ground, staring Thrákmazh down with maddening ease until; at last, he spoke in response, his voice cutting into Thrákmazh like the sword he held. “The challenge is here; spawn of Morgoth.” He whispered, loud enough only for the orc to hear. “It only requires you to accept it.”

And he did…

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ambarturion’s plans had all gone awry. The forces of Dol Guldur had beaten them to the ford, cutting off both escape and all hope of warning the defenders of the Golden Wood. His mad rush at the orcs had been stalled by the implacable will of the enemy. He had hoped, for one wild minute, that he could break through the lines of orcs and wicked men and make for the eaves of his land and at the very least make a stand there that would hold off the enemy long enough for the wardens of his realm to rally the Galadhrim to action. But his charge had carried him but to the edge of the Anduin where he had found One-Eye waiting for him, as though placed there by some dark will to hinder Ambarturion’s desire. Where Megilaes or the others had got to Ambarturion did not know, but there was little time to ponder such questions with the monster before him.

He returned the beast’s taunts at first, hoping still that in the time that they wasted on such needless words a way would be found to broach the wall of enemies that still kept him from his land, but it was not to be. The golden green beauty of his world lay just beyond the black and crooked form of his enemy; like a dream it was, of a time that was on the verge of passing into memory, overshadowed and stained by the blackness of its evil inheritors. At the thought, Ambarturion’s will was enflamed with the battle fury, and his eyes misted over with red. He charged the creature that had dared belittle the sacrifice of Caranbaith and sullied the ancient weapon of Gondolin with its foul hand. Seizing the sword that had been his when the world was young, he swept toward the monster like vengeance, ready to slay.

But his assault was met with a fury and a skill that surpassed any he had come to expect from the servants of the Dark Lord in these latter days. Like an urûk of Angband it met his charge and repulsed him, even managing to wound him in the shoulder. Ambarturion fell back at the feel of steel in his flesh, catching at the offending weapon and pulling it from him. He let it drop to the outraged earth. One-Eye taunted him again, his one red orb eyeing the weapon in Ambarturion’s hand that had galled him so deeply. “The challenge is here; spawn of Morgoth” he replied. “It only requires you to accept it.”

The creature flew at him once more, but this time Ambarturion did not try to match him fury for fury, stroke for stroke. If he was to fight a beast that was of the ancient world, then let him once again regain the glory of those days. He swung his blade at the urûk and it was as the fall of leaves in vanished Doriath, and the creature’s bellows of rage was to Ambarturion’s ears the cries of hatred that rang in the hidden fastness of the mountains at the fall of Gondolin. The creature came at him once more, Ambarturion countering his blows, but as he retreated into the world of memory and the past, it was as though the orc before him was shucked of his mortal disguise, and to Ambarturion’s eyes he was revealed as a dark and terrible form, ancient and powerful, from the days before the destruction of the two trees, when the dark held no terror for those who walked beneath the stars. Ambarturion felt himself filled then with the light of the West, and as he advanced upon the enemy it was as though his form was filled with light, but it was a light that shone about the darkness of the foe without illuming it, casting only further shadows.

One-Eye beheld the fierce blaze of his opponent and fell back, afraid, gibbering in the terror of his being. Rather than face the wrath of the light alone, he bellowed for his underlings, whose terror of their master overcame that of this terrible Elf, and wilfully threw themselves in his path to be mown down like grass. Ambarturion paid little heed to these lesser creatures, but they threw themselves upon him with such abandon that for a moment his focus was taken from the urûk. One-Eye, in his vicious cunning, beheld the moment that he had been waiting for and hurling himself forward he cut down the last of his own kind the quicker to reach the Elf. Ambarturion raised his sword to deflect the blow, but his shoulder caught in its bloodied and rent socket, and he cried out in pain as his parry failed. There was a scorching pain in his arm and he flung back, away from the enemy, raising his arm once more to defend himself, but the hand that bore his blade lay upon the grass some feet distant, and his horrified eyes beheld only a bloody stump. He fell upon the grass of the Vale and raised his eyes to his enemy.

A stillness fell upon the land, and it was as though there were none there but them. Ambarturion’s wrath faltered and fell, and it was like waking from a dream to see the orc before him once more as he appeared in his physical form. The creature advanced upon him, his sword aimed at Ambarturion’s throat. “I know what you are,” Ambarturion said, “and what it is that has corrupted you and bent your will to its own. Know this: I may die, but you and all your kind shall fall into the abyss. I have but one life to lose – your entire existence shall be extinguished.”

The orc licked his lips with terrible glee, gloating over his victory. “You may have only one life, but it is mine to take, Elf.” He fairly spat the word. “Tell me, what is your name? I am Thrákmazh the mighty, and I would tell my Lord who it is I have slain in his service.”

Ambarturion smiled. “My name is for my friends only, yrch. Fall into the darkness that is prepared for you in ignorance of who I am.”

Thrákmazh’s smile was an ugly gash. “Very well.” He raised his weapon and drove it at the Elf’s chest. Ambarturion closed his eyes.

But the blow did not fall. A clash of metal, and the orc’s weapon flew from his hand into a tussock. Thrákmazh and Ambarturion looked in surprise to where Megilaes stood, Ambarturion’s sword in his hand. Before the orc could recover his surprise, Megilaes plunged the ancient blade to its hilt into Thrákmazh’s chest. The orc gasped and gurgled deep in his throat and tried to rend the fair youth’s face with his claws and fangs, but Megileaes merely swatted away the attacks with his hand as though they were insects. He brought his own countenance to within a hair’s breadth of the orc’s, and for a moment Ambarturion was treated to the shocking sight of the two faces, one as beautiful and good, as the other was vile, gazing into one another as though in a perverted mirror.

“My brother’s name was Caranbaith,” is all that Megilaes said. Before the orc could respond he withdrew the sword from its body and in the same graceful motion swung it about and took off Thrákmazh’s head, which landed upon the grass close to Ambarturion’s own, and the Elf of Lorién watched as the life drained from the single glaring eye.

[Durelin]

Lorien! For Mirkwood! Two different cries yelled by two different voices, battling for the glory of two different lands, but for the safety of one, and for the safety of all. For the first time, it seemed they all were prepared to face what could be called an ‘end’. It doubtless could also be called the end, by some, but not by all. What was each elf fighting for? Surely, though their ultimate goal was the same, they did not share the same motivation, the same concerns, or the same beliefs. When it came to any battle, the heart played an important role, and not simply as a source of what is called courage. The heart can battle with the mind, but when it comes to any other battle, it must call a truce with the mind, for both to survive.

Calenvása’s bones ached, and his muscles screamed, and his mind was numb. Not numbed by the pain. The mind numbed the pain, focusing not on the physical feeling, and barely acknowledging the concept of the pain that enveloped his body. It was felt by another being, as far as the elf’s mind was concerned. A centered pain in his right arm was the only thought that crossed his mind as he struggled to keep a hold on his knife, is grip slicked by his blood, which covered his right hand. A strange thing it was, that Men, Orcs, and Elves, all bled, and bled together on this day. A strange thing to consider, that his blood mingled with that of Men and Orcs, as he wiped blood out of his eyes. It was black, and yet it was the life-blood of a living thing. A creature, everything about it as black as its blood, but something that bled just like an elf. At any other time he would have smiled as his mind forgot all previous thoughts at the emergence of another: these monsters bled, and he would have his fill of their blood by the end of this day. But that end and what it was to bring had yet to be realized. And he did not smile, for all the blood that was shed was because of him, or so his mind had told him at the feeling of despair that had come with the sight of their enemy, seemingly waiting for them. Who had made the final choice? Ambarturion had let Calenvása do so. Had this privilege been given simply as acknowledgement of his leadership? The leadership he had scorned until a day ago. And though he felt despair, guilt, anger, so many feelings in that tore at him, responses to the result of what he considered his decision, he accepted them. The weight these feelings had placed on him in the past was shaken off by this acceptance, and by the will to fulfill the duties that came with his title, his name, his responsibility, which was ‘Captain’.

A wild slash to his right brought to him the reward of a clean cut to the bare chest of an orc that he followed with a stab to the gut. Puling out the knife blade cleanly, he was prepared to meet the man in gold armour that came at him, the blade in his hand ready to take the elf’s life. Finding brown cloth that showed from beneath the armour, Calenvása sprang at the Easterling, wounding him in the right shoulder, ruining his sword arm. He attempted one last weak, wild swing at the elf before he fell. Only an elf killed with such precision, their blades weapons designed for piercing, and for a clean and speedy kill. Their enemies, particularly orcs, perhaps should be thankful for this.

Suddenly, as if a choir sang out from above, as if the Last Music was being played, as blood was spilt and the enemy was about to overcome the righteous, and the world would come to an end with the light having the ultimate victory, a great blast of voices sounded, crying out Ai, Lorien!. Lorien’s defense was awe-inspiring, as they were full of a vigor that the enemy would never know. They fought with their hearts, and filled the Captain’s and his companions’ hearts with a new hope. The next moments were that of a dream, and the passing of time was lost in Calenvása’s mind. He was lost in a blur of joy and relief, silenced by it, and driven by it to find the end of this day. Only after the battle was over would he look upon it as something from a tale of old. And a tale it did become, worthy of a song.

[Orofaniel]

"Captain Cenbryt!" Herding yelled as he forced himself towards him.

"I knew you would come..." Koran muttered. Herding held his sword tight and looked at Koran with the great disgust. "Pick up your sword, boy," he said arrogantly. "This is where you and I end this," he then concluded. "End what?" Cenbryt growled. "You will know the details when I'm finished with you," Herding answered. He was just as arrogant as before.

The other warriors that were standing between them moved as quickly as possible, as they knew this was a battle between the tow Captains only; no one else were to get involved.

"I've longed for this moment since the beginning, Captain Cenbryt," Herding told him. "I've thought about this very moment every second - every minute....I will not let you, as a man, walk away from this battle field after this battle. If you are to subborn and decide to leave, you might leave as a ghost - But as a ghost only." Herding said holding his sword even tighter. Koran laughed mockingly before he relied the following; "I like your sense of humour, Captain."

"For I do not think it is I, that leaves as a ghost this eve of battle. I would be very surprised if I did," he continued. "You see, Captain; you're too arrogant and self-centered to survive this. You've met your enemy - oh indeed, but you cannot defeat him. I simply will not let it happen.”

Herding stood amazed by Koran’s words. He didn't expect the young man to answer in such manners, but he knew if he'd be in the position Koran was in, he'd answer just the same. "I'm impressed," Herding said finally, seeming restricted and distant all of a sudden. "I'm impressed by the courage you show when you're about to die," Herding then said, frowning. "If I were you though, I'd be a bit modest, not to mention humble, before my very last hour as a living man," Herding said. He just wanted to run him over, and cut his throat at once, but he managed to control himself. "Yet, I do not see why a man should beg for his own life like a dog. Although, in the situation you are in captain Cenbryt, it would be the wiseste thing to do; you see, your death could be very painful if I'd have it my way. And believe me, I will have it my way..." Herding spoke with great voice. At the same time quite slowly as he didn't want to overlook any of Koran's face expressions. Herding tried to analyse him, he couldn’t tell if he was scared or even affected by anything he had said. He wanted Koran to beg for mercy, like a dog, but he knew long ago that it simply wouldn't be in his nature. He respected that of course, because he would be doing the very same in Koran's position - or would he?

"Painful? I do doubt it," Koran then said, still mockering him. "I don't know what pain you're speaking of," he continued. "I do know however, that I am not going to experience it tonight."

With those words, Herding ran toward him. The fight had begun.

Koran sized his sword quickly, and managed to fight the first attack that came from Herding. The sweat was pouring down both their foreheads, and anyone could tell that sweat wasn't the only thing that was going to be pouring down their faces this evening.

Then it was Koran’s turn to attack Herding. The two swords flung together with a great sound. The old rotten blood that were lingering in the curves in Herding’s sword would soon be replaced by Koran’s blood, or so Herding thought.

Herding turned quickly, but faced his enemy on the other side. Once again he did a turn, but Koran was there too. Would he manage to kill this man? There was no time for thinking as the two men fought each other. Koran moved down to the ground and flung his sword through the air just inches from Herding’s feet. It gave Herding time though, to collect himself before Koran got up from the ground. There hadn’t been one single hit yet, not even harmless hits on the armour.

“Can’t you do better than this?” Koran asked Herding rolling his eyes. “I would have expected better of a Captain like you.”

Just as he said that, Koran hit Herding in the foot. “Aha,” Koran smiled evilly. “You...” Herding muttered. He didn’t know what to say, expect for that he wanted to kill him. He wanted to end Koran’s life, but it had been said so many times already that he didn’t feel like repeating himself. He had made up his mind, and when he had done that, it was going to happen no matter what. Herding was indeed, as stubborn as can be.

Suddenly a female elf stood between them. What part would she play in all this?

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran looked across, shocked and frozen as he recognised the slim, lissome figure of the woman who stood beside both he and Herding. But this woman was no mortal: in her hands she held a bow so naturally that it was another limb, half-raised, ready to shoot, and along with the quiver peeping over one shoulder, Koran recognised with a pang of guilt that these were weapons he had taken; her long dark hair had come partly loose and hung around her face wildly; at the bottom of her dress, the material was ragged and dirty, parts having been cut off. But her perfect, porcelain features were the same as the last time Koran had seen them: alert and exhilerated but, this time, completely unafraid, self-possessed, confident. She didn't meet his eyes but in that suspended moment, all Koran could see was the elf.

Herding didn't feel the same way though. With a snarled cry, he raised his sword high above his head with both hands and brought the weapon's blade sharply down towards Koran. The Southron didn't have time to react, turning to see it coming down, ready to stab directly into his collar-

But men are but young in this world: over a millenia of experience gives the elves a certain edge - the edge, the be more specific, of Koran's dagger, grabbed by Coromswyth from his belt and rammed into Herding's stomach, up towards his ribs.

The Southron froze, his breath stopping on his lips and his arms faltering in their vicious downwards arch that would have ended fatally for Koran, and the sword slipped in his fingers, looking about to drop. Slowly, an expression of surprise on his face, the older captain looked down at where the dagger blade was wedged beneath his armour breastplate, stabbing into his ribs, then raised his eyes to the elf, who stared back defiantly. He seemed to waver, sagging slightly at the knees, his fingers loose on the handle of their dangerous burden, his eyes squeezing tight shut, for a moment...two moments...three...

But although he was not a brave or good man, Herding had the strength of an ox. His eyes snapped open suddenly and, giving a terrible roar, he swung towards Coromswyth with a roar. She nimbly stepped out of his path, her face completely impassive and calm, and with the twin sliding silver sounds of metal being drawn out quickly, she unsheathed both knife and sword and faced Herding, waiting for him to turn, taking a ready stance. Glancing across at Koran, she tipped her head towards Herding, one eyebrow raised. Koran understood. Nodding, he drew out his sword, holding it with his uninjured left arm (the other's fingers were entirely useless at the moment) and spoke confidently to Herding: "Come on, Captain, you said you could kill me: do it."

The Southron swung about with surprising speed, and in doing so he whipped his fist around to strike Coromswyth full across the face. She fell with only a gasp, and her head struck against a stone: even amidst the sounds of battle, Koran swore he could hear the sound of her head striking the stone with an ominous crunch as her eyes flickered shut. He flinched towards her, eyes widening, and he heard the other man laugh - a slow, cracked, cruel sound. Looking up, he glared at his foe with every ounce of hatred he possessed. Herding returned his gaze mockingly, his face haggard and the sword grasped in a concentrated, white knuckle grip. Raising one hand, he wrapped his fingers sluggishly around the intricate handle of Koran's dagger, the red pommel shining like a prophesy of Koran's own doom against his hands then, with a yell, he tore it out, throwing it to the ground but an inch from Coromswyth's eyes. Once more, against his will, Koran moved towards the elf.

"What, boy, afraid for the life of the pretty elf?" Herding hissed maliciously, moving between Koran and Coromswyth's prone body. "Elves...wait, I was so sure they were the enemy..."

"Let us have this out now, Herding." Koran's voice was icy and restrained although his mind whirled with questions - he refused to let his eyes turn to Coromswyth, even to acknowledge her.

"Have it out? Why, we shall, boy. And then I think I shall have it out with her - but no, wait, I..can't, can I?" Herding smiled cruelly. "I cannot kill her because, well, you already took care of that, didn't you?"

Koran didn't say anything. Herding's smile widened. "Wait until the Eye hears about this...the captain who slept with the filthy immortal enemy-"

That was it: the younger Southron spun towards Herding, whirling around and bringing his sword with crushing speed towards the other man's side. Herding just rallied in time, his own sword meeting Koran's out of chance more than anything, and sparks flew as the blades met with such force. But there was no stopping Koran now: his brown eyes glowed with deep fire and the scar stood out on his face as he glowered at Herding, spinning away and turning to fight again. They fought by the book: attack and defence, each flawless, but Herding weakening. As Koran swung towards his chest, Herding feinted and stepped backwards, before driving the blade straight towards Koran's unprotected chest. The man leapt backwards, but not before the blade slashed a wound more than two inches deep across his tanned stomach. His hand moved to it automatically and the blood soaked into both his shirt and sleeve and he clenched his fist in pain, doubling over as stars flashed in front of his vision. Herding's laugh rang mockingly in his head as the audacious captain swaggered towards him and put a mockingly companiable hand around the younger man's shoulders, making his knees buckle. He fell to the ground and Herding laughed even more, leaning down towards him.

"This is what comes of defying those far superior to you-" he began, his voice a wicked, gloating whisper in Koran's ear. The young man lashed out with his sword, both hands on the handle as he forced it in a sudden motion up...into Herding's throat. The Southron's eyes widened open and he gave a strangled squawk...before crashing backwards, eyes still open, never to close of their own accord again. Koran knelt unsteadily on the ground.

"Yes," he panted. "Yes, that is what comes of defying those superior to you..." Looking across sadly to where the elf had fallen, his eyes now widened in sudden shock.

Her body was no longer there.

Koran stared at the spot, disbelieving. He had seen her fall, and she had taken such a blow...her head had struck the rock so loudly...

Or had it?

A rush of warmth flowed to Koran's stomach and he groaned, expecting the blood to gush with even more vigour through his resisting fingers...but instead of darkness in front of his eyes, he saw light - the light shining behind a woman's silhouette, her hands held out. Koran's cynical mind immediately presented the solution: he was dying. But even as the thought came, he knew it was wrong. He was not dying: he was somehow recieving life.

"For the kindness you once showed me, Captain Cenbryt, the debt has been repaid." The soft, musical whisper was directly behind Koran's ear, but as he whipped around, standing sharply, sword in hand, he saw no one there. Only a figure bounding away into the crowd, her black hair flowing; and one last time, Koran saw those brilliant grey eyes fix on him with such intelligence that he felt weak and childlike.

Retrieving his dagger from the ground with shaking hands, he surveyed the battle: the elves had increased in numbers, and now the arrows fell like rain over the heads of men and orcs. They would lose...

"Southrons, rally to me!" he yelled over the sound, holding both his weapons ready - just as she had done: the elf who had saved his life.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Orofaniel's post

It was like a sore throat.

Within minutes he felt the heated blood flowing from his throat. His hand reached the wound.;There was blood all over it. He couldn’t feel much, except for the heath. Slowly, however, the pain increased and he admitted to himself that this was nothing like a sore throat. He knew that this wound would kill him. It was Koran who had hit him in the throat with his sword, just in the moment where Herding thought it was all over; Herding had seen Koran on his knees, believing it was him who was going to die. But he had been wrong, Herding knew that now.

It was not Koran's life that would end this evening, it was his own. He couldn’t understand it, nor would he accept it. He fought bravely against what was coming, but he soon felt death embracing his body and mind; It was about to stop functioning. He felt his legs fail beneath him as he stumbled. He knelt on the ground, Koran still looking at him.

Without the courage to speak, nor listen to the rest of the battles on the battle field, he closed his eyes. It happened so slowly, but yet too quickly. It shouldn't have ended this way, was all Herding could think of. Victory and revenge had been close at hand, but now he had lost it all. Koran had defeated him.

With that thought, he cursed Koran's name one last time before he, unwillingly, rested upon the ground and died. Herding Gratnas had been defeated for the very last time.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen Dreamsong's post

"Southrons, rally to me!"

Ehan heard a voice over the dull din of the chaos reigning the area. The call rang out again and again. Beings moved in all directions, this way and that. Their movements made Ehan nervous; he felt as if he should be somewhere but he was unsure which way to take. His vision blurred and stung as sweat rolled smoothly and slyly down his forehead and past a newly recieved cut just above his dark brow. His legs tingled with soreness, and his head ached from a light hangover that had been left unshaken before his awakening.

"Southrons, to me!"

Ehan followed the one voice, so strong and loud above the rest that rang throughout the air. The one voice that sounded like it belonged to someone that know what he was doing. Oh, if only they could see me now! Ehan thought, remembering his brothers, his mother, and his sister. If only she could see the story I have gotten myself wrapped up into.

Sliding a tired arm across his face and eyes, Ehan wiped away the droplets of sweat. He searched madly for the voice, the one he knew so well but still seemed different and changed, somehow. When he finally saw Koran, the one who belonged to the shout and call, Ehan smiled grimly at the vision of earned leadership and power. Noticing the seeping red liquid at Koran's stomach, the younger Southron looked around for a fallen foe. It did not surprise Ehan in the least to see a bloodied Herding lying dead upon the ground.

"Like I said," Ehan murmured, mostly to Koran but with the understanding that he probably couldn't hear his squire's words. "Ther is always a hero, in these stories, and the enemy always loses." Even if the enemy is on the same side...Ehan thought, looking once more to Herding's torn and battered body. Patting Koran's shoulder a few times, Ehan turned to face his captain and nodded, not really sure what to say to the man.

Yes, my sister would be proud to tell my story.

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Alatariel Telemnar's post

An elf made eye contact with Urkrásh, methodically choosing his next victim. Urkrásh then charged at the elf, who dodged the orc-blade. Urkrásh's failed attack was counteracted with a graceful hit. Blind with rage, he charged again. All the thoughts of his previous battle, hatred of elves and trees, and duty to serve the Eye, were thrust into his attempt, his last attempt. An attempt that had failed once more. The experienced elf blocked the second attack and thrust his own sword into Urkrásh's side in one smooth motion, too fast for Urkrásh to do anything.

He clenched at his side, his hands and arms soon covered with blood. Falling to his knees and then over on his side, everything went black. All the orc could hear was a faint cry, ‘Southrons, rally to me!’ He acknowledged that the battle had been lost. But in the very back of his mind, he heard a voice. ‘No loyalty, no devotion, no sense of purpose at all. They probably have no aspirations, no hopes, and I don’t blame ‘em. They’ll never get anywhere, not the way they conduct themselves. You and I, on the other hand, orcs like us are different. And, Urkrásh, if you serve with loyalty and show your mettle for the cause, you’d get somewhere, and any of that lot might too if they did so.’ For a moment, he wondered if he had gotten anywhere. If there was more he could have done.

Those thoughts soon died, as Urkrásh did himself. One body of many uruks and some orcs scattered across the battlefield. Never to be remembered, except as one fighting for evil. One who had been killed by an elf that might live on to tell the story of his victory to his friends. One who had been defeated for the side of good.

[Firefoot]

Firefoot's post

Thorvel reached into his quiver and found to his dismay that he was now using his last arrow. After this, all he would have left would be his knife, which truthfully was not the best weapon for a full-out battle. Sighing, he notched the arrow to his bowstring and drew it back, carefully selecting a target. He was just about to loose it at an Orc coming up the slope at him when a sharp pain seared through his leg. He reflexively released his firm hold on the bow and the arrow went wild, shooting harmlessly off to the left. He dropped to his knees. He found that a black-feathered Orc arrow had pierced his thigh. He yanked it out, wincing at the pain. Almost immediately blood began to flow out of the open wound, darkening his breeches. He did not know a lot about healing, but he knew if he did not stop the bleeding he would die of blood loss. He hurriedly tore a strip of cloth off the bottom of his tunic and tied it tightly just above the wound. The blood began to flow less rapidly, nearly stopping. It was a hasty tourniquet, and Thorvel knew that while it would not work for long, but he hoped it would last at least until the battle finished.

He pushed himself painfully to his feet, trying not to put to much weight on his injured leg. He realized that the Orc he had previously sighted was almost upon him, and quickly drew his knife. The foul creature approached, and Thorvel was ready. He parried the Orc’s attacks, not as easily or as agilely as he normally would have, but that was to be expected. He got in at a close range so as to render his opponent’s sword unwieldy, skillfully stabbing and blocking its offences. He feinted a downwards attack to catch the Orc off balance, then thrust up into its throat. Black blood spurted out, and Thorvel drew his knife out of it as it toppled to the ground.

Thorvel realized that while he had fought the Orc, the two had actually worked their way down the slope so that he was now on the very fringe of the Orc encampment. Nearby Orcs seemed to swarm toward him, and for quite some time he had little rest, flowing from one adversary to the next. His thigh began to throb, and he began to falter in his attacks, killing with less precision and ease and receiving cuts with greater frequency. But even as his body began to fail, a spark in his eyes gleamed the brighter with intensity and hatred. He was not ready to die yet, not while there were still Orcs around. Death comes, willing or unwilling, danced a thought in the back of his head. He shoved it away, and fought on. He now fought with the fervor of a cornered dog, hopeless but not giving an inch unless forced.

Finally though, the pain was becoming unbearable, and blood loss was making him weak. Even as he gave a death stroke to one Orc it gave a counter stroke in return. Thorvel collapsed to the ground. Death would not be long now, and he was ready to give in to it when he noticed Lómarandil nearby. He seemed not to be in current combat and looking around for a new foe to attack. Thorvel felt incredible guilt pressing down on him for the way he had treated the younger elf.

“Lómarandil,” he called, his voice shaking slightly. “Come here.” The elf turned at the sound of his name, and knelt down beside Thorvel. Thorvel could not read his expression.

“I... I’m sorry,” said Thorvel slowly. Breathing was becoming painful. “You did not deserve my treatment of you. I hope you can forgive me.” Lómarandil nodded thoughtfully. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” said Thorvel. He felt as if a great weight had been lifted off his chest. His eyes closed briefly. “Would you... would you tell the Captain... it was... an honor to be in his scout troop.” Lómarandil nodded again. “You don’t know what this means to me...” said Thorvel, the sentence dying to a whisper at the end. He closed his eyes again. Even as he could feel the darkness enveloping him, he heard as if from afar the battle cries of fair voices. In vague thoughts he made out that support must have come unlooked for from Lorien. He felt peace, now, peace and hope, and he knew that the Shadow would not conquer. Then he felt and heard no more.

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Hama of the Riddermark's post

Lomarandil stood slowly up from Thorvel's side. Anger coursed through his blood in an unstoppable rage as he looked at Thorvel's body. A lump rose in his throat, and tears began to trickle down his cheeks. Drawing his two razor sharp nine inch knives, he ran screaming at the orc force. Anger cloduing his judgement. Calenvasa saw this and cired out to him to stop, but Lomarandil didn't hear. He spun again and again, twirled his knives with awesome precision, killing every orc that came withing three feet of him.

Slowly he weakened though. His attacks slowed, and an easterling managed to penetrate his defences and stab him in the abdomen. lomarandil ripped the knife out and pushed it into the eaterling's throat, but the pain was too great. Slowly, almost poetically, he fell to his knees. Another easterling came up behind him. Lomarandil heard the swish of the blade, he felt it pieces his lung and exit through his chest. He cired out hatred for them.

The Easterling captain just laughed, and pulled his sword out. Lomarandil fell onto his hands, blood slowly pooling around him. As he tried to push himself to his feet he felt a hand grab hold of his hair and jerk it upwards. He was face to face with the easterling, lomarandil saw his arm raise, then he closed his eyes. He felt the pain in his neck only for a moment when it was severed. His mind raced away as soon as he died. Searching for Thorvel. "Lomarandil, over here." he heard Thorvel's voice say and he turned smiling, finding himself in a far green country, under a swift sunrise...

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle's post

The tide of battle passed over Ambarturion where he lay, and like a rock that resists all waters Megilaes remained with him. The student carried the master into a copse of trees where they could hide from the orcs and Easterlings, but the cover was little necessary when the Elves of the Golden Wood marched forth and put their enemies to flight. There was great slaughter that day, and the waters and fields of the Vale of Anduin ran red and black with the mingling bloods of orc and Elf.

As they watched the battle falter and then fail, and the army of Elves return victorious and yet saddened to the eaves of the Golden Wood, Megilaes and Ambarturion spoke of the days to come.

“I will pass into the West,” the younger Elf said. “With the death of my brother I will never find peace in this Middle-Earth. Perhaps those who live beyond the Sea will give me the comfort I need to forget him.”

“No,” Ambaturion replied softly, “they cannot bring comfort for all losses, or heal all wounds, but they will welcome you for the deeds that you have performed, and will help you take the bitterness from your memories of your brother and teach you how to sing the name of Caranbaith with joy.”

“I hope that this is so, my master. At the very least, I will be happy that our ways will not be parted.”

Ambarturion looked out upon the darkening field and said quietly, “What do you mean by that?”

“Only that I will now be able to join you on the Western Road, my Master. Long have you desired to follow that path, and surely now,” he pointed gently at the ragged stump where Ambarturion’s hand had been cloven off, “you will journey thence for healing?”

Ambarturion looked into the approaching night a long time before answering. “I do not think, Megilaes, that it is my doom to follow that Road. So long have I been seeking it, that I fear I have paid no heed to that which is worthwhile in this world. I feel I must remain here some time and see it for what it is, now that the veil of despair and contempt has been lifted from my eyes. I have thought for so long that I was wise and all knowing of the ways of this world – but I have seen so little of it beyond the eaves of the Golden Wood, and what I have seen I have looked down upon and spurned.” He paused for a time. “No,” he began again, as though answering one in a debate, “I will remain in this place until I am ready to depart upon the straight road. Perhaps such a day will never come, and it will be my doom to remain here and dwindle into a rustic and quaint figure of the woods, little more than a bedtime story for the peoples who will come after and hardly believe the tales of our deeds. If that is what has been laid for me, then I am content.”

And then Megilaes wept bitter tears, for he saw that his master was in earnest, and he sought to return the sword of Gondolin to Ambarturion. But the elder Elf refused it, giving it to his student and bidding him carry it with him into the West. “I know not if such things as this are held in honour there. But if they are, then give it to those who dwell beyond the Sea, and tell them that with it, Megilaes of Lorien avenged the murder of his brother Caranbaith. Tell them, that a champion has come to his deserved rest.”

“My Master,” Megilaes cried out, “I fear that this will be the most bitter parting of all. For I doubt that your way will bring you to the West if you do not follow it now. Where will you find a Road in a land that is growing dark? And where will you find a home in a world that no longer needs us?”

“I know not, Megilaes, for such wisdom is not given to me. I am ancient and mighty, but I do not possess the wisdom of the Noldor.”

“What then will keep you in the long years ahead?”

Ambarturion turned his eyes upon the setting sun and smiled. “Hope,” he said.

[piosenniel]

Durelin's post

Helkaur

The defense of Lorien had marched out upon the army, and their stand broke their enemies, with the unseen aid of the scouts of Mirkwood, and the lost ambassadors of Lorien. The enemy had faltered when the key part of their plan was unsuccessful. Orcs and Men, servants to a cruel master, would not stand long when their attack was met by a defense that was meant to be frail and without a backbone, without the elfin magic that any cruel heart would find impossible to stand against. Their leaders had faltered, knowing that the plan to rid their Master of the great defender of a stronghold of good in this Middle-earth that he would rule. Instead, the Lady Galadriel would depart on a grey ship, into the West, along with the rest of her kind, the last of her kind, the Ringbearers.

This victory reached their hearts even more than any former ones against the forces of Sauron. The defenders of Lorien had never answered such a call as this. Scouts had discovered the body of one of their kindred, a member of the envoy sent to the Woodmen of Mirkwood. Taking this as evidence that the envoy had not reached its destination, Lorien realized it was alone. And alone, Lorien was not slow to answer the call to war.

Helkaur watched his enemies flee from him and his comrades for the second time that day, these survivors of a much smaller number than those who had fled upon the routing of the main force. He cried out with the joy that filled his heart, and thought of his return to his wife, when he would get to see Moraniel smile. He stood among so many dead, and could not help but let his happiness fade, though he did so almost begrudgingly. But he felt his heart grow no heavier, because life was his focus right now. He focused particularly, and almost selfishly, the fact that he lived. He shut his eyes, wishing that that would also shut out the sounds that surrounded him: words of grief, songs of sorrow, and the final whispers of a dying soul manifested in the air, and through those who mourned the dead around him. He wished to get away from them, wished to return to his home and who would greet him there. And so he ran.

They had met the army from Dol Guldur only a few miles from the beginnings of the woods. Lorien had much to thank the Anduin for, it seemed. Without such an obstacle, they would not have had time to make such a stand as they had. Nor, most likely, would the mysterious Ambarturion – a great servant to the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel, who was practically a legendary name to Helkaur – and his companions would not have come in time to ruin the key part to the attack. Time was not something an elf often considered, and it could be frightening, perhaps, how much time could mean. It could have been the undoing of the Lord and Lady of Lorien, thought it had never touched their land.

Soon Helkaur was making his way along familiar paths under familiar boughs, hastened by some need that was even greater than that which had driven him to march in defense of his land. But when he was still nearly a half mile away from the home he so desired to return to for the last time, he was stopped by a young elf woman. She greeted him kindly, and it was only after he returned her greeting that he recognized her. And then he was forced to recall the dead that still lay upon that field he had left behind, as her husband was among them. That elf was not racing home to show his wife that he was alive, and it hurt Helkaur to look into the elf woman’s eyes. He was afraid that she would ask him of her husband, and he did not know what he would say. He certainly did not know how to comfort her, when she would begin to weep in her grief and shock… But she did not ask of her husband.

“Where do you run to, soldier of Lorien?”

“To my home, my lady,” he answered rather curtly, perhaps finding a reason to be annoyed with her for not even asking of her husband, of who she loved.

“Are you not standing within your home?”

Helkaur glanced around him, but his eyes snapped back to the young elf woman as she began to laugh. She laughed surprisingly loudly for one who spoke so softly, though she quieted quickly. “What did you fight for?”

“For Lorien.”

“Not your home?”

“The home of my people.”

The female elf smiled. “And you do not return to your people. Much of your people lie dead outside these woods, others mourn their deaths, outside of these woods.” For a moment, he was afraid she was referring to her husband, but their was no sorrow in her voice, nor did any show in her eyes. So Helkaur spoke boldly.

“I return to my wife, glad that she does not need to mourn me.”

“Then your home is gone.”

“Gone?” Fear was starting to creep up his throat, choking him, while simultaneously growing in sickness in his stomach. His voice was disgustingly empty, void of emotion. His tongue was dry. She spoke without any feeling, as well, and so very quietly. “You answered one call, she answered another.” Fear seized him, and he was frozen. His eyes revealed all that went on inside him, but it seemed she chose simply to ignore what she inevitably saw. Anger rose in him as warm tears stained his face, suppressing the fear and allowing him to speak. “You speak words that make my heart tremble with fear, and you say them as if they were trivial things that should already be known to me. Tell me girl, why do you speak of ‘calls’?”

“Melian has taken the road to the Towers, and then will take the ship across the sea, into the West. It was the call of the gull that she heard.”

He did not want to remain in this girl’s presence. What she said angered him, and he feared that she spoke truth, feared as he never had, never actually fearing his own death. And so he ran again, away from the frightful young elf woman, coming at last to his home in the trees. He climbed up the ancient wonder, the mallorn, and entered his home. He found no one to greet him on the return he had not believed he would make.

[piosenniel]

The End of a Day ~*~ Durelin

A soft murmur of voices was the only sound on the battlefield, sounding a beautiful sorrow amidst a field of death. The immediate celebration as the orcs fled the field had faded when they began taking care of the dead, searching through the bodies, finding familiar faces. A soft chant for all of the dead, a sweet song for those they recognized. All their hearts mourned as one, though their voices were all their own. The gentleness of the air was not broken by any sound. The carrion fowl did not dare come near elves as they mourned their dead.

Calenvása walked through the battlefield, seeing every pale, lifeless face as a familiar one. Only in their eyes did the dead still seem to live, and he looked in to so many eyes that day. He felt that if he looked close enough, he could see their souls taking flight, flying home, free from the confinement of their bodies that had walked on Eä until this day. It was astounding what could occur in one day, how many lives could come to an end in one day, how much a being could see in one day. And there were so many days in the life of an immortal…

Suddenly something made Calenvása look up, and he saw Targil standing before him. The Captain was shocked at what he saw on the elf’s face, in his eyes. His face was hardly recognizable, and there were tears running down it. It was not his face itself, Calenvása soon realized, but how it was set. And it was his eyes. The elf was a perfect model of grief, and it aged him. Targil had wisdom in his eyes, eyes that had seen so much in one day of the immortal life.

The elf led his Captain to the body of Lómarandil, and then to the body of Thorvel. He spoke of Thorvel and Lómarandil’s deaths, and how he had been nearby. He spoke of it as something long passed, an event that was lost somewhere in the long history of his life, the exact time it had occurred no longer known. His eyes would even grow distance as he recalled the moments, particularly when he came to when Thorvel had spoken. The dying elf had asked for forgiveness from Lómarandil, and gave his respect to his Captain. With forgiveness given, Lómarandil died with him. Calenvása considered it strange that Throvel would remember him as he died, but he decided he would consider it once more, later. For now, tears ran down his face, and the sorrow left him silent.

Then someone spoke from behind him. Slightly startled, Targil and Calenvása turned quickly to see who spoke. Neither recognized him, but that did not seem to matter. Tears were in his eyes, as well, and there was a look about him that made Targil’s grief seem slight. In his hands were two blossoms of the elanor flower, their beauty glowing in the Captain’s tear filled eyes. He held them out as he spoke softly, “These are for your comrades. They died for Lorien, though their home was in Mirkwood.”

Calenvása was shocked, and simply bowed, murmuring his thanks. It seemed more than enough to the strange elf. He almost smiled, but Calenvása watched the grief overcome him once more. The Lorien elf stepped forward, and kneeled upon the ground. Targil and his Captain watched as the Lorien elf placed the flowers upon the body of Thorvel. The still moist blood soon soaked into its delicate white petals. “Where does your other companion lie?”

“What is your name?” Calenvása asked. “Helkaur,” he strange Lorien elf answered. Then, though the body of Lómarandil lay right next to Thorvel’s, the Mirkwood Captain gestured out across the battlefield in all directions. “Helkaur, our other companions lie here.

[piosenniel]

~*~ Finis ~*~

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~