[Sharkû]

<font face="Verdana"><table><TR><TD><FONT SIZE="1" face="Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif">Hungry Ghoul
Posts: 1024</TD><TD></TD></TR></TABLE>
The Prey Shows Teeth

A number of the men from the western plains had fallen under the swords of the Rohirrim, among them the leader of his unit, Smrtan. When one of the tall and dark-haired riders had cloven Smrtan's shield asunder, and struck his blade into the Dunlending's body, the young Storwolos had howled out in fear.

Gesturing wildly with both arms, he now stood out among the Dunlendings who were about to encircle the three remaining riders, for he, Storwolos, felt that now it was his responsibility to order the ranks and take the lead as the most resolute of his unit. Although he had always respected Smrtan, he nevertheless knew he himself was alone cut out to be the real leader here, and the one who whom Borleg had also always seen as the one with the best 'Dunlending spirit', as he used to say.

His shaved head moved from left to right to strafe those of his men with a glare who seemed to fear the well-wielded swords of the riders, and, ramming the standard of their house, the long spear with three large ox-horns bound at the top like a fork, into the ground, Storwolos took his shield and attacked with the signal for the next assault in this skirmish. The Dunlending was filled with agonized fury as he crashed into the his next opponent, one of the two riders who looked not like the other strawheads, dealing a blow with his javelin, and warding off another with his small leaf-shaped shield. With his smaller and considerably more agile body, he dodged away to the side to regain the edge in close combat.

Then only for a glimpse, the hate in Storwolos's eyes subsided and gave way to his surprise, only to light up anew as he beheld his former comrade Vlodlak, who called himself 'Ulfwine' after the tongue of the forgoil, siding with the enemy and slaying his own kin, his own blood.

Before his anger allowed Storwolos to react other than to growl and shake his weapon at the enemy, piling on into the triangle of the three remaining opponents, the riders tried to break through to the south in a coordinated fashion, as if they responded to a hidden sign. Now Storwolos heard it – far away to the south, horns were sounding. Not in the shrill, complicated drum-based rhythm of the Dunlendings, but as the clear, piercing call of the strawheads. Storwolos had to kick one of his men, who was already about to scavenge among the goods of the riders, and reluctantly, he had to give the sign to break the ring and reconstitute in the northern flank.

'Try to kill them quickly, and then retreat!' commanded Borleg, and Storwolos did likewise to the men of his, who seemed to have accepted his initiative at least for the present, mainly because they seemed impressed with his battle prowess. But as he ended, the first riders of the relief were already in an arrow's range, and the doughty warriors would not yield to the spears from Dúnland. Before the charge of the new éored came crashing in, Storwolos removed from melee at the cost of a deep cut in his shield-arm, and with more gestures and angry shouts he was somehow able to turn the wild flight of his men to a ordered retreat, although many Dunlendings could not escape the strawheads' fast assault.

The Dunlendings were more familiar with these parts of the land than the Riders, who seemed to have stopped behind them, although none dared to turn and look. Some of the group seemed to have been seperated to them, Borleg and a few man of his house were missing, but since Storwolos had seen them fleeing and already out of the range of the enemy, they would not be far.

After some minutes of running, they came to a mould between some ragged hills, where they had camped often already. There, Storwolos adressed the men again for the first time since the command to retreat, thriving in the absence of his leader: 'Comrades, we have seen the malice of our enemy once again! They turned one of our men into a traitor. They raid deep into our land already again, this time into the land we had to withdraw to after they had first epelled us from the green eastern plains. Let us march northwards, to gather our kindred, and urge Borleg to lead us in a campaign, I say. The White Hand of Isengard has offered us Rohan, and we will rally to it. But it is our fist that has to crush them, and take back what is ours!'


</p>Edited by: <A HREF=http://www.barrowdowns.com/cgi-bin/ultimatebb.cgi?ubb=get_profile&u=00000006>Gilthali on</A> at: 9/15/01 4:23:32 pm