Olo dropped the point of his sword as soon as he saw the Warg go howling away beyond the tree line. Carl’s thrust with the fiery brand to the already injured Warg’s face had driven the beast off.
Carl stood gasping for air. The fight had been quick and strenuous, and his ribs ached where the previous Wolf he had killed had knocked him to the grown with the dead weight of its body. Olo had dropped the point of his sword, and also stood wearily, head down.
They could see Bullroarer to their right, taking aim at one of the other Wargs. The Orcish arrow had been dipped in pitch from one of the unused brands and lit. Now it flew with a deadly accuracy toward the beast, burying itself deeply in the left shoulder. The Warg gave a yelp of surprise and then a howl of rage as the arrow bit deeper with its fiery tip. The long hair where the pitch stuck blazed up, pushing the Warg to a frenzy. He ran after the other escaping Warg, beyond the perimeter of the clearing, and rolled in the snow trying to bring himself some relief.
Carl and Olo pulled back to where Branda and Tomba were. Three Hobbits looked to be seriously injured, and the healer had his hands full taking care of them. ‘My injuries can wait.’ said Carl to the Ranger. Olo nodded his head in agreement.
They gathered in others of the Hobbits who had suffered injury and began treating their wounds as best they could, leaving Branda and Tomba free to work on those more grievously hurt.
[ January 21, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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