[The Barrow-Wight]

Akaaw had no time to mourn the death of his ancient friend, if indeed the old bird was no longer living, nor did he have a moment to even check for signs of life. Grasping fingers of bud-tipped bark whipped about him, and a particularly large, woody limb swatted him soundly, rolling him like a ball into the grass and, as luck would have it, out of the reach of the vengeful trees. He looked back, stunned, to where other crows of Fingot’s cadre were tossed, smashed, ripped, and beaten. Only a few, far too few, escaped to flutter tiredly out to their leader’s side.

Panting and sweating terribly from anger and fear, and still mindful of the danger of the trees, Men, and untrustworthy orcs, Akaaw commanded the miniscule murder to the sky and up to an altitude beyond immediate danger. Everyone eagerly followed, and soon six old, weary crebain wheeled above the battlefield to assess what must next be done. Akaaw shook his head sorrowfully at the loss of so many fine crows.

Below, the fighting between Man and Orc had ended with many dead on all sides, but the forces of Isengard held the field while the few horsemen of Rohan that were not lying in the golden grass were fleeing westward. Everywhere, the ground was black with feasting crows and drying blood. The time had come to gather the murder so they might continue their journey.

Akaaw descended slowly and cried out to his captains as he landed at the edge of the flock, far away from the celebrating goblins.

“Come to me now, before the sun sets and we are clawing among these cursed grasses in the dark. Come!”

One by one, his surviving leaders reported in with full bellies and mournful eyes. Many crows had been lost in the fighting.

[ January 10, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]