[piosenniel]

It was well after the cold white eye of the moon stood straight above the camp when the pack drew in closer. The small fire had burned down to a few glowing embers, and there was only one Elven guard on duty. The rest lay on their bed rolls, eyes wide open to the stars winking in the branches of the trees above them. The Man was asleep. They could hear him snoring and the sound of his tired body as he repositioned himself for comfort.

Carchmoroth had positioned five wolves to the north of the guard, hidden in the shadows of the trees. Their yellow eyes gleamed coldly as they paced in the darkness, regarding him. At a signal from Carchmoroth, they whimpered and stepped loudly on the dry leaves beneath one of the dying trees.

The guard heard them, his head snapping round to their position to fix on the gleam of their eyes and catching the scent of them. ‘There are wolves to the North!’ he hissed to his companions, bringing them awake.’

The Elves drew their bows and fired into the shadows of the trees. The five wolves retreated further into the darkness drawing the Elves a little closer as they heard the yelps of wolves hit by arrows.

To the right of the two-leggeds, Dûrêl sent in her ten wolves at a fast clip. On the left, Dûgoroth let fly the swiftly running wedge of his seven wolves.

And from behind, came Carchmoroth, like a black quick wind, urging his five before him. These leapt at the line of defenders and bore down two Elves and the Man beneath them . . .