[Himaran]

Not even the horde of orcs swarming around (and occasionally overtop) the young dwarf could outnumber the thoughts rushing through Dwali's brain. Just moments earlier, the company had been headed straight towards the mountain path. Now they were scattered, lost in a raging sea of enemy. Would their disguises hold? The orc armor might not conceal the elves or men, who had completely different builds. And of what of the passage that was rapidly passing out of sight? Perhaps this was how it would all end.

Such thoughts were becoming increasingly unimportant, however, as the fugitives were forced to join the orc army's steady march. Dwali found himself next to a captain, if that was the brute's actual title. "Keep it moving, you maggots," he roared. "We march for the gate." Snarling an unintelligible phrase in a crude orcish tongue, he savagely turned on a straggler with his whip. The violent display ultimately kept the dwarf's stout legs moving, but exhaustion was slowly setting in.

The chain of orcs kept moving, darkening the already blackened earth. Dwali had lost any sense of time or distance. Collapse was imminent, as was presumed death (in his mind, at least). And topple he did, right off the edge of the wide path and into a tiny crater; one that neatly hid his prostrate form from the millions of unfriendly eyes passing by above him. The dwarf had slowly moved towards the edge of the column and, when his last reserves of energy were gone, had fallen into a relatively concealed positon.

But Dwali had little time to reflect on his good fortune, for after reviving from unconciousness several hours later, he was still hopelessly lost. And the orc army continued by, an endless yet unnatural cycle.