[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran lay motionless on his back in the tent, his fingers laced behind his head on his folded up coat, used as a pillow, his legs stretched out and crossed as he stared up at the roof of the tent, his brown eyes sightless as in his mind he watched the stars beyond. Despite having found the drink and dice he sought, there was something unsatisfying about them tonight, and the thoughts that plagued him refused to remove themselves despite all the coaxing from his jovial company.

Desperately jovial. Tomorrow we die... The unpleasant thoughts made Koran close his eyes tightly, screwing them up tightly then sitting up restlessly. Stifling a yawn, he rubbed on eye with the heel of his palm and listened to the noises outside. He had been lying in his tent for hours and still sleep refused to come - as she had refused night after night recently. Koran had been born and brought up as a soldier to a fine family - part of one of the most treacherous armies in Middle Earth. You slept with your sword at your hand and one eye open - fact of life, it always had been! But it had never stopped him from getting a decent rest before, so why now, when he had men loyal to him, a good captain, about to attack an unsuspecting foe, did he feel so restless?!

The answer, of course, was obvious. Herding. That single word, as hateful to Koran as the mention of Sauron to the elves. Koran had attacked him once, even if it was in defence, and would have won - and Herding would not forget it, although he was likely to erase in his mind the fact that if Koran had wanted to kill him, he would be dead. No, men like that have long but selective memories, and lack of imagination could bring about a very steady focus on doing what they wanted - in poorer men, the thoughts of revenge would simply fester away, twisting their minds, bringing them to petty violence against those too weak to defend themselves. But Herding - Herding had the power to carry out his wishes. A foolish, drunken man, with too much power than one of his sort should have, a clone to so many others in the Dark Army. Too quick to both sword and bottle, too stupid and proud to look at what he was doing and prevent quarrels, feuds, loss of life...

Koran threw his head back despairingly and flopped back down onto his makeshift bed once more, hands covering his face, then sat up abruptly again. What was he thinking? You're a soldier, Koran, loss of life is what you do! Do not confuse your thoughts with ideas of the enemy...

The enemy. Elves. One elf. The second cause of his sleeplessness: that bloody female-

He stopped, his head hanging between his drawn up knees, eyes closed. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to try to relax, to lie down again and to expell thoughts of both of the causes for his concern. The battle was tomorrow - maybe tomorrow was today now, he had no idea of knowing how long he had tossed and turned in his tent, trying to tempt Lady Slumber to lie with him, for minutes seem like hours with such a demanding and stubborn mistress. Outside, he could hear the muted murmurs of men still talking, and the occasional quietened laugh rang through the air as the last of the Southrons retired to their tents. Beyond that, the omnipresent gurgling of the river could be heard, a soft rippling that seemed amplified to Koran's tired and paranoid ears, even through the walls of the tent. That was an unsettling sound by itself - having grown up in the dry and dusty land of Harad, the captain was not used to the sound of water just gushing past like that, and even when travelling he had spent little time so close to the water. The occasional cry of distant waterfowl made him start, hand on his dagger, before he realised and relaxed a little, still remaining taut. Those cries - the sounds were unnatural and seemed too like screams, or the yelp of a wounded dog, sharp and piercing and so abruptly cut off to leave terrible silence in their wake. He shivered and turned his thoughts back to the sound of the river, sliding like some terrible beast outside. What if it was to overflow? The thought seemed rational and shocking to his tired mind - sure, it had seemed rather too full when he had seen it earlier, and it lapped at the banks constantly, always seeming to come closer up. Was it like that which he had heard of the Sea, always rising, creeping forward to take you unaware while sleeping on it's banks, vengeful waves rising and falling with crushing power.

He sat up with a stifled shout, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, his dark curly hair awry and eyes wild, sword in hand as he faced the mad, turbulent river of his dreams as it forced it's way through the tent flap. Sea...river...waves... He blinked a few times, lowering his hand slowly. So sleep had come to him for a while, but she had brought unpleasant gifts indeed in the form of such a dream. Outside, the men had finally retired to bed, and all was silent save the river - but that is not to say that there was no sound. Koran froze completely, listening to the sound outside - the sound of about three score men and orcs moving completely silently.

His sword still in his right hand, Koran stowed the dagger at the back of his belt, now in full view as he was not wearing his jerkin over his shirt. Pulling on his boots swiftly with his free hand, he stood silently and moved lightly over to the door of the tent, where he nearly fell over another figure. Sword raised at the ready above the still form at his feet, he twitched the door open a fraction, and the moonlight fell on a familiar face: Ehan's face, looking even younger in his sleep than usual. What the- The boy must have had a little too much to drink and slept in here rather than going back to his own tent with the other soldiers. Squatting, Koran covered the younger man's mouth and Ehan jerked awake immediately, his eyes wide and scared as the looked up at the dark form above, hovering like some malevolent spectre. The malevolent spectre raised a finger to it's lips and sat back slightly to allow more light onto his features for his squire to identify him as. Ehan looked confused, sleep confusing his mind, but Koran motioned for him not to speak and pointed to the sword beside him in a clear message. Standing once more, he looked through the crack between the tent flaps - and the sight made him go cold. Outside, standing with sword raised high, his eyes and grin terrible, was Thrakmazh - and around him, and the other tents, there were a swarm of orcs. And at the feet of Thrakmazh were two Mannish bodies - presumably the sentinels of the Southron camp, their necks now twisted at impossible backwards angles: broken for a silent death.

Mouthing a curse vehemently, Koran backed away sharply from the flap, his knuckles white over the sword handle. Having arrived so silently and armed so well, the orcs led by the fiersome Uruk were probably not just here to have a few early morning drinks. Tugging at his hair with his free hand, he looked around desperately - they had the tent's one entrance and exit surrounded. How could he escape? Think, Koran, think...If I throw myself out suddenly, I can probably take a few of them down, and if I yell loudly enough, my men are sure to recognise the voice and come to my aid...

Unless they were in on this as well...

There was no time to contemplate that, and no time to think up a better or more structured plan - it would have to do. Ehan's eyes shone in the darkness as he positioned himself beside Koran and the older man exchanged a glance with him, nodding briefly and reaching out to clasp his hand firmly. Tensing his muscles, he prepared to rush to the door-

-when a gargled scream rent the air. Piercing and drawn out, the sound made both men jump, and from the sound of clattering armour chinking against itself, the orcs had done the same. Koran didn't pause to wonder what it was - throwing himself through the tent's entrance with a yell, he sliced his sword around in a wide arc to lop of the head of one of the orcs. But through the rows of tents, it seemed a different foe had beaten him to the swarm of orcs: even in the twilight of the very early morning, the small group of elves seemed to shine with some radiant light from a hidden source. The one at their front, now recognisable as the male elf who had been sent off to his supposed death, raised his sword high and yelled in a voice both beautiful and terrible like a ghastly spirit.

"Lorien!"

The single word was like a signal: immediately, the orcs and elves surged forward to meet with clashing weapons and battlecries...