[Kransha]

The twanging of bowstrings resounded and the whistle of arrows, rending the wind and air, resounded through the dank corridors of the fir forest. From the thickets and ample cover of the furry shrubs in the forest, uruk archers rained down an assortment of narrow, jagged bolts onto the company of their opponents. Before, beneath, and beside them rang the clang of hoof against earth as the enemy group’s horses bolted and panicked, though they were soon set under control by their riders. The riders galloped swiftly from the open and into the checkered shadow of the trees, concealing their silhouettes from the orcish archers. But, the archers persevered, firing frantically into the woods. They did not lose their organization, but maintained order, and fired in the direction of the horse’s neighs and maddened whinnies, their arrows puncturing the hanging branches and rustling the higher bushes. Arrows, tipped with liquid red, stabbed harshly into the soft earth and cracked asunder the stones that lay by the wayside with their strength. Many bolts pockmarked the path of the riders, filling up the earth where the tracks of their horses were printed mere moments after they passed by, gallivanting forward at great, hurried speeds.

“Fire! Fire!” Búbkûr’s voice continued to speak, crying out in its raspy, thick tone that burnt the ears of those who heard it with its vileness. Not disposed to ranged weaponry, Búbkûr had busied himself with the exercise of leaping up and down, to and fro, and brandishing his hook profusely, stabbing and hacking in the supposed direction of the enemy. Hotly, he jumped forth from the trees, jabbing forward and back, as the nine orcs crowded around him fired a single, unending volley, a hail of arrows falling from their crude, short-bows. Some, who were not apt with bows, were armed with other weapons that could be shot or thrown. Two had a small supply of crude javelins, short hunks of wood with sharpened tips that fell gracelessly and lacked accuracy, but would be deadly at close range. Two more of Búbkûr’s nine bore crossbows, probably stolen and not of orcish manufacturing, for they were more lithe and comely, though they had been tainted with stains of blood and mud by the orcs who bore them.

Not too far off, on the other side of the trodden path that the enemies were taking, was the troop commanded by Kransha. Bâzzog, who had again not deigned to engage in combat, had split the force of twenty-five uruks that was to corner and lure the opposing force into a trolly trap into two distinct parts. One, consisting of ten orcs, including Bubkur, was the melee unit, technically, whereas a group of orcs who had been trained specially by Kransha had been put under the command of their silent educator. They were providing the more precise, and efficient archery from the cover of the trees. That company numbered fifteen, to Bubkur’s ten, which was a point that made him mildly irate, but did not distract him. He was busy enough thinking about what he would do to that tark-dug who’d dared to hurt him when he got his hands on him.

“Keep them down, boys!” cried Búbkûr, his fervency still fresh and full, “Fire low!” He maneuvered to the side, and his section of the orcish troop moved gradually with him, edging towards the destination they had been assigned. They were drivers, meant to direct the tarks and Elves to a designated locale, one where the trolls, who now lay in wait at the ready, could overcome and subdue them with relative ease. In addition, the orcs would be able to spread their forces and herd the fools right into the area, so they’d be hopelessly surrounded. The very thought of this cruel but satisfying action brought a grim smile to Búbkûr’s wretched face, and he licked his lips, balling his one hand into a tightly clenched fist. With a number of gestures, he pointed his men towards the clearing where the trolls bided their time. He caught obscure glimpses of the other troop of orcs, who were still raining fire down on the orcish quarry.

“Thrakul!” he bellowed in the Black Speech, his voice carrying through and over the dense underbrush to Kransha’s company, and then turned to his own men. “You four,” he said hastily, indicating the two orcs with crossbows, and two with bows, “keep firing. The rest of you, get moving. Drive ‘em to the clearing.” The four remaining, as well as Búbkûr, turned tail and ran, dashing recklessly through the forest, past various woodland obstacles, attempting to head off and herd the Rangers and Elves, and their mighty-voiced mounts. They surged toward the clearing, where slivers of vague light from above penetrated the shade of the forest, and the dusty beams shone down on a trio of figures, who stood stock still, their outlines blazoned against the darkened greens and browns behind them. Búbkûr ignored to still figures, though, and concentrated his weak mind at the task as hand. He crowded his own men, who put up their ranged armaments, save for the two javelineers, who turned their weapons up in their grasping, wrenching arms and waved them as stabbing spears. The orcs poured forth, with the hail from the other orc troop raining on their foes before them.

“Take down the horses!” roared Búbkûr, “Attack!”

The orcs, not mounted, ruptured their ranks and dove at the braying steeds. In the first moments of the direct combat, one of the orcs was kicked full in the face by the iron-hard hooves of a horse, and, bleeding and twitching fitfully, the first casualty rolled limp into the dust beneath a weeping shrub. Only slightly irked, Búbkûr carried on. The company was not yet in the clearing, not yet near enough the trolls. Búbkûr, as his men charged forward, followed by the four archers from behind, still firing without aim, turned his head towards the outcropping and slopes where Kransha’s orcs were perched and cried out, “Find Kransha! Gimbata!” at the faces he saw poking out from between swaying branches, slipping into his own tongue again as the command flew out of him. Moments later, the arrow rain had increased, and the bolts grew in accuracy. In a flash, one horse of the many had gone down, riddled with arrows. As his eyes returned to the fray, Bubkur recognized the rider as that tark who’d injured him.

Before he knew it, his legs were carrying him in huge bounds forward towards the man as he rolled from beneath the empty ruin of his still flailing steed.

At this moment, the second troop burst through the trees, and the battle began in earnest. From behind the Stone Trolls, and the forested objects opposite the orcs, five trolls issued, roaring madly and gleefully as they fell on their prey. The battle moved too swiftly from the trolls to the opened clearing as orc, Ranger, Elf, and Troll clashed at the central point. The arrows abruptly stopped whizzing, and their swift sounds were replaced by the loathsome cackles of orcs as they strove forward. One of Kransha’s troop, a surly fellow with a curvy knife and a shield that looked as if it might be have been a table-top once, tackled the Rohirrim from his horse, and the two wrestled in the dirt as the other orcs closed in, with trolls a-clobbering on the other side of the field. The battle had begun…

And, up on the sloping hill from whence the orcs had come, stood Kransha, searching for a target…