[Amanaduial the archer]

As Erenor had charged, with her terrible battle yell, towards the trolls after Belegorn, Faerim had instinctively grabbed for her, but his hands had grasped only empty air. As the elf vanished into the melee, the young man had started after her - but an arm grabbed his, pulling him backwards. "Get back, boy! Your commander told you what to do, now you respect that," a gruff voice remonstrated. The speaker lowered his voice to a grim, respectful tone and added, "Respect the wishes of a dying man, boy."

Faerim spun around and shoved the older man, pushing him roughly against the tunnel wall. Caught off guard, the soldier stumbled backwards and fell against the wall, but anger had overtaken Faerim and he was too caught up in it to regret it yet. He took a step forward, barely holding himself back. "Don't you ever say that - Lieutenant Belegorn is not dead yet."

The soldier was taken aback but only for a moment and he sneered at Faerim, straightening up and spitting to the side. "What, like your little elven friend? She ain't dead either - yet..."

This time it took another soldier's grip on his arms to restrain Faerim. He struggled for a moment then simply glared at the older man and shook the other off him. Casting a last glance at the battlescene that surged around the corner, he swore quietly and turned to the others - a group of lost soldiers without commands, half of whom were merely boys, younger even that him. And one other figure: Brander. Subconciously, Faerim straightened up as he faced them. "Get back - towards the caves, quickly. Take the torch and follow...."

"Nevhith," the boy to the right of him interjected. Faerim raised an eyebrow. How could I ever forget that voice... He nodded. "Sure, follow Nevhith. And for gods' sakes, don't drop it."

The boy nodded, swelling up with his own importance and held the torch high, he turned to the end of the tunnel and took the lead. About half of the group followed but some hesitated: the older, more experienced soldiers, those more around the age of Faerim's father than of he himself. The youth looked at them and raised his eyebrows very slightly, but they didn't move, glancing nervously down the tunnel to where Belegorn and the elves had vanished. And Faerim realised glaringly who was missing, and was amazed that he hadn't done so before: Lissi. The air knocked out of his lungs, he turned wide-eyed to the man who had held Faerim back - Serrane, Faerim now remembered, the name surfacing from the depths of his memory. "Where is she? My mother, where is she?"

Another man sneered once more, but Serrane cut over him. "Faerim-"

"You were told to take care of her!" the boy almost shouted. "Where did she go?"

Serrane didn't reply, his eyes flashing with muted anger at being shouted at by a boy so much younger than himself, but he didn't reply - but the way his eyes wandered down the tunnel fleetingly towards the fighting told Faerim all he needed to know. The boy paled and, without another word, turned to run in that direction, his hand on his sword - but quick as a viper, Serrane grabbed his arms once more. "Get back here! Listen to me, Faerim, both your mother and father are down there - you really think they'd thank you for getting yourself killed in addition?"

"I can't just let-" Faerim squirmed furiously against the older man's grip, but he held firm: although Faerim was strong, this man had been in the military for a lifetime.

"You can, you will," he interrupted fiercely. Pushing Faerim ahead of him, he turned down the tunnel and started down it determinedly, following the fading, wobbling light of the torch ahead. But Faerim wasn't giving up that easily: if he was anything, he was stubborn. He walked a few steps quite meekly - then turned and tried to cut down under the other man's arm. Mistake. Serrane's arm shot out reflexively and all but floored the younger man. Faerim sprawled against the wall, writhing as his back hit the hard, jagged rock and his eyes flared furiously. Serrane squared himself up for the boy to make another try - but then a sound quenched them both, and all the others in the tunnel. Marching feet, regimented and solemn, the sound of a well trained force coming down these dark, terrible tunnels, their footsteps echoing off the walls and, it seemed to the already edgy Faerim, shaking the very stones. What was this, yet more trolls come, or something even more terrible? He remembered the attack on Fornost: the enemy hadn’t seemed organised in the attack then, it had been chaos once they entered the city, but the memory of the regimented orcs standing in battalions as straight sided as a knife edge remained in his enemy. Yes, even the vilest form of orc who had taken everything from this people could march in line, for all their animal screams and nightmarish appearances. Were they about to do it again, to take yet more from the Dunedain? Hardly daring to move or even to breathe, the dissheveled Faerim waited, silent and wide-eyed as the footsteps came to an abrupt halt. Something close to silence descended.

Silence.

Then a blood-curdling yell ripped down the tunnel, vicious, screaming words in an jagged, unfamiliar tongue. That was it: Faerim took advantage of Serrane’s momentary lapse in concentration and burst past him, sprinting up towards the sound of the voice, with only the thoughts of Lieutenant Belegorn and his family in his mind. And Erenor. Always Erenor.