[Anguirel]

While the stray wind carrying Bazhrat's laughter continued to gnaw on the company's minds, breeding fear, hesitation, and division, the not-so-stealthy scout was drifting on the breeze to an odd looking pile of rocks, far further down the hill and out of sight of the Elves. The stones were too peculiarly round to have all gathered there by chance or nature. It was in fact a cairn; it housed the leader of an Orc-band and most of his followers, and had been hurriedly erected by the few survivors of the party.

The Orcish cairn was the only one of its kind standing on the island. The other graves, equally eroded and crumbling, still held about them the dignity that told of Elvish craft; for no Orcs since had dared to bury their dead on Maedhros the Tall's domain. This one, too small and lumpen to be a source of attention, had been allowed to stand.

Of course, it "housed" the Orc-band in more ways than one. Thought these yrch were of no particular distinction in bodily life, as spirits their common residence made them a larger group of Coavalta than any of the other slain Orcs, who mainly dwelled in ones and twos. Thus this relatively unsucessful chieftain found himself "Captain" of all the scattered Orcish ghosts of Himring. This had swelled his arrogance and nurtured his anger.

Naturally, Captain Ghashthurk remembered his death. The one the Orcs called the Red Fury had sliced him throat to groin. The others, they had long memories too. They remembered swords, bright brands with hard names, and dark-headed smiths. Noldor, filthy Noldor, despised all the more because they were what each Orc longed to be.

And they remembered the object of their raid, oh yes. They remembered the tough little Dwarves, so pitifully few in number, a diplomatic mission; with their queer war-masks and their shining Helm.

And so when Bazhrat, one of the filthy scavenging loners Ghashthurk held sway over, had come limping sheepishly over to tell of six Elves, Noldor, led bythe same one Kragscurk had seen at night...the one who had carried Red Fury's standard...with others they remembered, a tall grim weaponsmith...and with the Helm...yes, no mistake about it...revenge had come for Ghashthurk's clan.

The twelve warriors (thirteen with Bazhrat added) soared out of their rough cairn, gripping spears that would leave no lasting bite, but only a taste of purest terror.

Terror. It had finished others before, Ghashthurk thought. It would finish this lot; and the Dragonhelm would be his forever more...