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Thorvel knew there had been no choice. South had been the only way they could go and still hope to come to Lorien before the Orcs. It was risky, yet a necessary risk. The Orcs might well hold the ford; Thorvel had a nagging suspicion that they did. Still, they had pressed on through the night, and soon they would know. If the day brought battle, death was almost inevitable. If the ford brought Orcs, battle was inevitable. It was a bleak prospect. They were drawing near now. They approached the area warily, so as to get an idea of what lay ahead.
Thorvel crested the last ridge before the mighty Anduin just behind Ambarturion, who had led the way that night. What he saw caused hope to die within him. The full strength of the enemy’s army stretched out before them, blocking the ford. There was no way to reach Lothlorien. Then Ambarturion drew his sword.
“Lorien!” Ambarturion cried. All at once the Orcs were alerted to their presence. If any had still been sleeping, which seemed likely enough at the early hour, they would wake soon. Confusion would reign for a while, and then would be death. Somehow Thorvel wasn’t ready to succumb wholly to the despair that threatened to engulf him. He raised his bow, and fitted an arrow. He would not die without a fight. He loosed the arrow, squarely hitting his target.
“For Mirkwood!” He descended into a cold fury. He lost track of his companions, vaguely aware that those without bows had charged into the Orcs. He fired arrow after arrow, each one taking out an Orc or Southron. And strangely enough, in the midst of battle, he found he was at peace. The stresses of the past few days drifted away, for they were all in this together, none fighting for leadership or over any other small matter. They were all fighting for their lives, for the freedom of Lothlorien, against the Shadow that willed to overtake them all.
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