[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ambarturion sought shelter from the rain of black-fletched arrows that streamed toward them from the underbrush, cursing the fate that had left him unequipped to respond to the attack. Megilaes pressed himself behind the tree adjoining Ambarturion’s own and the two waited with eager impatience for a break to come in the archery battle so that they could engage the enemy. Coromoswyth had taken up a position not far from theirs and she was firing into the brush, but without apparently much success. The orcs had come upon them with some plan in mind and, as Ambarturion had feared, they were making the most of the time the Elves had given them. They were being assailed now from both sides, and though the eyes and arrows of the Mirkwood Elves were keen, it was a hopeless battle: no group of archers, no matter how accomplished, could long withstand an attack upon two fronts.

Ambarturion whipped out his sword crying “To me! To me!” and stepped from his shelter. A movement in the corner of his eye made him swirl to one side, but not quickly enough to avoid the vicious barbs of an orc arrow. There was a sudden pain and then nothing as it sank into his arm. Ambarturion knew instantly that the arrow had penetrated no vital artery and that it had missed the bone, and without further thought he ripped it from his flesh with one agonising motion. His cry of pain became one of rage as he and his student ran toward the nearest group of orcs.

Two of the creatures had been slain by the arrows of the scouts, and the other four fell before the blades of the enraged Elves. Ambarturion’s stolen orc weapon shattered upon the armour of his last victim so he was forced to take up the only weapon that came to hand, a short jagged dagger. He then spun and ran back toward the other force of orcs, but the scouts had finally found their nerve and engaged them. Three lay dead, and Megilaes quickly killed a fourth. Ambarturion ran at the remaining two who tried to flee before him, but he quickly outpaced them. He punched the larger of the two in the back and sent him spinning into the trees. The other whirled upon him, snarling out his hatred through his yellowed teeth and lunged at him with his blade. Ambarturion easily avoided the blow and struck the orc upon the head, driving him into the ground. He drew back the orc’s head and prepared to slit its throat but a voice commanded him to wait.

Ambarturion looked up in surprise to see the leader of the scouts advancing toward him with his hands raised. “No!” he said. “Do not slay them. We might be able to discover from them where their army is headed.”

Ambartuion nearly spat at the idea. “They are but the maggots of Mordor, they do not know anything of use.” He made to slit the throat once more.

“NO!” the captain cried. “I said do not kill them!” And he took hold of Ambarturion’s wrist.

Ambarturion rose to his feet in fury of the insubordination. He gripped the orc dagger and advanced upon the captain, and had it not been for Coromswyth’s hand upon his chest he did not know what outrage he had been prepared to commit. “Ambarturion!” she said softly, as though to a maddened animal. “What would you do? Are you not ashamed to offer violence where you should be paying gratitude? Were it not for these our brethren we would surely have been taken and…killed by the orcs.” Ambarturion noted her slight hesitation as she omitted the unspeakable word that had haunted her since the incident at the Southron’s tent. She saw this but continued as though she did not. “Do not forget yourself! Our duty is to the Lady, and Calenvása is right, these orcs might know something.

The rage in his heart faltered and failed, and for a quick moment, he almost felt the shame that Coromswyth spoke of. But rather than respond to her appeal, Ambarturion dropped the orc upon the ground and strode off in search of better weapons.