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He drew her to him and clasped her tightly; his chin resting on the crown of her head. And he might have kissed her once more, save the alarm was raised and there was no time for tenderness now.
‘Captain!’ cried one of his men who had come to fetch him. He averted his eyes until Ondomirë turned to him. ‘There are Trolls come into camp. They’ve attacked the horses along the southern perimeter and are dragging off the ones they kill. They slay anyone in their way; several of our men have gone down beneath their giant hammers.
“I’ll be there directly,’ Ondomirë said, his eyes gone hard at the news of intruders. ‘Fetch my bow and quiver, if you will and meet me at the second picketline – they have not gone there yet, if I understand you correctly.’ The bowman nodded his head and was about to run off, when Ondomirë called him back. ‘Tell Hensirë to send a squad of his spearmen here to the central area. The refugees must be protected. And let the leader of Blue squad archers know his men are to fall back, too, to this position.’ The bowman hastened from Ondomirë even as the last words still hung between them.
‘And you,’ he said speaking in a clipped manner to Losrian. ‘You will arm yourself with bow and fall in among the archers who will be here soon. For now push all the others who cannot defend themselves into a tight core. Tell them to stay behind the spearmen and the archers.’
He put his finger to her lips seeing she might protest his decision. ‘It is the Captain of the Bowman who speaks now, Losrian. You must make safe the refugees . . . the little ones,’ he went on, his voice a shade softer. He turned, a look of mingled regret and duty, to follow after the bowman messenger.
I will see you after! he sent to her as he ran toward the sounds of battle. The grace of the Valar guide our arrows! He was gone from sight, when one last instruction came to her.
Aim for their eyes if you can. Or the small opening of their ears . . .
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