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Gromwakh took advantage of the sudden stop to have a little look-see at the terrain. Flat for the most part and out in the open, no trees for the Elves to sneak under and disappear. Some small, rolling hillocks, and there to the northwest a taller hill. Grom shaded his eyes with his great hairy hand and peered at the steep-sided mound, or so it looked from this distance. Gauging from his memories of the foothills about the northern Misty Mountains he knew this was deceptive. It would be a hard climb at the all out pace One-Eye had been setting for them - he could already imagine the Orcs with their armour clanking, weapons grasped firmly in hand, having a hard time gaining a foothold. Worse yet, the approach to the hill was wide open, save for what appeared to be a tall area of undercut that seemed to wrap round the lower east to north edge of the hill's base. The Elves, for the most part, would have a clear view of the army’s approach.
‘I don’t see that big shiny blade we heard the one big Elf has,’ whispered Snikdul, his eyes following the direction of Gromwakh’s gaze. No blade held high by the awesome Elvish warrior glinted in the morning’s sun; no lightning issued its sizzling warning as it shot from the nearly mythic fighter. ‘Bad news, though,’ said another of their fellows, thrusting out his great ruddy lips toward the hill. ‘Looks like they have bows.’
Gromwakh spit outward watching the gobbet of spit arc a bit then fall quickly toward the dirt. ‘No wind, either down here and there either, he said, noting the loose hems of the Elven tunics did not billow out like pennants in a breeze, but lay flat on against their bodies.
‘Who brought the shields, like I told you?’ asked Grom, motioning the group to gather round him. Five of them unslung the thick, wooden planked barrel tops they’d got from the salted pork barrels and four had the very large iron lids from the big cooking pots. ‘Good going, boys! The rest of us that don’t have a shield will stick close to a pair of you. Snik’ll keep his eyes on the sky as we get near the hill; let us know when the arrows start flying.
The little group followed Gromwakh’s lead, positioning themselves about three quarters of the way back in the ranks of Orcs and Uruks. Snikdul scratched his cheek and squinted back toward the hilltop as they wormed their way a little further back in the ranks. He blinked his eyes a few times, then pulled on Grom’s sleeve. ‘Are there really only four of them up there? Or do they have some hidden away from us, all sneaky-like?’
‘I’m hoping that four is it,’ Gromwakh snorted in a gruff voice. ‘And it’s that Uruk lot should be sneaking about . . . to the other side of the hill while the main part of us draw their attention.’
His eyes fixed on the rusty blade raised high near the front of the company, he heard the voice of his less than beloved leader rallying the troops . . .
“C’MON YOU WORMS! MOVE!”
The foot of the hill loomed nearer as they thumped along . . . giving way at long last when they had reached it to the inevitable, and sometimes daunting, angle of repose that would bring them to the hilltop’s prize.
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