[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran watched as the orcs battled in first, going as if they were attacking the very gates of Gondor themselves, and rolled his eyes. "Look closely at the orcs," he murmured to Ehan beside him, leaning towards him slightly "and you can see that many of their moves are merely showy. How half hearted can one group be..."

The younger man looked afresh at the orcs as he turned away from his captain, and indeed he suddenly noticed why the captain had been watching so cynically. He glanced back at the other Southron, but Koran's gaze had now shifted. He raised a hand to the men around him, fixing his eyes on the battle, and most specifically on the lethal, raven haired immortal in the centre of the fray. But as he watched, he saw the gleam of light against metal from elsewhere. Glancing sharply across, he saw a fourth elf, tucked behind a tree at the very peak of the hill so he could not be seen much by the orcs and Men. The elf's sharp eyes had not yet picked out that Koran had noticed it yet though - they were too busy sighting along another arrow. As Koran watched, he saw the elf loose the arrow fluidly, the weapon becoming a part of it's body - a split second later, an orc fell in the fray, near the very centre where the raven haired elf fought, an arrow piercing a chink in the armour around it's thick neck.

Koran couldn't help but be impressed - a hidden archer, able to pick off the enemy from a distance, knocking them down close to their allies where a death would not be noted as being odd. Clever. But what's more, the archer really was a marvellous shot - Koran knew few who would have been confident that they would be able to get that shot dead on straight away from such a distance, and dead on it would have to be: if the elf archer slipped by even a few centimetres, the angle would become amplified over the distance, and her companion would lie dead. Without pausing, the elf strung another arrow and took her impeccable aim - within two seconds, another orc was snuffed out.

The Southron captain allowed himself a faint smile. I had almost forgotten what it was like to fight outside my own world, he thought dryly. Sharply, he brought his arm down, raising his sword and giving a yell. The fifteen Haradrim warriors behind him gave a chilling cry and thundered up towards the battle ground. Koran nodded to Ehan and pushed him ahead. "Lead them, Ehan - I am taking...an alternate route."

Not pausing to watch the boy's stunned reaction, Koran backed further down the hill until he was at the very bottom, then sprinted around some, measuring the distance in his mind so that he would be approximately behind the elf archer. Slowing, he slipped away his sword, the leather padding the inside of his sheath ensuring that the sound of metal would not be heard, and touched his dagger lightly. Then, with utmost stealth, he began to creep up the hill, his soft soles and practise stalking allowing him to be as quiet as humanly possible. Surely not even elf ears will pick up the sound over the noise of battle. Or maybe...who knows with the immortals. Koran allowed himself a shiver: the elves were an unknown quantity, an enemy he had not yet battled.

A challenge.

Smiling, Koran snuck up behind his unsuspecting quarry, keeping low to the ground. As he came to the peak of the hill, where a few trees were clustered together, he flattened himself behind one and eyed the elf archer...and was shocked to realise it was, without a doubt, a female. He blinked in surprise, a few precious seconds causing him to hesitate at the strangeness. Of course, Haradrim women fought, almost as many of the men, when the duties of being wifes and childbearers did not prohibit them too much. But the elves...somehow, from what Koran had heard, gleaned from old warriors and Inn-talk, the female elves were...different. Fragile, precious beings, crafted delicately by impossible beings who the elves believed watched them - gods...

He shook himself from his reverie as he slipped his fine dagger from his belt, settling it naturally in the palm of his right hand. Walking forward silently behind the elf, he raised his arm out to one side.

~*~*~

Coromswyth took aim down the arrow shaft again, mentally making a note of the number - nine orcs down, her aim perfect. If she pulled it off, this would be the tenth. Silently pleased with herself, Coromswyth did not berate herself for any delight she took in the killing: it was a necessity, a duty. And her father had always declared that duty should be well carried out, care taken, even pleasure - that was what would achieve the best result. He had meant it for battle originally, telling her and her brother of this as one of the many lessons he ingrained into their minds throughout their childhoods, but he had applied it to all areas of his life - his duty to the Lord and Lady as a servant and warrior, his duty to his children as a father, his duty to his wife as a good and loving husband.

But his glee was too much.

Coromswyth sighed, shaking her head with a twinge of bitterness and sadness. Her father, it was said, had gone down fighting, gone down laughing in the face of the enemy as he defended his son and Celeborn. Too much joy too late.

She shook herself and focused down the arrow again, ready to shoot for 'number ten'. She focused on his: Ambarturion was actually aiming for this one this time, but waves of orcs were getting in the way now. It was an exceptionally ugly beast, but from the wild gesticulating and bellowing it was doing, Coromswyth guessed it might have been the leader, or a leader. Ambarturion was so like her father....she would take this orc out for him. Laughing he was not, but die he would not either. As she focused, one eye slightly closed as her fingers rested against her cheekbone, an inch from her eye, she suddenly got a chill feeling of being watched. Simultaneously, she registered to lithe, dark warriors who suddenly joined the battle, but led by a very young man, who seemed almost unsure. Haradrim. The two realisations took less than a second to register with the elf:

The orcs are there, and their leading fights with them. Men also now fight...so where is their leader?

As she watched, the young, unsure Haradrim warrior glanced up, behind her, his eyes darting past her to...

"Don't move."

The steady, quiet voice from directly behind her made Coromswyth freeze, her nerves pulled on sharply like a puppetmaster on a rebellious puppet. She didn't turn and her mind suddenly started working overtime, her eyes staring straight ahead.

"Drop your bow."

Coromswyth didn't hesitate, and she complied calmly - but made sure it was her fingers that loosed first. The arrow shot true and straight, and although it missed her original target, it hit another rather scrawny looking specimen directly. Taking some chill, dry satisfaction from this, she lowered the bow steadily to the ground...then rolled to one side.

She heard the Southron give an angry cry as she moved, grabbing her unsheathed sword swiftly and swinging it around at his legs...or where his legs should have been. Surprised and disorientated, Coromswyth's miscalculated swing threw her balance and she tried to turn fast...but not fast enough. A cold, thin edge promised death if she moved as it suddenly rested against her throat. Crouching on the ground, sword held in mid air a few inches from the ground, Coromswyth could actually hear the man breathing behind her, and even thought she heard him smile as he stood slowly, bringing her with him, his hand reaching forward to loose her fingers deftly from her sword as he did so. She was surprised that it was his right had that did this - evidently he was left handed. This registered as a faint distant surprise - Coromswyth's brain seemed to refuse the overwhelming realisation that she had been captured.

"Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaara!"

The man's fierce yell almost made her jump and she felt ashamed that she had been so easy to shock. She felt him move closer to her as he stepped forward and stiffened as she felt the warmth of his body against her back. Closing her eyes, she murmured a prayer then opened them as she looked back down at the battleground on the slope, where her Southron captor's yell had caused the battle to cease. She immediately found Ambarturion's eyes, where he stood surrounded by orcs and Men, pressing in in a tight ring upon him.

I'm sorry...

"Bind their hands and arms, all of them. We move immediately back to the camp." The Southron's voice was harsh and commanding, but surprisingly young. Through the corner of her eye, Coromswyth glimpsed a curl of hair as the man turned his head towards her, then a young, unlined face. He is so young, even for a mortal... The idea registered with shock, but currently only added to Coromswyth's shame. She had been caught out by a man centuries younger than herself, young even to his people, a thin line of steel across her throat stopping her even from moving - caught, and Ambarturion with her. The other elf was not going down without a fight though. He gave an equally terrifying yell and with a weapon in each hand slew the monsters on either side of him immediately. The adversary recovered quickly though, stronger with the knowledge of their success: as the Southron fumbled in his belt quickly with one hand, the dagger blade remaining steadily across her throat, Coromswyth watched Ambarturion be beaten down to the ground, eventually looking away, biting her lip. Steeling herself as her captor was distracted, she suddenly and forcefully jabbed an elbow back at him, driving it directly into his rib cage. The man gasped and the dagger slipped, but not before it cut a thin, shallow cut down one side of the elf's neck. She paid it no heed though, breaking away and beginning to run...only to be brought to the ground as the man threw himself at her feet.

Coromswyth fell gracelessly, the man's arm's wrapped around her ankles, and he once more recovered unnervingly fast, moving forward quickly to her side and roughly grabbing her arms, binding them at the wrists and elbows. She fought and struggled, attempting to scratch or kick him, but the Southron didn't even seem to pay any attention - within a few seconds, she was helpless, bound helplessly. He pulled her gracelessly to her feet, taking her weight easily as he lifted her by her upper arms, then used another piece of rough, dark material, stained and ragged, to tie her mouth and gag her. The elf fought against him but he shook her viciously once, and she suddenly felt his full strength, his hands digging painfully into her arms, probably to cause bruises. She stopped and closed her eyes as he finished gagging her without a word, then motioned for her to move forward, pushing her brusquely and firmly but not unnecessarily hard, keeping a hand on the rope at her wrists as he moved to her side. She took a look at her captor and her light eyes burned with fierce rage against this unknown man, her thoughts irrational, sharp and fiery. I will remember your face, Southerner...