[The Ruling Ring]

Fededhor dove through the trees, the rest of the men close behind him.

The orcs looked up with the sound of their hurried steps, their bleary eyes focusing just in time to see the men burst through the trees. Fededhor raised his blade high, bringing it down in a swiping motion, across the necks of two orcs, ending in the arm of another. This one howled, startled, drawing his own blade to retaliate. Pherdur behind him sprang up and in one fell motion, landed the orc's hand on the ground, the blade still clutched in the now-limp fingers. Fededhor glanced at Pherdur gratefully, lunging forward and finishing the orc off.

The skirmish did not last long. The men were all skilled fighters, and the orcs were not many, or cunning. They suffered little more than a few bumps and bruises before they found themselves standing, solitary, the ground covered in blood, the bodies draped about the ground. Fededhor looked up at the men, nodding slowly.

"Good work," he said softly, unable to think of anything better to say. He looked at Pherdur again. "I fear this is where we must part?"

"Not yet," Pherdur said. "We are--weary," he paused, catching his breath. "And it is growing dark. Perhaps it would be better to wait for morning."

Fededhor looked behind him at the growing dusk. The road was getting no safer, definitely. It pained him to think of spending time not trying to reach the prisoners, but once more, Pherdur was correct. It would do none of them any good to burst in, exhausted, on the orcs.

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Fededhor sat up, singing softly to himself. He had volunteered for the first watch, and was trying to distract himself from thoughts of what was going on in the village not far away.

He broke off suddenly, his head turning sharply to the bushes. He had heard something.

"Orc!" he yelled, springing up and rushing at the hedge, plunging his arm into it, and pulling up--a girl. He looked down in amazement.