Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

Coromswyth nibbled lightly at the end of her lembas, not feeling particularly hungry: there was something in the atmosphere of the plain that made her uneasy. She looked around surreptitiously, taking in the area they sat in: the tight trees made it useful in several ways, of course - an enemy would never be able to attack on horseback, any large force would have to break down and so couldn't hurl elves with their full force, and even the trees were of a sort that would shed leaves all year around, to dry up and stop any force from approaching silently. It was not too small, either, allowing space to fight if it came to it, and gave an advantage for defence, especially for archers, as it was on a hill, and the copse would provide some defense...

But then, archers, if they managed to moved through the trees or with extra stealth - or maybe if a sentry guard was not vigilant enough in the depths of an uneventful night - archers would be able to get into place entirely surrounding the elves at the centre. And those leaves, shed so usefully to stop attackers, could be the undoing of those they were attacking if they needed to retreat down one side...and Coromswyth knew, from the loss of half of her family, that retreat should not be underestimated, no matter how cowardly it may seem: for there is nothing much noble about a girl waking up one morning, alive with some dream she wished to share, and realising, as she had done every morning for a lifetime of men, that her twin brother will never be able to share it with her...

Coromswyth paused suddenly, freezing, then slowly finished her mouthful and looked straight up into Ambarturion's grey eyes. "How long have you been watching me, Ambarturion?"

"For as long as you have doubted my judgement, my lady," came the cold reply. The older elf did not blanch as Coromswyth addressed him, and he still radiated a sort of paternal disapproval. He thinks me beneath him for my years... "You doubt...why is it that you doubt this place?"

"I am sure I misunderstand, Ambarturion..." Coromswyth began carefully. She saw no sense in angering Ambarturion with explanation of her misgivings about this place: there would be no point, for she had no wish to dent his considerable pride. And besides, it was not a bad spot - had she thought that, she would have said so, for too poor defence, even in such a simple journey, could cost their lives, and more.

The other elf shook his head jerkily, angrily, but didn't say anything for a few long moments. The elf woman watched him without speaking, the silence growing awkward and cold in the oncoming night air. Eventually, Coromswyth rose, stifling a sigh as she did not want to provoke Ambarturion, and crossed the open space between the trees to where her horse was tied to the low hanging branches of one straight trunked, regimented tree. The stallion gave a soft, low whinny of pleasure as she approached and lay a hand on it's muzzle, murmuring softly to it as she ran her long fingers down it's muzzle tenderly.

The lengthy silence continued to stretch until Ambarturion eventually spoke. "Why did you insist upon bringing that beast along?"

Coromswyth looked over at him in surprise, eyebrows raised, then opened her palm and allowed the horse the last of her lembas. "I am sure you have some ideas why..." she replied softly, not looking at the elder elf.

"Aye, maybe." His reply was spartan and cold, telling Coromswyth with more eloquence than words could have managed how he felt about it. She smiled very slightly to herself. Possibly he guesses it is merely spite, a will to go against his wish...or that I did it so that I may have some high ground above him, maybe? How foolish and frivolous you must think me, Ambarturion, that you think I can only voice my ground in a few feet of horse!

"Maybe?" she prompted, teasingly, smiling a little more. "Ah, Ambarturion - please, I shall not doubt your judgement if you do not doubt mine. For after all, yours has proved fine as yet - I make no criticism upon your choice of resting place." She traced her fingers down the horse's neck gently, weaving an invisable pattern of leaves through it's fur, then gave it a final pat, smiling into the horse's eyes. Crossing the open space once more, she caught Ambarturion's eyes once more: the elf did not look away, but Coromswyth wished he were a man of more words, for what wisdom or debate he might impart from the fire and consideration that had settled hand in hand in his eyes. A mystery indeed and one, she thought with a little mischief, that she would take pleasure in unwravelling.

"Goodnight, Megilaes, Caranbaith," she said softly, her voice velvety as she nodded to each in turn. They inclined their heads to her, then to their master, before departing wordlessly to their sentry posts, their golden hair seeming to glow slightly in the darkness, silent spirits to sit as sentries for the two Ambassadors. Turning to Ambarturion, Coromswyth smiled, courteously and gently rather than with mischief or mockery. "Good night, sir Ambarturion."

He paused for a second, then looked away, preparing to sleep. "Sleep well, my lady," he replied, and Coromswyth was pleased to hear no rebuke in his voice as she had feared. With a pleasant sigh, she rested against the tree nearest, settling her back against it's trunk as she crossed her arms and fell to dreams...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The shadowy forms of the sentinels moved through the trees with such quiet stealth that Ambarturion doubted that any but one such as himself could see them. The brothers were young, but he had trained them well and they knew how to move in the dark so that they would neither be seen nor heard. He sniffed at Coromswyth’s fears of being surprised by any manner of beast: there was nothing alive that could find its way past two whom he had trained. The moon was sinking toward the mountain tops, casting the last of his feeble light, while above the copse the light of Earendil shone down so bright that it cast faint shadows. Ambarturion sought comfort in sleep and dreams but they eluded him. He was a creature of action and movement, and while he found it easy to lose himself in memory as he walked, always the enforced stasis of night left him anxious. This night, his unease was provoked both by the chill of apprehension that had settled upon him and by the knowing, half-mocking words of Coromswyth.

He had misjudged her somewhat; he had thought her incapable of reading him so well, and she had surprised him when she so easily found him questioning her spirit. He had begun to see that he reminded her of someone – someone whom she admired and respected but with neither intimacy nor passion. An older brother perhaps, or the lord Celeborn. He shrugged his shoulders beneath his cloak to drive away the thoughts of her and settled his head back against the trunk. He fell into sleep, but his eyes remained open and gazing upon the Flammifer.

He was awake and on his feet before Megilaes had crossed half the distance between them. He had been asleep for only three hours but the darkness had deepened to pitch with the moon’s setting. The Star still shone, but he had moved behind the screen of trees that was now their only protection from what came toward them up the hill. Seeing that his master was awake already, Megilaes went to wake Coromswyth and bid her prepare for the onslaught.

Trusting the immediate protection of the lady to his pupil, Ambarturion joined Caranbaith upon the shallow lip of the hollow and followed his gaze into the west. “How many have you seen?” he asked.

“At least two score. They are trying to cover their approach in the brush, but the light of the Mariner has shown them to me. They must have been lying in wait for us since we arrived, however – they began to move the instant the moon disappeared.”

Ambarturion’s eyes scanned the ground before them, taking in the situation at a glance. The lady Coromswyth’s assessment of their position’s strategic potential had been accurate. Had they been surprised by the enemy there would not be much hope. Thanks, however, to the keen eyes of the brothers the advantage was now theirs. Ambarturion spoke quickly, issuing orders. “They are many, but still too few to surround the hill. They will attack on no more than two sides, if they have wit enough; it is more likely that they will come upon us in a body, hoping by the force of numbers to overwhelm us quickly. I do not see that many of them are armed with bows, so we must take full advantage of that. Get your longbows and conceal yourselves in the trees – but take care that you are no more than six paces from one another!” The brothers quickly obeyed him, Caranbaith bringing Ambarturion’s bow to him where he stood. As Ambarturion readied his first arrow he saw Coromswyth take cover and aim her shaft at the leading goblin.

Their enemy was close enough now that they could easily make out the heavy stamp of their foul feet and the harsh clatter of their armour. They were indeed goblins of Moria, and as they came they spoke to one another in their debased babble. They hesitated for a moment at the foot of the hill, but at a command from the rear of the column, they rushed up its slope. Ambarturion waited until they had closed to half the distance of the slope before loosing his shaft. At the same moment Megilaes and Caranbaith loosed as well, and were quickly followed by Coromswyth. All their arrows found their marks and four goblins fell. The band let out a howl like a pack of dogs and raced toward the trees. The Elves fired again and again, more quickly than the eye could follow, and soon at least a dozen more goblins lay dead upon the clean grass. But then the party was beset by the monsters, and they were obliged to draw their swords.

Ambarturion easily sidestepped the first wave of assailants, and with an almost lazy slash of his sword, he sent one of the goblin’s heads toppling through the air. His blade glittered white in the starlight as it danced and wove about him, and soon two more goblins lay dead. He felt a danger to Caranbaith and whirled in time to see two goblins pressing their attack at his back. Ambarturion leapt over the nearest goblins and drove his sword through the back of the largest beast besetting his pupil. The other turned but fell to join his companion.

The initial shock of the attack was now over, and Ambarturion looked about for the others. Coromswyth and Megilaes stood together against their foes and dealt out death on all sides. The lady’s skill in battle surprised and pleased him – she had clearly been trained by a master. The goblins renewed their attack, and he was soon wholly concentrated upon the battle once more. Goblin after goblin fell before him, but still they pressed in. He did not know how many were attacking them, and he did not know how many he had killed, but surely their numbers were more than two score?

A cry of pain from behind made him swirl, and he saw Caranbaith clutching his side as blood came forth from a deep gash. The goblin who had dealt it stood behind his pupil, his hideous face made more so by the devilish look of hatred that overspread it. The goblin raised his sword to deal the death blow, but Caranbaith was able to counter it before it fell. The effort, however, pained him and he stumbled and fell. Again the goblin came at his prey, but it was too late. Ambarturion had rushed to his student’s aid and before the goblin saw him coming, he the cold steel of Gondolin pressed through his heart and he fell without a sound to the earth.

To this point, Ambarturion had fought with mastery but reason. The sight of the young Elf’s blood seemed to set him alight with fury. With a cry he sprang at the nearest goblins and began to slaughter them with a grim smile upon his face. He took no heed to his safety, relying instead on the blaze of his rage to quell them. They looked upon him and despaired, for it seemed that one of the Eldar had fallen upon them, as in the days of old, and none could withstand him. Those who yet remained alive threw down their weapons and fled, gibbering in terror. Ambarturion pursued them to the edge of the hollow, slaying as he went, and soon the hill was bare of the enemy.

He stood panting upon the lip of the hollow for a time, allowing the cool night wind to cool his fury. He knew that Caranbaith was alive, but grievously wounded, and the knowledge stabbed at him more keenly than any orc blade could have done. As he returned to reason, he heard the low cries and moans of those enemies who had been wounded too badly to flee. Turning from the edge of the copse he walked amongst the fallen, coolly dispatching the survivors with his sword, heedless to the foul curses that they spat at him with their dying breaths.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel had listened intently to what Calenvása said. There was little that he had not already known or figured out; the only thing he did not understand was the little exchange between the Captain and Lómarandil. Clearly something had happened, and though he was curious Thorvel did not push it. It was the young elf’s news, however, that caught Thorvel’s interest.

“I heard the orcs near to where I watched the army speaking, and I discovered the army’s route. They are to attack Lorien,” said Lómarandil. Thorvel had mixed feelings about this. On one hand, he was glad that the enemy’s plan of attack had been discovered, but he wished it had been any other elf besides Lómarandil to discover this. Thorvel got along with Lómarandil all right, but he didn’t like the younger elf’s arrogance, and Thorvel supposed this would only add fuel to the fire. In addition to that, Thorvel didn’t trust him. Not that he trusted very many people, but though he appreciated Lómarandil’s skills as a scout, there was something about him that made Thorvel wary.

Thorvel was starting to get impatient to speak after listening to Calenvása and Lómarandil speak. He determined that he would be next, whether someone else had something to say or not. Then Calenvása turned to him, as if expecting him to speak. He stood up straighter from where he had been all but leaning against a tree; he could feel the other Elves’ eyes on him.

“I think,” he said, “that though we know their general plan, we actually know very little of what they plan to do. They’re going to attack Lothlórien. This tells us little; it was either that or Mirkwood. What we need to know is how they are going to do that. And why so many? And with Southrons? Is this attack somehow more important than the others that they have led? These are the things that I think we need to know, and if at all possible, the elves of Lórien should be alerted. If this huge army were to come upon them at unawares, I should hate to think of the devastating loss that would then most likely ensue. There must be some small way that we can help them.” There. He had said it. He had no personal ties to Lothlórien - he had never even been there - but the thought of an Orkish victory made his blood boil, whether against Elves, Men, even Dwarves. Orcs were Orcs, and he hated them.

He realized it was starting to get warm, and shifted slightly into the shade of his tree. He realized it was nearing mid-day already, and what were they doing but sitting here and talking. Discussing important things of course, but talking nonetheless, while the Orc army was out there. He hoped they would finish talking and take some action soon. He settled himself grimly and waited to hear if there was anything anyone else had to say, and what Calenvása would make of it.

[Durelin]

Calenvása acknowledged Thorvel's words as very wise, and would discuss them later. All of what the elf had just said would come into play once they began to discuss their next move. And Thorvel had spoken aloud what Calenvása's mind was trying to work out: the most important thing was to get to Lorien and warn them, wasn't it? To warn the King would do little good. It would take several days to journey north, and there were countless dangers that had to be faced in that route. And what could King Thranduil do? He had no army hidden up his sleeve. The elves of Mirkwood fought their own battles, and struggled with little hope. They could not help their brothers, even now. Though perhaps this scout troop could. Calenvása decided to disregard any thoughts of glory for the rest of his life, and nodded toward Targil next.

For a moment Targil hesitated in speaking, and he looked as if he were reluctant to say what was on his mind. He remained in his crouched position, his hands running through the gross as he thought. When he finally spoke, his words came slowly at first, and it seemed he was worried about what kind of reaction these words might bring. But then his voice hardened as he went on, and its tone showed that he felt strongly about what he said. "I find it strange that these tensions that you discussed, Captain, were risked in the plan of this attack. Would it not have been easier to control an army entirely of orcs, and yield a fierce mob? I wonder, as Thorvel does: why Southrons and Easterlings?"

Targil paused for just a second, and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lomarandil prepared to speak. Gesturing calmly with his hand and smiling at the younger elf, he gently quieted him. No one spoke, and all eyes were now back on Targil, if they had not remained there the whole time. He realized this, and seemed a bit daunted by this, but only for a moment. Calenvása watched slightly in awe of the young elf as he collected himself and some of his great surplus of courage. Targil's voice was strong and fervent as he continued. "I see that there is a need for Men in this mission. And the only difference I can find between Southrons and Easterlings, and orcs is in their minds."

Targil stopped again, and his eyes fell back to the ground, where his hands still played in the grass. It seemed he was finished. But Calenvása was not satisfied. He of course had several ideas concerning what the elf was trying to say, but he needed to know directly from Targil what he was saying. Calenvása thought he knew, but he always doubted himself, for good reason, or so he thought. "Forgive me, Targil, but I ask that you explain exactly what you are suggesting."

Targil's eyes shot up from the ground and he looked at his Captain. He looked exasperated. Calenvása then proceeded to sigh himself, and said, "I begin to see what you see, but my final vision may be very different from your own when it is formed in my mind. Or it may not."

Targil let out his own sigh, but nodded in agreement, or at least in acknowledgement. "I see more than a large attack force. I have reason to believe that brains are needed in this attack, and so there must be more to it than march and slaughter."

Calenvása practically shivered at those last words. 'March and slaughter' expressed what orcs did, so well and so bluntly. He would keep those words in his mind as a reminder. He hoped that they would appear in his thoughts whenever it was necessary for him to remember what he fought for and what he fought against.

As for the rest of the words, they confirmed the Captain's thoughts from pondering Targil's last words, but they looked at the situation from a slightly different direction. Calenvása's mind had been too set on details, and tried to fill in any holes. The problem was, it was far too early to be thinking in details. And filling in holes was not at all a good idea, for they needed the details to fill them in with.

Calenvása's eyes passed from Thorvel to Lomarandil. He knew Targil had no more to say, for now. The young elf was not one to be slow in thought or lengthy in speech. Calenvása then asked them all, "Is there more that is wished to be said? For we must soon pinpoint our next position."

[Amanaduial the archer]

"I hate them."

Koran simple, murmured statement made Ehan look across at the older man, slightly surprised at his matter-of-fact way of speaking such a bold statement. The Southron captain allowed his eyes, just for a moment, to dart deliberately across to the group of orcs not far away, illuminated in the pool of light from their fire, and as he did his eyes were vivid with constrained loathing. Koran leant forward over the fire, calmly turning over the pointed stick spit on which a few strips of heavily salted meat were speared, and his demeanour was so calm that the statement may have been disregarded - after all, most of the Southrons resented being classed with the orcs - their 'hatred' became every day. But when Koran's eyes darted up, there was no doubt that the serious looking captain had not made the statement lightly. His dark eyes held Ehan's for a moment, then he looked down again. Another sudden, vulgar whoop errupted from the group nearby and with his keen eyes Koran saw that the object of their play was alive - some small animal, a ferret or rabbit or the like. Ehan turned quickly to glance at them, the looked back. The good-natured boy grinned slightly, always one to make light of a situation. "Why so much?"

Koran shrugged simply, hastily, avoiding Ehan's eyes as he carefully removed the spit, the stick held with surprising delicacy between his long dark fingers as he pretended to concentrate much more. Inwardly, he berated himself. Fool, Koran, fool - what, you come to represent your clan and instead let this boy know your true thoughts... He had vowed not to let his feelings be known unless there was need for them to be, unless he was sure of his company - sure he had scanned them for sign of Ferach and Cortim's corruption. He was sure they would have someone watching him - and he didn't think it would be to check that their dear young cousin was keeping well and dressing warmly. There was no love lost between the cousins - it was not merely paranoia that kept them on his mind always, that meant he was constantly alert, listening to more than just words when people spoke to him. The clan of Cenbryt may have been a fading one, but it was a noble house of warriors, a formidable name among the Southern clans. Though it was hardly the style of the Haradrim, Ferach and Cortim would do anything to take hold of Koran's reins as the head of the tribe - a knife across the throat would do as well as any for them, that Koran knew.

As Ehan looked back to his food, Koran surveyed him surreptitiously under his long eyelashes, watching as the fire played upon the former's dark skin, lighting it at strange angles and making him seem older, more mysterious. He had spent the day in the boy's company, preparing for the long march, and was beginning to learn something of the boy. Boy always seemed the right word for him as well - he could not be more than six or seven years younger than Koran himself, but they seemed much farther apart, Ehan's merriness and almost simple accepting of situations making him seem much younger than he really was. In his world of a myriad greys, the concept of such a clear view seemed almost alien to Koran, and so made Ehan seem childlike. Yet it was also somehow refreshing. However, he also felt he owed his younger companion some sort of explanation.

"The orcs...they..." he trailed off, exasperated, not sure of the words. "They are untrained, unskilled, inhuman...I dislike fighting with a force with less sense than a domestic rabbit."

"Less sense? Oh, I'd say some of them came close to rabbit skills..." Ehan replied mock-thoughtfully, holding the remains of his strip of meat at a philosophical angle, a slight grin on his face. Koran grinned back, raising one eyebrow. "No, definitely, there is very little semblance between a rabbit and...that." He pointed his dagger sharply towards one particular orc, who was playing a game with his own knife, stabbing the spaces between the fingers. The two southrons watched this fine specimen of orc-hood for a good few moments, stabbing between his stumpy digits with reckless speed, then seeming surprised when, to the guffaws of his companions, the blade met his fingers. He did this a full five times before Koran finally looked away in despair, his lip subconciously curling in disgust. Looking back at Ehan, he raised an ironic, eloquent eyebrow. Ehan grinned back openly and nodded consideringly.

"I concede, Captain, they are..." he trailed off, searching for the right word, then gave a small laugh, causing Koran to grin as well. "But indeed, some of the Southrons have little training as well - and besides, no rabbit would have such sharp little claws," Ehan finished, wishing to justify himself.

Koran's face darkened and he leant back, half enveloped in shadow, spinning his fine, precious dagger absently between his fingers with unconcious skill. "Claws can attack both ways..." he murmured, watching the group.

"Hmm?" Ehan raised his eyebrows, and Koran was caught by the simplicity of his expression as he munched on a mouthful of food. He blinked a few times and shook his head quickly, his dagger coming to a halt between his dark hands to fit snugly into the palm of one hand more easily than any glove as he leant forward casually, his face clearing as the light illuminated it once more, out of the shadows.

"No...no matter, Ehan. Just musing. I am curious - have you served with orcs or uruks before?" The way the question was phrased seemed simple enough, but underneath it Koran was inquiring to other matters: such as how much fighting experience the young man actually had...

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Ehan blinked, and then squinted his eyes downward to his boots before shaking his head and looking back up to Koran. “Ahh, well, sir, I have not ever served with them. I must admit that I believe I would be embarrassed if I ever had, if you know what I mean,” Koran said naught as Ehan trailed off momentarily, and when his captain made no movement or acknowledgement of his statement Ehan blinked several times before clearing his throat to continue. “I do say, however, that I have indeed met with the creatures in battle. It was a great deal of delight and fun, I shall admit freely. When stabbed through, the squeal they make sounds rather akin to a wild boar…”

“I have rarely heard a person speak of war and battle in such a way,” Koran interrupted as shadow caressed his face while fire licked and flickered away valiantly in attempts to lighten where Ehan could not see. Ehan nodded, but did not speak. Koran finished consuming his slab of meat before turning his head to watch the orcs while speaking to the younger Southron. “Regardless of whether a warrior loves adventure and fighting or thinks nothing of it and only does it because it is his live… yet I have never heard sane warriors speak of their fallen enemy, relishing in their dying war-cry. Even if it was an orc.”

Ehan looked to his captain, wondering at his words. Surely Koran would understand the ruthlessness of battle and the ferocity of Southron clans. Ehan sighed, unsure of how to tread and reply after having been spoken to in such a way. For just a few, precious moments Ehan considered speaking softly and eloquently, but this inward attempt was lost and fleeting in Ehan’s mind.

“They were not quite war-cries, captain,” Ehan corrected, chuckling and drawing his rapier swiftly as he finished. The young man jabbed into the air violently, grinning while his eyes flashed. “And even still, I think that I have merely reached a point that every warrior reaches sooner or later, and I have just reached it sooner.”

“And what is this ‘point’, Ehan?” Koran wondered, and Ehan thought he could catch a hint of a smile on the older man’s face. Ehan sheathed his sword and proceeded to take a seat before the fire and just across from his captain.

“The point where battle affects you so much, and in such a negative manner that one must make it worth going out and risking one’s life for. The point in which adventure and fighting must mingle with fun and jest to make battle worth the blood and gore,” Ehan mused at his own words, almost surprised that they had come out of his mouth. “But perhaps that is silly. Still, even if it is silly, I will continue thinking it because it helps me survive. And, dear captain, whatever keeps me alive is fine for me.”

Koran sighed before standing out of the shadows. “Well, I just hope that you learn one day that real warriors do not go to battle merely to fight. Real warriors go to war and kill because of duty and honor.”

“Real warriors die first, I have learned,” Ehan replied, thinking of his sister and trying not to sound bitter to his captain. The young man was not sure if he failed miserably in the attempt or passed off his answering well to the intelligent and wise captain. “Despite, I had a question for you, captain Koran. Do you know when exactly we leave, and where exactly we are going? I know only that I am under your command, and that we go off in unison with the rabbit-minded creatures.”

[Arry]

‘Look!’

Snikdul raised his one eyebrow (the other having been lost long ago in an unfortunate encounter with an enraged Dwarf and a flaming pitchy brand) and nodded ever so slightly toward the men across the way. Gromwakh flicked his eyes briefly toward the Southrons’ fire, noting the composed, fixed mask on one of the men’s faces as he turned back toward the cooking of his own meal. The man’s movements were deliberate and calm, making the Orc shudder even more than the deep loathing that had flashed briefly in the man’s eyes.

‘They hate us,’ rasped Snikdul. ‘The stinking sons of sand rats!’ His long, knobbly fingers curled about the hilt of his blade with a hard grip. Others of the Orcs echoed his action, brutish hands bringing weapons to the ready. And one, feeling the bloodlust rise, brought his club down with a resounding thwack on one of the unfortunate cellar rats as it struggled to escape the sack which held it.

‘And that’s just what’ll be happening to you louts if you let your clubs and blades do your thinking,’ hissed Gromwakh as he kicked the mashed carcass into the fire. ‘They hate us alright . . . him especially, if looks mean anything . . . Nothing more than vermin to him. Just as soon see us dead, I think. Give any of ‘em half a chance and they’d kill us as easily as they’d stick the nasty Elves.’

The man had turned away from his brief perusal of the Orcs, his attention now seeming to be fixed on the young man near him. The yellow eyes of the Orcs about the fire narrowed to feral slits in the dark faces, a banked red fire licking at their edges as they gazed toward the Southrons.

A loud yelp from one of their own pulled at their awareness, drawing their focus away from the men. Several of the company sitting a short way off had been playing a game of skill – making wagers on who could make the most stabs and the quickest with a knife between his own splayed fingers. Extra points awarded if one did not cry out with the certain misses that always accompanied the game. The unfortunate contestant had lost, yelling out as he’d cut himself for the sixth time, and his fellow players hooted in glee at his misfortune.

Gromwakh laughed along with the others, even as he threw a rag to the losing Orc. The air of tension had dissolved for the moment, leaving the band of Orcs in what passed for good humor among their kind. The bleeding digits were slathered with some noxious smelling dark paste and bound with strips of the grimy rag. Another of their company had pulled out some dice, irregularly carved cubes of knucklebone with varying numbers of dots on the crudely smoothed surfaces. Pain was put aside as the losing Orc’s fingers curled round the dice and rolled them against the broad trunk of one of the trees. Two good throws and then a loss – the ‘bones, as they were called, passed on to the next eager player, and the next, and the next.

At his back, Gromwakh could feel the looming presence of the men across the way. We will have to be careful if we are to make it out of this one . . . he thought to himself. Men and Uruks both breathing their foul breath down our necks . . .

Then it was his turn. The dice passed into his hands. He rattled them together to the growing yells and jeers of the others. With a grunt he released them, his head cocked to one side as he watched them bounce off the tree in a rough arc . . . willing what little luck he might have to direct their outcome . . .