Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

In the first Years of the Sun, when Ambarturion was but a youth and the world was green and vital in the first strength of its awakening, the Elf had delighted to walk in the woods of Doriath in the spring and hear about him the calls of birds, and to feel upon his cheeks the gentle caress of last autumn’s leaves. In those days it had seemed that such days would last forever, and no darkness would sully the memories of the songs and deeds of that age. But then the Noldor had returned from the West, bringing with them their War of Pride, and the land had been laid to waste with their endless conflict with the powers of darkness. Their war had become Ambarturion’s, and he had learned through bitter experience that there was to be no victory, only a drawn out defeat. He had known this hard truth for millennia, but now that the time had come for him to taste of that defeat himself, the flavour was more ashen and cursed than he had imagined.

He lay upon the ground in the midst of the orc camp and sought to follow Megilaes into unconsciousness, but was unable to find that relief. The hatred of the orcs burned upon his mind like hot irons, and the sound of their gibbering was as the raucous cry of the carrion birds that were no doubt devouring Caranbaith at this very moment. His hatred for the monsters was boundless, and for a long time all he could see or think of was the delight that he would take in crushing the life from them all. He had expected that this hatred would sustain him through the torture, but the orcs had been prevented from their wicked pleasures by the Men. Ambarturion had not been afraid of the vulgar methods of sport employed by the orcs, for they could never touch or break his will. But he knew that eventually he would be taken before the seat of Sauron, and there no amount of rage could sustain him from the Eye. In mere moments he would be stripped of flesh and bone and become as a naked mind, withering in the blast of the Enemy’s malice – and in that gaze he would speak of the unspeakable; he would reveal the secret that his Lord and Lady had revealed only to their most intimate counsellors: that the One Ring had been found, and that it was being taken by halflings into the very heart of Mordor in a fruitless quest. Sauron would have this of him, and Middle-Earth would finally fall into the slavery and corruption that was its destiny. He felt neither sadness nor regret at this, for he had known that such a day would come, but he could not bear the shame that he would be the instrument of the Enemy’s final victory.

It was Coromswyth who brought him from the dark terrors of his mind, calling him back to a no less pleasant reality. He opened his eyes and looked at the orcs and Men who stood about them, still keeping at a respectable distance. The Sun was beginning to set and the army had set its watch fires about the perimeter. It was impossible to know their numbers from where they lay, but it was undoubtedly a great host – certainly the equal, at least, of the two armies that had already been thrown against the borders of Lorien. He took some comfort in the knowledge of their imminent defeat. Caranbaith’s murder would be avenged, even if not by him.

“Ambarturion,” Coromswyth said again, more urgently. “Do you hear me? Come back to the world Ambarturion, do not live amongst the shadows.”

“I am here,” he replied softly, “but not for long. Soon, I fear, we will both be in the shadows and there will be nothing there for us but cold and terror.”

“Do not speak of such things,” she replied soothingly. “Where there is life, there is hope.” Her words brought him no comfort. Seeing this, Coromswyth sought to distract his attention from his despair. “There is something strange about this army,” she said. “It is made up of more than orcs from Dol Guldur and their allies the wicked Men. There are captains here of both races who are doughty and resourceful. It was they who captured us…” She trailed off and Ambarturion knew that she was remembering her own capture. He did not offer her any comfort, for what could he say, who had no comfort to give himself? “I have been watching them,” she said. “There appears to be two armies. Or, rather, there is one army and a smaller band of much mightier troops. They keep together more or less, out just beyond the main force. It would seem that most of those who attacked us came from that group.”

Ambarturion nearly groaned. What use of talking of this? he thought. Lorien is protected by the power of the Lady; the Enemy cannot prevail for as long as Nenya remains in her possession. But even as he thought this there came to his mind, as clearly as though it were taking place before his waking eyes once more, the tactic that the orcs had used in capturing them: the main force had attacked in a frontal assault, while the more crafty and able fighters had come upon their flank and taken Coromswyth unawares…

His heart froze as his eyes met Coromswyth’s, and so great was the terror of his soul that even though they had known one another but a short time, he was able to speak with her mind. They plan to attack Lorien on two fronts! The army will be destroyed, but it will keep the attention of the Wood’s defenders while this other, smaller group will attack a different target. But what will that target be?

They remained like that, locked in one another’s gaze for what seemed like hours, but in truth it was but a moment. When Coromswyth replied, it was with such violent horror, that Ambarturion gasped aloud. Caras Galadhon! she wailed, The Lady Galadriel! They mean to attack the Lady directly, and to deprive the Woods of her protection!

[Arry]

It was several hours later when the Orc reported back to Gromwakh. Their new Uruk commander, it seemed, had very little they could use to get round him. ‘Keeps a tight rein on, that one does. Wants to impress the higher ups with his single-minded loyalty.’ Gromwakh’s brows rose in question as the messenger chuckled. ‘Kreblug says Gâshronk’s got his nose so far up old One-eye’s . . .’

The slap-slap of the Uruk’s calloused feet coming near brought silence to the small band of Orcs. Gâshronk, taking his new promotion quite seriously, had come to inspect whether all needed supplies had been gathered and his troops suitably geared up for their mission. ‘We’re leaving soon. Have you slugs got it all together?’ Muffled murmurs of affirmation eddied half-heartedly around the little group.

Gromwakh stepped forward, his companions’ eyes fixed on him wondering what he was up to. ‘Begging your pardon, Cap’n,’ he began. Gâshronk stopped before the groveling Orc and poked him with the braided leather stock of his whip. ‘Speak up, cave rat!’

‘Well, I was thinking we should get one of the supply wagons and keep the prisoners in it, bound hand and foot. Be faster, I think, than trying to drag them along.’ And safer, too . . ., Grom added silently to himself. ‘We can easily move it at a good speed, the lot of us taking turns, I think.’

Gâshronk shoved him hard in the shoulder, causing the Orc to stumble back. ‘I’ll do what thinking there needs to be done around here, you carrion!’ Letting his gaze flow over the assembled Orcs he barked out his orders.

‘Get the wagon from the Supply Master. Tell him it’s needed for a special mission. Load the supplies we’ll need at one end and leave room to throw the Elves in. What won’t fit can go in the long-box underneath.’ The Orcs stood dumbly looking from one to another. ‘Well! Get your worthless hairy backsides in gear and get going!’

Gromwakh and his twelve companions took off at a run to comply. ‘There must be something old Kreblug told you,’ he panted, running beside his information gatherer. ‘Only that he’s overly fond of stewed squirrel with bitterroot . . . can eat a whole potful if he sets his mind to it,’ wheezed the Orc as they neared where the supply wagons were kept. Grom nodded his head thoughtfully as they came to a chuffing halt.

The wagon was commandeered, not without much argument by those in charge of them. A supply of provisions was laid in, including a small barrel of dried squirrel meat and a packet of bitterroot. Grom borrowed one of the medicinal kits from the rear of one of the other wagons and stored it along with some leathery dried ground tubers beneath the wagon, and two large bladders of fresh water.

And hour later, and they were back where Gâshronk had assembled his group. ‘All ready, Cap’n,’ mumbled Gromwakh in a well practiced tone of servility. ‘Shall we load on the Elves and their effects now?’

He ducked back, out of reach of the Uruk’s whip handle, hoping his suggestion had not sounded too forward.

[Durelin]

It was always an adventure attempting to bring his scout troop together. Calenvása thought of all the different twists and turns in the relations of these four elves. They were brothers, of the same race, fighting for the same home, the same cause, and against the same Evil. But it was impossible for them to find peace among themselves. And they sought to find peace for this world…for that was the bigger picture, or at least to the Captain, it was.

These moments of separation and silence were needed for the elves to find serenity, and hopefully cool off from any confrontations. Calenvása also hoped that it gave them time to contemplate things said and unsaid. He had felt strangely restless for days now, but the feeling was strongest as he watched the prisoners be loaded like things rather than beings. Restlessness, and a hatred that he had long kept under control, and out of his life, were not a part of the air he breathed. And though he knew that both these feelings were useless, even dangerous to harbor, they escaped from any tightly locked cages he tried to force them into.

The waiting that he had been forced to do had made his restlessness worse. He had been spending a lot of time waiting in these past days, waiting, in silence, with time to think. The Captain did not like letting his mind have too much time to think. It would inevitably take his heart’s worries and amplify them. Stopping his mind from doing so was hard to do, as the time passed, but now he focused on what his eyes saw, as was necessary, and his mind was soon under his control.

For the love of Eru, we must move!

It was an urgent cry from the mind of Targil, passed to his Captain’s mind. It shocked Calenvása, to know that Targil had spoken to him in such a way. First the elf had called him by name, and now he had been able to connect to the mind of his Captain. The urgency filled Calenvása’s mind more than the words, and he immediately drew himself away from his precarious hiding place. He stirred the leaves of the large bush he had found haven in as he practically sprang out of it.

Cursing himself mentally, he took a quick look at the camp from around the bush, and almost gasped aloud. He was close enough that his eyes could see another set staring near him, and a feeling ran down his spine as they moved to stare back at his. But these eyes were not yellow, nor were they filled with hatred, and no yells rang across the camp, spreading an alert. Feeling that this was a blessing, he sighed, relieved, and crept speedily to where Targil was hidden, taking a long loop so as not to be near the camp while on open ground. It took him longer than he would have wished, because of his caution, but he knew it was necessary.

As he approached, the elf turned his head, obviously hearing the quiet footsteps of his Captain on the soft earth. “We must gather the others, quickly. The wagon, it will slow them. We can move faster.”

Calenvása nodded, knowing that there were obvious strategic advantages to being ahead of their enemy. Now was not the time to discuss or argue, clarify or consider, but the time to move, once more. Targil and his Captain carefully gathered Lómarandil and Thorvel to them. On the move, the scout troop now making their way back to Dol Guldur, Calenvása found himself laughing quietly. “What amuses you?”

The Captain had forgotten Targil was strangely at his side. He simply shook his head in answer to the elf’s question. “Why did you wait for so long a time?” Targil asked, quickly dropping any concern for what Calenvása found amusing.

He was not prepared to answer a question such as that, and so his silence reigned over the conversation for a few moments. Then Thorvel came from behind them. Lómarandil was farther behind. “Why did we wait for so long?” Thorvel asked, as well. After speaking, he grew very grim. Calenvása knew it was from agreeing with Targil, and from sounding so cold when he spoke to his Captain.

Knowing that he could not answer with any words that might defend himself, he answered with the truth. “I do not know.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Dragged upright by an orc, Coromswyth felt her arms wrenched painfully back behind her, but barely responded, remaining stiff and difficult to move. The orc behind her cursed and shook her like a rag doll, but Coromswyth refused to make it any easier. The creature cursed again then pressed his mouth close to her ear, his filthy, leathery skin rubbing against her smooth cheek, but her eyes remained facing forwards, impassive and unresponsive.

"I heard once that orcs and elves were similar in some ways, elf," the orc's voice was a harsh, salacious whisper. "Maybe...whatsay we try some out, hmm?"

Coromswyth closed her eyes and swallowed down the sickness that was welling inside her stomach, quelling the fear inside her though she refused to reply or respond in any way. As she had been taught, she would say nothing. Nothing.

Behind her, she felt the orc move, holding both her hands in one huge paw now, but effortlessly, his one hand completely engulfing her wrists, as he shifted enigmatically behind her. Her eyes flicked up and around the tent, searching for some way out - but Ambarturion and Megilaes had already been taken away, and the tent flap was closed, crates lying in front of it. She would never make it in time. Maybe if she managed to get to the crates, she would be able to take cover behind one...still the daggers felt cool against her wrists. The young Southron had not found them - or at least, he had not removed them. Maybe if...

Spangling shivers shot suddenly through her nerves as she felt her stomach pull slightly tighter from behind, and realised with a sickened jerk that the orc had begun to pull her dress free, unlacing the ties up the back with great, rough drags as he began to laugh, a harsh, grunting, animal sound, still holding her effortlessly. Suddenly, more than any time before, Coromswyth felt afraid.

She began to struggle now, attempting to jerk away from the orc, to throw her whole self away from his grasp, to...she barely knew what she was trying to do, simply that she had to get away, had to get out of his grasp, away from those pawing, leathery hands. The orc laughed more loudly this time, and Coromswyth cried out aloud, in some desperate attempt to alert someone. But no one would come. Not now.

The orc pulled off her cloak and began, with a sort of relishing ritardando, to fiddle with the complex clasps on the back of her underdress. Coromswyth cried out again, loudly, trying now concentratedly to move one of her dagger pommels into her hand. If only she had put them in with the blades pointing towards her palms...in her desperation, she felt the blade snick her arm, the blood slickening her forearm and dress, but she didn't pay it any heed - behind her, the orc had given up with the delicate, minute clasps and had produced a knife. Coromswyth yelled more loudly this time, screaming wordlessly for some help before it was too late, eyes closed tightly as she struggled viciously, opening her eyes briefly...

...and behind her flashed another blade, different from the orc's, a swift, darting movement that soared so close beside her face that she felt it cut a long, deep gash along her cheekbone. She gasped and fell to the floor as she felt the orc behind her slump with a strange, indescribable, gurgling sound. Writhing away on the floor, Coromswyth pulled out one of her daggers with her newly freed hands and launched herself towards the prone orc, who now sported a dagger in his arm. With a fierce cry, she stabbed downwards at the creature's throat, once, twice, three times, until he lay still, and other hands caught her.

For a moment, Coromswyth thought she was in the hands of another elf, so gently firm was the grasp, but it was not for that reason that she stopped struggling - a sense of sort of hopelessness settled over her, an exhausted relief but knowledge that it couldn't get better. Behind her, fingers deftly and quickly tied her hands again and this time she was as unresisting as a rag doll, tears in her eyes which she barely fought to stop. There was a pause, then she felt something take hold of her dress once more, and she stiffened - but only for a second, freezing up with her eyes closed. A moment later, the being wordlessly stepped away, and she realised he had simply retied her dress.

"Come, Ehan - we need to get back to Herding, I said I would report to him before they were taken away."

Coromswyth felt a shock of recognition at the young, quietly confident voice, a voice wise beyond it's years. Looking up and around, she saw that it was indeed a man - and not just any man, but the young Southron who had captured her. She met his eyes and they stayed locked for a moment or two, and fleetingly Coromswyth felt herself wish that the mind of a man and an elf could merge as the minds of two elves could - for what would she find in this man's mind, what could he find in hers? His wisdom was that of the ageless elves, young of face but behind the veil of skin he could be an ancient, with as much knowledge of the world as any one of the Silvan...

"What about he- I mean, what about it?" It was the young man who spoke now. Coromswyth heard the hesitation and the shade of awe in his voice, and the macho veil he threw over it, and turned her grey gaze to him. Unlike his captain, the younger man, Ehan, avoided her gaze, looking away fixedly at his captain. The older man glanced back at the elf and sighed, looking away out of the tent, presumably across the camp. "You're right, we..." he paused and sighed, then turned back to Ehan again. "You're right. Look...go to Herding. I shall take the elf - seems the rest cannot be trusted simply to follow orders." He cast a cursory look at the dead orc on the floor here.

Ehan paused, evidently wishing to speak, then nodded. "Right. I...right. Of course, Captain Koran."

Koran? A first or second name? Coromswyth's mind seemed detached now, and found a resting place in her omnipresent curiosity. She had started out with an interest in the easterlings and southrons, the Haradrim - after all, it was they who had been the very cause of the grief that had started her studies...

As the younger man - a fellow soldier? Undersoldier? Servant? Squire? - left the tent, Koran strode over to Coromswyth and lifted her, once more with that almost effortless movement by her elbows. He tightened the rope around her hands and as he did so, Coromswyth felt compelled to speak, despite all that she had been taught.

"Why did you not stop me, Southron?" she murmured softly, so that none would hear beyond the tent, her words enclosed to a few feet of air around her and Koran. "Why, Koran, did you let me kill the orc?"

He paused, and she could see the edge of his face behind her, infuriatingly just beyond her sightline. He didn't answer for a long moment, then reached forward slowly and drew back the hair from out of her eyes where it stuck to the tear stains that ran down her cheeks, his skin dark, a dusky, tanned caramel against hers, a fine shade of alabastor. It was an action that reminded her - maybe reminded them both - that he was a Man - not as fair as the elves, but not an orc.

He leaned forward and she felt his hair brush her cheek as he whispered in reply, "Because it is possible that I hate the orcs quite as much as you do, elf."

"That is not my name."

"I know not your name, elf, and know you will not tell it to me." Koran pushed her slightly from behind and Coromswyth began to move. "I cannot expect you to - after all, what do the mighty elves, fairest of all, owe to a mere Man?"

The bitterness in his voice stung and Coromswyth's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "What? You have stolen my life, man."

"You steal ours to keep yourselves alive for eternity," he countered sharply.

"Then neither is in eithers debt." She hesitated, then said the single word that went against everything she had ever been taught. "Coromswyth."

A yelled outburst of the black speech stopped Koran from replying - if he had been meaning to. Orc hands grabbed the elf and she was handed through what seemed like a chain of grasps until she was finally thrown onto a hard wagon floor. Twisting as far as she could to look around as the wagon began to move, she looked around for the Southron captain's for no real reason - but instead met a different pair.

Startled grey eyes stared back at her, like those of a deer about to run, before they steadied themselves. A sort of resolution came about in them, and a head of ash blonde nodded briefly, and an unspoken understanding passed between Coromswyth and her anonymous watcher before he was gone, as quickly as he had come. The female elf lay back once more, absorbing what she had seen, and after a few minutes, she sent out her voice to Ambarturion.

"Ambarturion? Ambarturion, we have hope yet. The elves of the forest watch us..."

[piosenniel]

Kransha's post

It was a more complicated task then Thrákmazh had thought it would be to locate the elves. Before he’d given the order, they’d already been loaded, bound and hapless, onto a vehicle meant to bear them to the hill on which sat Dol Guldur. Thrákmazh, though, was not done with them. In truth, he had hoped for another night to ‘spend’ with them, but that was surely not to be. He had hoped too that Herding, the foolish Southron, would side with him and let him keep the elf a prisoner for the sake of troop morale, but that was not to be either. He could only hope that old Herding would consider his other offer with more thought-out care over the course of the day. Now, he dashed headlong through the winding paths created in the camp, trying to locate the road that the wagon and prisoner escort had departed on. At last he found it, seeing the wagon bumping along, jostled by the rough, unruly terrain, down towards the deeper forest, past grove and plain, headed for Dol Guldur. Mindlessly, not thinking or knowing why, he barreled after it swiftly, raising his voice to catch them as they continued on.

“Wait! Hold!” He roared, flagging down the vehicle, those who dragged it through deep dirt, and those surrounding it, who looked glumly back at their commander but managed to feebly snap to attention…or most of them, at least. The wagon swiveled and lolled from side to side as if its wheels could barely hold it. The harnessed orcs who bore it turned, dragging the wagon to one side as Gâshronk, the lead orc, bounded to the back of the escort, with a miniature escort of his own, and gave a mixture of a bow and a salute to his captain, Thrákmazh, who waved him off dutifully and turned, catching his breath as it was removed from him, and strode toward the wagon back, where the elf-containing cages sat. He easily singled out the one who’d threatened him who was conveniently awakened now, as the others were not. He had not, before, had great opportunity to overview the captive elf and now, as he and his kindred were taken from the army’s camp, he saw the elf truly for the first time. As he headed around to the cages, the elf took notice of his presence, but barely so. His face was that of rock and stone, immobile, it did not shift in fear, surprise, or rage. Thrakmazh, though, ignored this.

“I wished to thank you, elf,” he said, a grim smile of evil satisfaction on his twisted, one-eyed face, “for your sword.” As if to illustrate some unsaid fact, he swung the blade rather majestically through the air, ignoring the ironic beam of light the reflected off it from the hanging sun above and found its way to his squinting eye. He looked back, twirling the weapon in a mocking fashion, and feigned a look of philosophical thought. “I wonder now, how many orcs have been slain by it?” The elf did not fully return his grinning gaze, but replied calmly all the same. “More than you could count, orc, and it shall yet slay one more.”

Again, an unheard of anger arose in Thrákmazh, a madness he did not understand. How was it that the threats, useless and worthless, of this one elf, had so incensed him, angered him so. Roaring furiously, he smashed the hilt and blade of the tapered, gleaming weapon of ivory white against the cold gray bars of the elf’s cage, rattling it, but, too much like the other elf slain recently, he did not flinch. Thrákmazh, passionate and enraged in his cause, continued. “Many threats have been made to me by your kind, but all cut down before they are fulfilled. You may be the only wretched elf ever to make such a promise and escape my blade. Yes, you will die in more horrible a way than ever I could conceive, but I still would rather see you slain now. Thank whatever you hold dear that it was not I who was given the task of ending your too-long life.”

As before, the elf said nothing, but remained, courting death, unable to defend himself in any way. Thrákmazh was beyond outrage, but calmed himself as best he could and, taking a deep, exaggerated breath, took a step back from the wagon. He looked back, his one eye hidden by a dense shadow permeating the air above his head like a following cloud, crouched at his heels and waiting for summons. He glared, but soon relaxed his gaze and gait, beginning to pace before the elf’s prison. “Who was the lad,” he said after a great pause, “the one I killed; your son, brother, student, cousin? I would not have expected such oaths from an elf who had no good reason for wanting my death. Many things, elf and man and orc, want my death. But Thrákmazh the Mighty still lives, and stands before you.” He turned now, stopping his movement, looking to the silent, emotionless being, swinging the elf’s blade again with an overly elegant flourish. “No creature who wished for life has ever sworn to slay me, for it is only a wish for death, foolishness and idiocy. I have killed more living things that any man would bother to count, but I remember every face, so nothing has ever eluded the arc of my sword. Every single face still lies in me, retained by the duties of memory, and now the face of that young elf dwells there too. Think of it, elf; whether or not you are dead before the night is out, you will still have escaped me, and that is a great task.”

The elf gave no visible reaction, but spoke quietly. “You have not yet escaped me, spawn of darkness.”

“What, no gratitude?” Thrákmazh’s voice was that of anger, but he gracelessly mixed that with cruel sarcasm, “No grace and polite conversation? I suppose that what I’ve heard of elves is all a lie. You just seem more civil, more advanced in the ways of war and life, but you are not if you could not save yourselves or do better than petty oaths and insults.” No movement, no sound from the elf, none at all, to Thrákmazh’s further displeasure. How he wished to ram his own sword through those obstructing bars and skewer the fool where he lay, but duty would not let him. Grumbling, he turned away. “But, alas, I cannot continue this conversation. I have many things to do here, many things, and none, thankfully, involve you. So, go your merry way, or not-so-merry, as it is, and enjoy the hospitality of Dol Guldur. Again, I thank you for your sword. Surely many have fallen beneath it, but it will serve me just as aptly as it has served you.” He waved off Gâshronk, signaling that he should continue. Painfully slowly, the wagon began to bounce along the stony earth as Thrákmazh stood, brooding quietly, upon the road.

Soon enough, the wagon had been ferried almost out of sight, about to disappear into the distance. His back turned to it, Thrákmazh’s one eye sought solace in the pure white of the Elvish blade, but it stung him, and his hand burnt as he held it, but he could not let it go. Some lurking feeling, latched onto him, clung to the majestic blade, but in the niches of his small brain, a voice screamed at him to release it, plunge it into the earth and leave it, but he could not. He breathed harder, looking down on it and tracing its subtle edge. The elf who’d lived to swear revenge was somewhere in the blade he held…Thrákmazh was, as never he had been before, unsettled. This elf would not die at Dol Guldur, no indeed. It didn’t make sense to the orc, but, as the symbols blazoned into his rusty blade, the knowledge was imprinted upon his mind. Trying to salvage his own bewilderment, he spun, looking after the wagon, and held up the blade, yelling towards it gruffly.

“Farewell, O elf without a name, and may your death be slow and painful.”

This brought him no satisfaction as the wagon disappeared from view. Disturbed deeply, pained, and with a palm burning with searing pain, Thrakmazh turned and hurried back towards the camp, trying to leave the prisoners, the elves, and his nameless foe behind, praying never to see any of them as long as he lived…which was something that the uruk captain, Thrákmazh the Mighty, One-Eye, Captain of Dol Guldur and the orcs of Mirkwood, had never even considered thinking.

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Firefoot's post

Thorvel blinked in surprise at Calenvása’s answer. He didn’t know? Thorvel tried to puzzle that out. Surely there had to have been some reason, though the words sounded honest enough. The Elves had been cruelly thrown into the wagon. The Orcs had been preparing to move. And yet they had still waited for the Captain to give the command, but he hadn’t. The question was why. Targil looked equally confused. Thorvel didn’t say anything; the important thing was that they were moving now, and further argument was one thing they did not need. Unfortunately, they had been unable to get a head start on the Orcs, which meant that they would have to move through the forest for a longer time, impeding on their swiftness and silence.

Thorvel paid careful attention to the ground beneath his feet, in order not to snap a twig or crackle a leaf. Either mistake could be fatal so close to the small band of Orcs, even though he doubted they would hear such a small sound. They had not gone far when a shout from a harsh Orkish voice was clearly heard over all the other sounds: “Farewell, O elf without a name, and may your death be slow and painful.” Thorvel smiled grimly. It seemed that one of the Elves at least had put up some kind of fight to elicit such a comment.

Slowly the Elves gained ground, until they had moved almost beyond sight of the Orcs. Thorvel walked moved more freely then, and ventured to speak, though softly. For once, they were all close enough for each of the Elves to hear him.

“How far do we go then, before we stop to lay plans and prepare to attack the Orcs? I daresay they shan’t get very much farther before they must stop for the night.”

Calenvása matched his quiet tone, glancing back at the Orcs to judge their speed and location. “They aren’t moving very quickly. I suppose we will need to start looking for likely locations when we get to that point, based on how far the Orcs have moved by sunset.”

Thorvel pressed further, not satisfied with the vague answer. “Then do you have any plans for an ambush? Or do we have yet to work those out?” The Captain looked over at him. “We will have to see how the Orc camp is laid out first, and decide exactly what to do then.” Thorvel grunted. It seemed he wasn’t going to get much information out of Calenvása right now. The Captain seemed to be thinking, and Thorvel figured that Calenvása would talk when he was ready, and not before. Remembering the Captain’s early admittance that he hadn’t known why they didn’t move, Thorvel supposed that it was possible that Calenvása didn’t have any clear plans yet. As long as you come up with something before tonight...

[piosenniel]

Arry's post

By order of Captain Gâshronk, the Elves had been kept bound hand and foot and thrown into the wagon like so much cordwood. Rough hands hauled the prostrate Elves up to the level of the wagon bed and rough hands pulled them feet first onto it. They were left face up, the two males on either side of the female, their feet firmly against the board that cordoned off the small area for food supplies.

Gâshronk took the lead, avoiding the dust stirred up as the wheels of the wagon rolled along at a steady pace. He had ten Orcs marching in a semi-precision square behind him, and he turned often to keep his one eye on them. Further behind, came the slower moving wagon pulled by six Orcs, their chests banded with makeshift harnesses, as four others pushed at the back, their leg muscles working hard to keep the momentum going.

‘I suppose he hasn’t considered the possibility that there is no one guarding our rear, here,’ sneered Snikdul as he gripped the back of the wagon bed in his large hairy hands and heaved it forward with each step. The Orc to his left snickered. ‘He only cares if his rear is guarded from what I can see.’

Gromwakh said nothing as the others grumbled along. He had already considered the fact that those Elves that had been lurking about the camp earlier might well have noticed that some of their own had been captured. And may even now be planning some sort of rescue. He twitched the skin between his shoulder blades, already imagining the searing slice of one of their arrowheads as it penetrated his hide and sought to cleave through muscle and bone. This little scene that played out in his thoughts, though, might not be one to happen, he realized; it might only be the product of a frightened mind run amok.

The very bad thing that was going to happen, he had reasoned out, was that should they survive this little mission - drop the prisoners at Dol Guldur, they then would be sent straight back to the coming battle, and be in the front ranks of those destined to make the first assault on the Elves of the Golden Wood. And against their Lady. A witch, she was, or so he’d heard. With a power to match what had been thrown against her up to now. Gromwakh felt himself break out in a cold sweat as he thought about her. A spell-using witch as well as an Elf! The notion of facing her made him weak in the knees, and he stumbled. Snikdul reached out with one arm to steady his companion, a puzzled look on his face.

‘What’s wrong! You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Snikdul said, hauling Gromwakh back up to his place at the back of the wagon.

‘Ghosts it was,’ snorted Gromwakh grimly. ‘Ours!’ He shook his head at what seemed an impossible dilemma. ‘We’ve got to stack the odds in our favor a bit,’ he muttered, considering what few if any options were available to him and his little band.

One of the Elves stirred as the wagon hit a particularly stony patch and jostled them thoroughly. Unthinking, Snikdul shoved a wadded up piece of old blanket under the roused Elf’s head to cushion it. His action was met with a look of surprise from the prisoner, as the Elf turned his head to get a look at his unlikely benefactor. Snikdul looked over at Gromwakh and shrugged his shoulders.

With an eye to opportunity, Gromwakh tapped the dark-haired Elf on his shoulder. The grey-eyed gaze of the prisoner came slowly round to take him in. Grom looked about, then leaned forward and spoke in a voice unlikely to be heard above the creak of the wheels on the stony road.

‘You help us?’ he asked with his limited command of common speech, one finger tapping on his chest. ‘We help you,’ he went on, his finger now pointing at the Elf’s face . . .

Gromwakh’s face lit up in an Orcish smile as he remembered one of the recent finds from the Elves’ capture. He pulled the silvered Elf draught flask from the deep pocket in his breeches, holding it up where the Elf could just see it.

‘Dusty, dusty . . . yes? Want drink?’

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The cords that bound his wrists had been woven by orcs, and the malice of their makers had gone into them, burning Ambarturion’s wrists. The cart jolted and tossed them about as they ground toward the evil tower, and Ambarturion wished once more that he could give way to the dreams that crowded about his memory. But with every turn of the cart’s wheels he could feel the distant power of the Enemy growing closer. The Eye had not yet seen the prize that its distant claws had brought it, but it soon would – and when it perceived the value and might that had escaped the careless and witless eyes of the orcs, that Eye would send its most dreadful servants to claim him…

It occurred to Ambarturion that perhaps in its own way, the urûk had been able to recognise the distant reflection of the light of the Valar that shone from the eyes of the Elf. Although Ambarturion had never beheld those who dwelt in the West with his own eyes, he had dwelt for many centuries with the Lady Galadriel, from whom there came always and forever the shine of the Two Trees in their days of glory, when there was no fear in the dark. The thought of the danger that was approaching her drove him into a frenzy of apprehension, and time and again he felt the despair that would conquer him well up within like a great black wave and only the greatest effort would keep it at bay.

One-eye’s parting words came back to him: may your death be slow and painful. Indeed it would, more painful than even the orc could imagine, but it would be welcome if it came before he were broken by the Eye – reduced to a gibbering and terrified shell, whispering all of its secrets into the black ear in desperation for its own release. The torments they had endured to this point, while terrible, were as nothing when compared to what awaited them before the Dark Throne. Ambarturion tasted once more the foul bitterness of the memories that Coromswyth had tried to hide from him when she had sent him her message of hope. The orc’s harsh hands and grasping mouth were upon him as clearly as they had been upon her, so fresh was her own revulsion. He could not quite believe that she maintained hope of their release after what she had learned of the ways of the orc in that brief time. Ambarturion had not seen the eyes, but he had felt the presence of their woodland kin in the earth and in the air. Hope it gave him, but not of deliverance, for their kin were too few against these orcs, and he could sense even at this distance that they were a disunited band of young and inexperienced scouts. His hope was thus guarded and constrained – he hoped for a distraction, for something that would keep the orcs’ attention from the wagon for but a few moments.

The ropes that bound him no longer cut into his flesh, for he had been straining against them with all the might of his many centuries’ growth. It had taken most of his strength, leaving him weakened and drained, but he had managed to loosen them to the point where he could snap them at a thought. But he dared not do so now, for they were surrounded and unarmed. Were he to free himself he could, perhaps, escape on his own, but that would be to leave Coromswyth and Megilaes to reap the vengeance of their captors. Better to wait and see what the Elves of Mirkwood could manage.

He felt of a sudden the hot breath of an orc upon his face and he looked up into two beady, yellow eyes. They were the eyes of a snivelling, cowardly creature, the likes of which he had slain in the hundreds. These eyes, however, were filled with a cunning not usual to the race. The orc produced the small flask of miruvor and held it above his face, taunting him. So unexpected was what he said next, that it took Ambarturion a moment to accept the truth of his ears. You help us. We help you. Was this orc actually proposing to bargain with him? For a moment, however fleeting, Ambarturion considered breaking his bonds and slaying the beast with his bare hands. Instead, however, he said, “How will you help us, orc? Will you slay your companions, set us free and convey us with safety to our own land? Why not promise as well to lead your folk to reject your Lord and join the Light for the safety of Middle-Earth and your own redemption thereby?” He laughed mirthlessly and spat with distaste. “Take your lies and your petty taunts to one who will be moved by them, orc!”

Instead of hitting him or spitting upon him or slinking away in defeat, the orc looked about him with what appeared to be stealthy cunning. He looked back at the captive Elf and peeled his lips back from yellowed and sharpened teeth. “Elf is stupid. Does not see how we help each other. I not fight for Elves. But I not want to die. We attack Elf-Witch’s forest then we die. Elves kill us. But not if we save you, yes? Maybe, we let you go, then you tell Elves in Forest to let us go.”

Ambarturion could not believe his words. He did not for a moment believe that the orc was in earnest; this could only be part of some elaborately cruel prank that he felt in his lowness the very height of mirth. But Ambarturion saw a way to perhaps convert his small hope into something more. “Cut my bonds,” he said, knowing full well what the response would be.

“No!” the orc said. “Not now. Maybe later.”

“I will not do anything for you until you have proven yourself in earnest. If you will not cut my bonds, cut the bonds of my young companion. He is unconscious and presents no threat to you. But his bonds, and give him the drink in that flask, and perhaps I will tell my kin not to slay you.” He watched as the creature turned this over in his small mind, and while Ambarturion was careful not to let his eyes rest upon the orc’s blade, he knew it was there. The instant the orc drew it and moved into the wagon to cut Megilaes’ bonds, that was the moment in which Ambarturion would snap his bonds.

Outnumbered and unarmed he did not stand a chance. Outnumbered and armed, on the other hand, even with an orc’s blade, was another story altogether…

[Arry]

‘I will not do anything for you until you have proven yourself in earnest,' Ambarturion hissed. 'If you will not cut my bonds, cut the bonds of my young companion. He is unconscious and presents no threat to you. Cut his bonds, and give him the drink in that flask, and perhaps I will tell my kin not to slay you.’ The words were barely out of the Elf’s mouth, when the loud insistent bark of command cut off Gromwakh’s response.

Gâshronk had come back to inspect his troops. ‘What’s going on back here?’ he demanded stepping near the back of the wagon. ‘You maggots are slowing down the wagon. You need to put your backs into it!’ He shoved Gromwakh and his three companions away from the back of the wagon, replacing them with four of the Orcs who’d been marching up front. Gâshronk gave a satisfied look at his new arrangement and was about to turn away when something shiny caught his eye. ‘What’s this?’ he snarled, turning on Snikdul who stood nearest him. ‘Thinking to keep this for yourselves, were you? Mountain scum like you have no need of such fancy things.’ He snatched up the flask and shoved it deep into the pocket of his breeches. Handsome present for the Captain when we get back . . . he thought to himself.

The grey eyes of one of the Elves unnerved the Uruk as he hovered near the back of the wagon, wondering if there were any other treasure about the prisoners that might be had. Gâshronk motioned the other six Orcs from the front to him, ordering them to get in the wagon and turn the Elves onto their stomachs, faces down; he’d had enough of their foul stares, he said. In the course of rolling the bigger male over, it was discovered his bonds were loose. Forced down with the tips of sharp blades to his neck and those of his companions, the Elf’s hands were rebound tightly with new, braided leather cord behind his back; and the rope securing his ankles was adjusted tightly also. Other rough hands saw to the tightening of the other Elves’ bonds.

The wagon started forward again. Gromwakh and Snikdul found themselves marching in front now, just behind Gâshronk, who’d resumed his place at the head of the raggedy column. The Captain’s broken, yellowed nails tapped against the flask in his pocket in an oddly syncopated rhythm.

Snikdul sidled close to Gromwakh and nudged him on his arm. Grom’s face was an Orcish mixture of resolve and resignation. ‘You going to try to talk with the Elf again?’ Snik whispered. Gromwakh pursed his lips and shook his head, recalling the self-calculating look he’d seen on the Elf’s face as he’d considered Gromwakh’s offer.

. . . perhaps I will tell my kin not to slay you . . . His sneering arrogance had struck a chord in the Orc’s thoughts, reminding Gromwakh of his other “betters” – the Southrons, the Uruks, and all the infernal Captains that went with them.

‘Best we look after ourselves, Snik,’ he answered quietly. ‘He’s naught but some Uruk in fancier clothes . . .’

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Ehan strayed, delaying his order from Koran to go pay a nice visit to Herding. Instead, Ehan looked on curiously as his Captain watched the Elves get carted away by a band of Orcs. Ehan had noticed his Captain acting differently since they had captured the elves, but the young Southron could not quite figure out what had changed. Koran watched the cart rumble off, turning back when Ehan called his name. He turned around and away from his spot wordlessly, walking with Ehan toward Herding's tent. Neither spoke for a while, and Ehan used the time to think about the Elves.

"Sir," Ehan began at one point during the trip to the other Captain's tent. "You like the female Elf?" The younger man used it more as a statement than a question. But he was not finished, either. "You spoke to her...what did you see in her eyes?"

Ehan watched Koran's face as his own voice trailed off. He had spoken softly, not wanting to anger his Captain or cross any invisible lines that he had not been able to see. Still, Ehan could see the indignation that had come to line Koran's face sometime during his speech. Soon, though, Ehan grew tired of waiting for an answer from his Captain, and decided to break the unbearable silence.

"Oh, but a right state we have gotten ourselves into with this capture. It is just like the old stories, with heroes and fighting, now with captives, and tension and arguments..." Ehan's voice trailed off once more, the silence too unbearable for him but the sound of his own voice awkward. "Well, the only thing that is missing is betrayal. Herding seems right for the part, don't you think?"

Ehan finished off with a smile as the two Southrons approached the flap of Herding's tent.

[Orofaniel]

The silence in Herding's tent was suddenly interrupted by the two Haradrims that entered it; Captain Koran and his soldier, Ehan. The look on their faces wasn't exactly what Herding would call pleasant. Sweat was pouring down from their foreheads, but slightly swept away by their hands.

As they spotted Herding, sitting in his chair, with a faint face expression, they stood still for a moment. Herding noticed that and got up. "Sit," he said, pointing at two other chairs as he once again seated in his own. Koran and Ehan looked at each other, seeming a bit surprised, but after a moment they too sat down. "Anything to drink?" Herding said, holding a bottle in front of them. Koran looked at him suspiciously. "It isn't poisonous," Herding said, with lack of interest. Koran looked very much confused as he turned Herding's offer down. Ehan of course, followed his Captain. Herding thought it was reasonable enough and took a sip of his own glass. None of the two Hararims had spoken a single word so far. Herding figured they were both so astonished and confused by his behaviour.

"Now, ” Herding started. ”I hope you have a report for me, Cenbryt,” Herding continued. Koran nodded and folded his arms. “Everything seems to be ready. If I’m right some of the wagons have already started to move actually,” Koran said, sounding a bit pleased about his achievement. Herding figured that this might be true, but maybe he was hiding something as well. However, he decided not to let Koran annoy him, for better or worse. After all, Herding had to gain his trust, hadn’t he? Some way or the other, even though their past had been well known for hash words and nasty arguments, he had to treat Koran carefully. Why? The answer was simple; Herding had to regain his trust, so that Koran wouldn’t betray him with all his anger just focused on him, Herding, alone. Herding knew of course, that it was quite impossible, but at least there was no point in making their hostile behaviour worse towards each other. Even though the outside atmosphere was changing didn't mean that Herding felt the same way on the inside; because Herding still couldn’t look at Koran without feeling angry, annoyed and a great deal of despise.

“The elves made no scene?” Herding then said. “They didn’t fight you at all? None of you?” He continued, trying not to sound too surprised as Koran shook his head. “There is always some…but none of importance. They’re well tied up in the wagons by now I suspect,” Koran stated.

“Very well then,” Herding said, straightening his back in the chair. He frowned, thinking about what he should say next. “I expect the main army to start moving too soon,” Herding then said. “We need to get closer to Lorien as soon as possible,” he continued.

“If all is settled….“ Koran then interrupted. “You’ll have to excuse us. Business to attend that cannot wait, I’m afraid,” he said ever so politely. Herding looked at him, narrowing his eyebrows as he figured that this too was a lie. His eyes darted towards Ehan who was already up from his chair. “Of course, Captain Cenbryt,” Herding said waving them off. “Hope you have a pleasnt evening,” Ehan then muttered, looking at Herding’s bottle of wine. Herding noticed this, and looked at it himself, before placing it on the table in front of him. The two Haradrims bowed and went out from the tent.

[Kransha]

The elf was everywhere, those eyes, those unmoving, unflinching, eyes that pierced, peering readily into the dark, marred soul of Thrakmazh the Mighty. His shadowy mind was infected by that viral strand of light, snaking through his veins. He could not understand, could not fathom why it had affected him like this. In his right hand he held the tapered Elvish weapon, clasped tightly to him now. The metal, finely crafted and as cold as northern ice, was as searing hot to him as the fires of Orodruin. It burnt his flesh, charring the skin from his bones, but no visible wound or physical pain was there. Instead, his head throbbed painfully, as the beating of war drums pounded upon steadily, and his hand, the limb that held the undesired blade, ached without end. He stormed hurriedly into the orcish camp, his pace continuing to increase, his head turned down and eye affixed on the sword that galled him so.

He could not exterminate the visage the plagued him like sickness. He’d killed so many, so many of all kinds. In his rage, he’d killed orcs, he’d killed Elves of the dark and light forests, men of the north, men of the east, so many creatures had fallen, and he’d dismissed their fate as device to further his own career. It was his destiny, his power, that was important here, not the death of others. He had to be victor, regardless of others’ fates. But it burnt him so, the blade in his hand, burnt his hand and his mind and, as he dashed through the camp, with orcish eyes now curiously following him, he suddenly slipped and wobbled, crumbling onto his knees, and the blade of the Elf clattered onto the hard ground. He grasped his sword-hand suddenly and roared murderously to the earth, causing all surrounding orcs to turn and dumbly take notice of their captain’s unknown plight.

His troops must have thought him insane, utterly devoid of sense, as he knelt on the earth, clasping his uninjured hand as if it had been poisoned by the vilest venom. They cocked their heads and brows at him stupidly, watching their captain in a state between pity, confusion, and disgust. They moved back cautiously from him, inching away as Thrakmazh continued to breathe his raspy breaths and pant, a well of incendiary flame having taken up residence where his eye had been a moment before. Some substantial energy wished now to burst from beneath his stony flesh and pour out onto the ground, take root therein, and draw all life from everything within the vicinity. He roared and snarled, growled and grunted in the fashion of a troll, not making coherent sounds but simply producing gratuitous noise that deeply injured all hearing, functioning ears with the great volume. The orc, the wiry fingers of one blackened hand curled and tightened around the now-white flesh of the other, pushed himself to his feet, his chest heaving wildly and cyclones ablaze and whirling in his eye.

“Cursed be the elves!” He cried, his booming voice great and maddened by dark possession, “Cursed be Elves and men and trees and light!” In truth, his men may have agreed, but were, in fact, severely intimidated by this crazed endeavor of his, roaring like a raging dragon, Thrakmazh soared downward and upward again, his fingers lacing around the hilt of the foul weapon of light. He pulled it up, throwing his form up onto two feet, and sped forward, driving the blade forward at the waiting air and whatever was unlucky enough to be in it.

A second later, an anonymous orc, gurgling and twitching slightly, crumpled into a bleeding heap on the ground with a gaping hole in his upper chest, already reddened by dark blood the spilled out and off the wound. He writhed spasmodically for a moment more before stiffening and going still. Thrakmazh looked down, panting still, at the unfortunate orc who he’d just slain. He looked up, a gaze filled with blood-lust and insanity on his grotesque face. The other orcs did not cringe, though. They looked bewildered, angered, and focused on Thrakmazh, stepping back again to distance themselves from him. No doubt they wondered what bizarre inclination had cause Thrakmazh to kill one of his own kind without provocation, but Thrakmazh knew. In his immense and irrational paranoia, Thrakmazh knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that this orc, like so many others, was false and traitorous. He did not know how he knew this, but he knew all the same. In reality, unattached from Thrakmazh’s muddled brain, the orc had not been false or traitorous, but he was dead now, and Thrakmazh One-Eye, as his men well knew, never made mistakes.

He had been right all along, and now he understood. The elf, the nameless being, would not die at Dol Guldur, for something, no matter how trivial or minute, would falter and allow his escape. But, that was why he had to continue on his path. The wicked, traitorous men must be slain, the wretched orcs who would abandon him must be slain, and soon. He would root out all those who could not serve the Dark Lord and he, not them, would gain favor in his eye. First, though, he must sew the seeds of dissent. The orcs could never be trusted, even his own kind could not, but the men would be traitorous. Herding, Herding could do it. The fool was already deep enough in his own mire of hate. That was it! Help Herding kill Cenbryt, or turn all against him. That man was outnumbered, and would fall with ease. If Herding, assisted and encouraged by Thrakmazh, slew or defeated Cenbryt, he would be weakened and leave opportunity for Thrakmazh to show his caliber. Then, the men too would follow him, and orcs and men would all be loyal. He would overthrow the Golden Wood, he would overthrow the woods of the north, he would hurl down the power of the elves, alone as leader unquestioned, and that filthy elf scum would rot in waiting, hoping in vain to slay him while Thrakmazh slew many with his own blade.

The irony of the fact was lost on Thrakmazh as he turned, his eye half-closed, and stepped over the fallen orcish body, not looking at his dismayed soldiers. He stalked off slowly, but readily towards the other side of the army’s camp, past the last orc abodes, toward the tent of Captain Herding where he’d been so often before. If Herding was to be an adequate accomplice in this scheme, there had to be at least the illusion of trust. He would persuade Herding of the benefits of Cenbryt’s death, and enlist his aid with ease. Even now he saw the tent, larger than most others, swaying gently in the mild breeze, before him. But, he also saw two figures, two recognizable, familiar figures, entering the tent. At once he knew one to be Cenbryt and the other his devout follower. A malignant grin forming on his lips, he slowed his pace and neared the tent, stopping as the two entered, and waited, turning his ear to the tent’s walls to hear their discourse.

He only caught a few words. By the time he’d aligned himself with the tent and snuck near enough to it to hear the noises from within, the conversation was already almost over. He picked up the word “elves” with tremulously quivering ears, and then “settled” and a number of other heavily accentuated syllables, but naught else. From the vague sound of Herding’s voice, though, Thrakmazh detected just as much tense dislike as before, but a more graduated amount of the same in Cenbryt. Suddenly, a new idea formed in his mind, an idea that drew on the unexplainable paranoia that he himself was suffering from. Neither Haradrim like the other, this was certain. Herding would be ready to battle Cenbryt, but the job would be made easier still if both captains put their all into the rivalry. Thrákmazh, though not trusted, could still do what he could to turn them against each other. Even if Cenbryt did not trust Thrákmazh as far as he could throw him, he would not be so foolish as to ignore dire warning. He would tell Cenbryt of an imaginary plan, Herding’s plan to overthrow him on the eve of battle and turn his own men against him. He would persist, and proclaim that he distrusted Herding as much as Cenbryt. A perfect lie, indeed.

Grinning undetectably, Thrakmazh began to edge away from the tent as Koran and Ehan exited. They did not take immediate notice but, soon enough, Thrakmazh had slithered alongside them. Koran, looking almost comically bitter, turned slowly to him. “You.” He said darkly, almost snapping at the orc who stood, hunched over, at his side. “What do you want?” Thrakmazh’s smile widened pleasantly as he spoke in response, feigning concern. “Why so hostile, Cenbryt? Has something happened to make your mood so sour?” Koran simply looked away, though his follower, Ehan, glared at Thrakmazh over his captain’s shoulder.

At last, heaving a small sigh, Koran replied quietly. “No, nothing.”

The uruk nodded studiously. “Good…for I fear what I have to say will.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Good...for I fear what I have to say will."

That wouldn't surprise me... The orc was evidently trying to hide any pleasure at what he was about to say though, and that made Koran suspicious. Koran had had little to do with the one eyed orc thus far, but from the short times in which they had been in the same tent, the Southron had felt the other's disgust. That wasn't unusual of course, but it amused Koran in a black way - usually it was the other way around.

But despite himself, the Southron captain was curious - not that he would let the orc know straight out. "I think anything from you may have that effect, Captain," he replied, every inch of his tone impecably courteous. If the orc understood the insult, he didn't let on - Koran wasn't sure a slight widening of his perpetual sneer counted as recognition. Every second that he was near the orc, all Koran could feel was is growing disgust at the orc's being. How is it that this creature and the female elf could have been of the same descent...the same creation...

"Captain, I have some things to attend to, if you will excuse me..." Koran moved to go past the orc, but Thrakmazh blocked his way with an arm. The Southron stepped back, hand moving unseen to be close to the dagger in the back of his belt, and made eye contact with the other, his eyebrows raised. "Captain?" he said curtly.

Thrakmazh paused dramatically, then whispered hashly. "It's about Herding..."

Koran didn't respond to the bait, but something in his expression must have changed, for the orc's leer grew slightly and he leant forward a little towards Koran slightly so that the Southron could feel his breath, the stench so heavy that it seemed almost tangible, assaulting Koran with it's foulness. "It's about Herding's...real intentions."

"What do you mean, orc?" Koran asked scathingly.

Thrakmazh hesitated, then continued. "You know the captain doesn't want you to succeed in this mission. He thinks you too young, too inexperienced, too foolish...vulnerable." The orc relished the word before continuing, his voice low and understated. "He told you as much, you know what I am saying is true. But...well, more than that. In his arrogance, he thinks he is sure of success when it comes down to the battle against the elves - but what if he could win a double glory? Yes, Cenbryt - what if he could have your glory as well?"

"And how exactly would be do that?" Though the question's tone was still mocking, Koran cursed himself for asking - to let on he had any interest in what the orc was saying was exactly what he had meant to be avoiding.

"Ah...Herding is older, and has fought with these men before - he's much more experienced than you, Cenbryt," Thrakmazh added nastily, including a little dig of his own against Koran in the proceedings. "They trust him, Cenbryt - they would follow him over you. Haven't you thought the same thing yourself? On the eve of the battle, he will give the signal - and overthrow you."

"Ridiculous, orc." Koran pushed past Thrakmazh roughly, actually making the orc stagger as he walked away through the trees to his tent.

"Ridiculous? I don't think so, Cenbryt!" Thrakmazh called after him, his voice now angry as he lurched to be even with Koran. Grabbing the front of the young captain's shirt, he slammed him against the nearest tree forcefully, pinning his arms. Koran, though winded, acted almost through reflex, his knee jerking up. He wasn't even sure of whether it would work for orcs, but it had some sort of effect, for Thrakmazh let go and staggered a few steps backwards. Koran's dagger was out in an instant, levelled towards the orc. "Never make the mistake of threatening one of the Cenbryt's, orc," he hissed dangerously, his eyes narrowed to slits.

"Threaten you?" Thrakmazh snorted and gave what might pass as a laugh, holding one hand to his chest as he watched Koran through one beady eye. "What does it matter to me what clan you're from, boy? When Lorien falls, my warriors can finally reap the blood of the filthy elves. Men? Why, I distrust Herding as much as I distrust you!"

Koran must have hesitated, even simply for a split second, before he sheathed his dagger and turned away. "Come, Ehan," he snapped, not awarding the orc another glance - avoiding him with his eyes as he walked away.

But something, some part of what the orc had said, had insinuated itself with him, burying itself naggingly inside his mind, appealing to the paranoia that raged inside him. But Thrakmazh knew of this, surely - all of them suffered from it, any leader in the black troops. No honour among thieves, however the saying might go. And one would not try to overthrow the other - Herding knew how much this victory meant! And he knew how foolish it would be to try to stop it for some petty dislike of his own - fear, if nothing else, would stop him conspiring.

...but hadn't the orc spoken the truth? The captain disliked him, but surely he hadn't made it that clear to just anyone - what if what the orc was saying was true?

Ridiculous.

...but all the things he had said...that Herding thought him too weak, too inexperienced, basically too young, that he would let them all down, not knowing how to lead them properly-

The orc could have guessed that himself. Probably thinks that himself.

But what if he isn't?!

And so on, the battle raged inside Koran's mind until he shook his head angrily, trying to clear it of the paranoia that grew, grown and tended from the years under the watchful vultures that were his cousins and now newly watered by Thrakmazh's words, like a maggot gnawing away at Koran's confidence. And all the time, two sets of eyes watched him: one set outward, the one good eye and one closed eye of the orc, a growing smile on his leering features from where he crouched unmoving, watching the seeds of his dissent grow in the young southron's mind; and the second in Koran's head, a pair of fair grey eyes, ageless and ancient all at once, set with knowledge and the light of the elves...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The failure of his plan galled Ambarturion only in that he would not be able to slay the orcs who had dared try to parley with him, as though any of their ilk could be trusted beyond the sharp point of a dagger’s tip. He lay with his face to the wooden floor of the cart and once more began straining against his bonds. This time, however, they had bound him with the tough hide of some foul beast, and he was tired from his previous efforts. It would take time…

His mind went back to the image of the eyes that Coromswyth had sent him, and for a wild moment hope unbidden and unfounded came to his heart. The Elves who tracked them were too few and too inexperienced. That they had been seen at all, even by another Elf, bespoke great carelessness. Ambarturion closed his eyes and felt outward through the land, seeking for their presence. For a long time he felt nothing, but then there they were – disunited and bickering, they travelled ahead of the party of orcs, looking for a place to waylay the caravan. It had been many years since Ambarturion had last had dealings with the Elves of Mirkwood. Not since he had completed the training of Thranduil’s son had he set foot beyond the eaves of that wood. They were, like him, Silvan Elves, but few were of such lineage as himself, and none were as ancient nor as familiar with the ways and minds of the Noldor. They were a failing race, in danger of becoming quaint and amusing.

His mind flew back to the green woods of his youth, when the Elves were full of life and hope, and even the darkness of Melkor could not dim their accomplishments of hand and mind. He heard as clearly as the first day the song of Melian, and beheld the great doors of Menegroth, crafted by the Dwarves before their corruption by the Dark Powers. Soon, he was lost amid the glowing halls of the ancient kingdom, blinded by the brightness of the torches and deaf from the ceaseless sound of music and fair voices raised in laughter. Further and further into the past he drifted, but then there arose in his mind the image of a great darkness that fell upon the land. Thingol fell, and in despair Melian fled the shell of her body and returned in mourning to the West. There were cries and screams, and a vast shape crowned with fire and torment swept toward the land…

Ambarturion awoke with a start. He heard Coromswyth’s breath beside him and he turned toward her. “Do not believe that they are capable of any good, lady,” he said. She looked at him in amazement, a surprised retort springing to her lips. “I do not mean the orcs, lady, I speak of the other – the one whom you feel saved you in his tent. Do not think that he saved you; he merely preserved you for a more terrible fate before the Eye.”

Coromswyth paused so long before speaking that Ambarturion feared that perhaps he had said too much, and that she had taken offence. “He is our enemy, I know,” she said finally, a note of quiet resignation in her voice. “But there is something different about that one, that captain. He did not relish the thought of the orc’s…depravity, and there was gentleness in his manner to me – at least, such gentleness as mortals are capable of.”

“You merely compare him to the orc, and there is no Man who will not be the better for such a comparison. If he were to keep better company it would suit him the worse.” He felt Coromswyth acknowledge the truth of what he was saying, but without the full conviction that he would have desired. “If I have the opportunity,” he said quietly, “I will not hesitate to slay him. He is sworn to the destruction of the Golden Wood, and for that he is worse than any orc, for he is not just the mindless slave of Sauron, but a willing ally.”

“You are quick to judge mortals, Ambarturion,” she replied, with some warmth. “I fear, a bit too quick – and too harsh in your judgements as well. Men are capable of more than you think.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” he replied acerbically, “for no Elf can fully understand the full extent of the triviality and selfishness of Men. I have met the highest and noblest of the race and they were but as children newly out of swaddling cloth to even the youngest Elves I have ever trained.” His mind went unbidden to Caranbaith, and as quickly as he tried to push the image of his student’s bloodied corpse form his mind, he knew that Coromsyth had seen it. He knew too that she had felt the blood-soaked rage that seethed within him about the image of the one-eyed orc who had slain the youth. Coromswyth sighed and sought to reach out to Ambarturion with her mind.

You must not allow yourself to fall into such evil thoughts. If vengeance becomes your only goal, then you will find your life an empty one – for even if you do revenge yourself upon the orc, what will you do then? Caranbaith will still be gone, and you will still bear the burden of his passing.

“At the very least,” he replied coolly, “I will be able to sleep at nights with the knowledge that the orc has been sent to the howling void that was made for him, and that I was the one who sent him there.”

“No,” a voice said weakly. Ambarturion moved his head and saw that Megilaes had finally woken up. “I will be the one to send the monster to his torment.”

[Arry]

The light from their small cooking fire had burned low. A large pot of stewed squirrel laced with bitterroot had appeared at the Captain’s table, keeping him well occupied for a good while, and then drowsing after. A small skin of wine from the larder of the main force had enhanced the effects of the heavy meal and soon the sounds of deep snoring issued forth from the reclining figure of Gâshronk.

Gromwakh and his companions withdrew some distance beneath the scrubby, twisted trees that grew in patches in this area. Their meal had been light . . . strips of some dried meat, a few of the dried tubers they had brought, and a few mouthfuls of water. There were grumblings from the little band of Orcs, soon quelled by glares from Gromwakh.

‘This place makes me uneasy . . . we’re too much out in the open for my taste. I want you alert and ready to move should something happen.’ He shivered a little in the warm night. ‘Feels like there’s eyes on us. Can’t see ‘em though.’ Snikdul nodded, recalling for them the story old Kreblug had told of scenting the other Elves in the other campsite. ‘Stands to reason,’ Gromwakh said, ‘that they’d come after their own kind, don’t it. Unlikely they missed seeing the battle, don’t you think – and us dragging the three live ones off with us.’

Gromwakh looked out from the cover of the trees and low-lying bushes to where the Captain dozed by the fire. Three of his specially chosen Orcs sat opposite him, their bellies full of his leftovers. The remaining four Orcs had been stationed round the wagon, weapons in hand, as if the prisoners might escape their bonds and jump out at them. The Elves, he noted, now lay face up, their arms bound behind them still. A few drops of water had served for their meal, nothing else save the jeers and pokes of their captors.

Late evening was moving quickly into night. And soon only the embers of the small fire glowed in the deepening dark.

[Durelin]

“Then do you have any plans for an ambush? Or do we have yet to work those out?”

Calenvása was slightly annoyed at the frustration that was clearly in Thorvel’s voice. He knew that this frustration could have been directed generally to the entire situation, but it annoyed him nonetheless. It annoyed him only because of his own irritation, of course. He did not bother to turn and look at his companions, knowing that both Targil and Thorvel looked to him, anxious for an answer to the question, their eyes demanding. The Captain did not need to see that. He did not appreciate anything being demanded of him. Finding a certain comfort in focusing on the ground before him, on his pace of breathing and that of his feet hitting the earth with a gentle softness, a certain respect shown to the Earth. When he finally answered, he found his voice was strangely cold, and distracted. He would not look at them.

“We will have to see how the orc camp is laid out first, and decide exactly what to do then.”

The only response to this was a grunt from Thorvel, and what was in this grunt, Calenvása was unable to tell. He hoped this was again simple aggravation. But the Captain was not at all sure. And so he worried in the silence that followed, that grunt the last sound heard from any of the elves. He fretted over its meaning to a greater extent than a simple grunt deserved. He was discouraged to think that this grunt might be an expression of dissatisfaction in his Captain’s words. And Calenvása needed no more discouragement. He spent his time mulling over the dispiriting thoughts, all the while avoiding thinking of what he had to. For he knew he had to reach a conclusion, at some time, and was afraid of what he might reach. And what it would take to reach any conclusion at all… There was so much to consider, so much guessing to do, so much judging and weighing. Judging left him with so much responsibility. The weight of it hung upon him as he ran and the world grew dark around him.

Knowing that it was time to stop for the night, stopping early to wait upon the orc party. At any other time, Calenvása would have chuckled at this. They would wait upon these orcs, yes. But he did not laugh, for he did not know what they would do after their waiting was over. Another thing he would have found quite hilarious. The convenience of returning trees and of various bushes as they drew nearer to Mirkwood once more was almost laughable. Coming upon a surprisingly thick, forest-like patch, Targil, Thorvel and Calenvása quickly spotted Lómarandil among the branches of the tallest tree. The silence of the air was broken by the young elf’s voice, as he spoke rather loud to be heard below. Calenvása practically winced with each word. Targil sighed heavily, while Thorvel’s mouth worked, waiting for words to come to clearly express his anger and irritation.

“I believe a rest is in order?”

The surety of his voice overstepped the border that separated confidence from arrogance, and Targil responded most fittingly with a snort. Thorvel was still preparing to speak, and though Calenvása knew that the elf’s anger should not be released at this moment and in such a way, he remained silent. As cold, harsh words emerged from Thorvel’s mouth, mirroring the tightness of his face and the burning of his eyes, Targil glanced at the Captain. Calenvása avoided his glance, and stared blankly in another direction. He heard a sigh come from the elf, but still did not turn to look at him. Thorvel barely kept his voice below a shout. Calenvása looked on, while Targil looked to him.

“I believe it best that you get down from your position, for the moment, Lómarandil.”

“And you, of course, voice the wishes of the Captain.”

“Of course…”

Calenvása shot a glance to Thorvel. The elf avoided his gaze, and it felt odd to the Captain to be in such a position. Tagil’s gaze passed from Thorvel to Calenvása. Lómarandil was of little importance. Thorvel was biting his lip, his voice had trailed off as the words were spoken on impulse, and a foolish impulse. The Captain frowned deeply, but his frown was not an angry one. It was one of sadness and resignation. What could be seen in his eyes were these feelings multiplied, for the eyes were windows to the soul. Calenvása was silent, as his soul felt that there was nothing to say. And as the darkness deepened, and the orc party escorting the prisoners was found camped nearby. Lómarandil had judged a strategic position surprisingly well. But I should have known that by Targil’s silence…he would have voiced his dissatisfaction. For some reason, Calenvása had to doubt this. But then, he doubted so many things that he thought…

Lómarandil has finally complied with what Thorvel had ‘suggested’, and they were gathered among the shelter of the trees and brush, all of them. They all sat close to each other, but Calenvása felt so far away from the other elves. And he refused to acknowledge that they looked to him, and rightly so, as their Captain. He had never thought of himself as the Captain, but for fleeting moments of some kind of triumph when Targil or Thorvel showed their approval of a decision he made. But what it took to reach these rare successes was so much; too much, his mind had decided for him. His mind was weary, and it looked for a way out. It found a disturbing comfort in avoiding what was directly before him. All three sets of eyes were upon him for some time, but the pair that pierced the most was Targil’s, for if Calenvása had the strength to look into them, he would see a certain understanding. He would not see sympathy or pity, but a grim realization and a small amount of disgust, not hatred, but simple revulsion at this behavior. And that was what Calenvása felt, coming from the right of him, the revulsion. The silence remained to be broken, but it seemed that Targil was prepared to do so. It was several moments before he brought his gaze away from his Captain, and spoke to Lómarandil and Thorvel. Calenvása was no longer there, in his mind, and the Captain felt happy about this. He also felt sick to his stomach.

“We will wait till dawn. And we will wait, once more, in a position that will allow us to, for our enemy. Our patience has served us well, thus far. Let it remain so.” Targil cast a meaningful glance at Lómarandil. He would not simply watch what the foolish one did, sitting on his anger. “We raced ahead of our enemy for the purpose of an ambush. Upon beginning their march, it is hopeful that they will be less organized, as well as less wary, with a time of rest just passed. But they will have had this rest to replenish strength, a strength that we know they have.”

“And I suppose we should take advantage of our time of rest, as well,” Lómarandil cut in. Targil met his gaze, and let the coldness and lack of interest in his eyes silence the young elf. He then continued, focusing more on Thorvel. “The prisoners are aware of our presence, cor-” he stopped, and he quickly brought his eyes from where they had passed to Calenvása. While Targil recollected himself, Thorvel finished his thought in a strangely soft voice. “And they should be aware of when we attack.”

Taking his mind away from the gloom that surrounded his ‘Captain’, he nodded. There was much yet to consider, and much that would not have time to be considered. For now, Calenvása was on his own in his thoughts. Targil thought he could imagine the torment those thoughts must bring. Out of the corner of his eye, he took a look at the silent elf, and saw a battle raging in his eyes. The elf was torn.

Calenvása noticed Targil looking at him without turning his gaze. He knew the elf could not understand what kind of torment his mind brought to him, for Targil would never understand that a mind could be such an untamed thing. The Captain had fought his feral mind for long enough, and now he decided to let it run free, and, o! he had not a care in the world, and yet every care he could.

[Firefoot]

“The prisoners are aware of our presence, cor-” Targil was saying. Thorvel’s mind worked quickly. How would they know of us? And how would Targil know this? He supposed it was possible that the other Elves had sensed their presence; their senses were much sharper than those of the Orcs. That would mean that the captives most certainly had their wits about them, and the realization brought hope to Thorvel, and that hope was strangely comforting. He finished Targil’s sentence when he showed no sign of doing so himself.

“And they should be aware of when we attack.” But how to let them know? He glanced at Calenvása, and caught him nodding. The Captain appeared to be thinking, if thinking was a strong enough word. Debating with himself. Targil was watching Calenvása, and Lómarandil was frowning, undoubtedly because of the many harsh words and pointed glares from himself and Targil. Thorvel winced. Why did I do that again? One side of him asked. Because he is a foolish young elf who is always assuming everything... Stop it! Stop it now! What makes you think you’re so much better than he is anyway? That was surprising, and rather subduing. He shut the thoughts away. He was getting quite good at that, these days. He looked to Calenvása, who Thorvel thought would be the next one to speak, but to his surprise it was Targil who took charge.

“Here is what I think we should do," said Targil. "We will set ourselves in a position that will be in the Orcs’ line of march that they should reach early tomorrow morning. Three of us will hide in a stand of trees - a fairly large one - and one will hide further away, on the other side of the Orcs’ assumed path. The three will then let themselves be known to the Orcs with a loud noise or some other such distraction. With any luck at all, the Orcs will go to investigate. This is where the lone Elf comes in. The Orcs will probably leave a scanty guard if any, and that Elf will go in to rescue the Lórien Elves.” Thorvel nodded slowly, thinking the plan over. It made a good deal of sense, but...

“It’s mighty risky. A thousand things could go wrong,” said Calenvása. He did not seem to be opposing the plan, but simply stating a point. Lómarandil took it further, however, and was clearly arguing the point. “They might not decide to investigate, or send only a scout or two to find out. Where would we be then? I do not think we will have much more chance to ambush them.”

“And yet it seems to be the more sensible than anything else we can think of,” said Thorvel thoughtfully. “In addition to distracting the Orcs, it will also let the other Elves know we about to do something. And we will be at a clear advantage in the forest for the fighting that will need to be done. We will have to take those risks.” Unconsciously he reached up to finger the green-feathered end of one of his arrows.

The next thought that occurred to him, however, was who would be the single Elf. He almost shuddered at the thought of Lómarandil going. However thankful the Lórien Elves might be to them for rescuing them, Thorvel did not think they would get off to a good start between the two groups if the arrogant young Elf went after them. He himself did not want to go; his bow had gone unused for too long. Targil appeared to be contemplating the same situation, and did not look as if he wanted to go either. Thorvel thought that Calenvása might also want to stay with the group, as he was the Captain even though Targil seemed to be taking control right now. Lómarandil appeared to be about to speak up, undoubtedly to volunteer. It would be just the sort of thing that he would volunteer to do. Thorvel wanted to avoid another debate, another division in the troop. Maybe he could make up a bit for letting go of his anger at Lómarandil - not towards Lómarandil, but to the Captain, and to himself. So he spoke up, half wishing he hadn’t and hoping the words didn’t sound to forced, for that was exactly what they were. “I will be the one go to the Lórien Elves.” Lómarandil scowled at him fiercely, but Calenvása’s look of gratitude and relief was worth it.

“Yes,” said Calenvása. “That would be good.”

“I will whistle when the Orcs are approaching my hideout,” said Thorvel. “And also the Elves are free and we are gone from the area of the wagon, like a bird and close enough that the Orcs will be unable to tell the difference.” Targil nodded.

“Our plans are ready then,” said Targil. “The night is growing late. We should find our positions, and rest in preparation for our ambush. I believe that this stand of trees will do as well as any. It is large enough to get the Orcs a good distance away from the wagon, and also provides good cover for us. The way we took to get here is the way that the Orcs will probably take in the morning. Thorvel, early tomorrow morning go find your position on the other side from this thicket. We will await your signal. We will find such rest as we may until tomorrow.” Thorvel nodded, and moved out without a word, walking quickly and silently. He soon relaxed against a tree. He was slightly surprised to be taking orders from Targil, but he accepted it, since it seemed to be what Calenvása wanted. Our plan will work. It has to.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Thorvel looked round to seeif Lomarandil had gotten to his position at the top of the tree. He didn't see him there, so he looked around the trunk, then looked right around the forest surrounding them. Lomarandil was gone, completely and utterly gone. Thorvel looked back up and down the tree, and then around him again. A small rustling of leaves caught his eye, but he saw it was nothing more than a squirrel. It was a long while before Thorvel winced as he though what this could mean, perhaps Lomarandil had keep captured, perhaps even killed...Shaking slightly he walked quietly over to Calenvasa. The older elf looked round as he approached. "Lomarandil is gone..." Thorvel whispered into his ear. Calenvasa's jaw dropped spectacularly and Thorvel could almost see the cogs in his mind grinding, trying to find the most likely solution. After a few seconds Thorvel saw the change in the captain's expression which could mean only one thing, that Calevasa had found the same conclusion as he had.

A way away, Lomarandil perched on a tree. He could see the orcs well from here, and could see them walking around the captives. His blood boiled and he slowly notched an arrow to his elaborate bow. He waited for an orc to stray into the forest, far from the camp. One did that, and came right underneath his tree. Lomarandil drew his breath quickly he flattened himself against the tree. The orc grunted and started to walk away. With the arrow still notched he let it fly with pinpoint accuracy. It penetrated the orc's skull, busting through his head and coming out of the left eye socket. The lifeless orc staggered for a moment before crashing to the ground. Luckily, not even Lomarandil heard him fall over the din of the other orcs, which meant that they couldn't possibly have heard it. Dropping lightly to the ground he extracted the arrow from the orc, leaving no trace of himself. He was about the climb the tree again when a whistling noise turned him around. He saw the arrow a fraction of a second too late, it embedded itself in his right shoulder, just below the collar bone. Coughing blood, Lomarandil sunk slowly to the ground in front of the tree, the last thing he remembered seeing was the orc that had shot him coming towards him...grabbing his legs and dragging him toward the camp. The arrow jolted violently in his shoulder as he was dragged, and Lomarandil tried not to let a cry escape him. He opened his eyes once more, and saw, in the distance, Calenvasa and Thorvel's crestfallen faces as they watched him dragged away...Lomarandil willed for them to help, but he knew they could not...he was too near the camp now...With one last gasp, he black out...

[Arry]

Just before dawn . . .

It was the foul, irksome birds who woke him - that hour just before dawn when they felt compelled to caw and warble as if the very day depended on their noise to rouse the sun. Gromwakh pulled his rough blanket up about his ears in an effort to block out the disturbance, but to no avail. Peeling open one eye with an effort he considered what might happen if all the bothersome birds were to suddenly drop dead. Would the sun not rise? Would the easeful darkness stay constant? He gave an Orcish sigh, wishing it were so.

Snikdul was already up, or perhaps he had never gone to bed. Gromwakh could see him moving about their little camp poking their companions awake. It was their duty that morning to start the cook fire and make the captain his morning gruel. Nasty stuff, thought Gromwakh, pulling out a strip of dried rat from his pocket to chew on as he lay abed. Never mind that it was a bit linty from whatever had been shoved in there previously – tasted all the better in his mind.

Gâshronk was still sleeping, a consequence of the pinch of valerian root they’d put in his stew last night. Late sleep for the Captain meant a leisurely start for the group. Gromwakh could see the night watch still guarding the prisoners in the wagon. And good thing the Elves were tied tightly he thought, since three of the four Orc guards were sitting down, slouched in the dirt, their backs against the wagon’s wheels; asleep - their weapons idle at their side. The fourth Orc was no better. He’d wandered a little ways away and was warming his hands at a small fire he’d obviously kept going through the night. His back was to the wagon; his sword leaning against a rock several feet away from him.

His breakfast finished, Gromwakh threw back the blanket and heaved himself to his feet. He scratched himself across the chest, yawning widely – his usual morning ritual. Hurried steps brought him to the nearby shallow ravine, dotted thickly with low growing bushes, to answer nature’s early morning call. Behind him he could just hear several of his companions cracking a few of the thinner branches from one of the downed trees for the needed fire . . .

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

It took most of the night and the last of his strength, but eventually Ambarturion was able to once again loosen the bonds that held his hands. There was nothing he could do about the leather binding his feet, but should an opportunity arise he could deal with those much more quickly with the use of his hands.

He lay upon his back and felt the sun rise over the horizon, and listened as the birds tried in vain to overcome the loathsome cries of the orcs. Most of those that had been set to guard himself, Megilaes and Coromswyth were asleep or inattentive, and Ambarturion considered snapping his bonds immediately, but he thought better of it. Most of the beasts that had been sent to bear them to Dol Guldur were stupid and slow, but there were some that possessed some keenness. The leader, for one, seemed more capable, and that other orc that had spoken with him was more than usually alert.

The sun climbed above the trees that lay to the east and filled the Vale with welcome light, and the orcs set about their morning meal, but nothing was offered to the prisoners. It did not matter to them, for none of them relished the thought of what orcs might give them to eat. When they were sure that none of the orcs were nearby they spoke quietly, taking counsel for the dangerous trial that lay before them. “Will they attack soon do you think?” Coromswyth asked.

“I think not,” replied Ambarturion, “for they are few in number and will want to ambush the orcs when they are on the move and scattered. We should watch for them around midday, when the Sun is at her highest and the orcs are subdued by her brightness.”

“What shall we do when they attack Master?” Ambarturion noted that his student’s voice was tinged with an iron now that it had lacked before. The death of his brother had done something irrevocable to the youth.

“We will do what we can,” he replied. “I have freed my hands, but I dare not undo my other bonds. When our kindred of the greenwood comes I will break my remaining bonds and attempt to arm myself. The orcs will undoubtedly try to slay us rather than let us be rescued. I will attempt to deny them that pleasure.”

“Ambarturion,” Coromswyth whispered, “I may be able to help you…” but she was cut of by a sudden outburst of orcish glee from all corners of the ragged camp. Rolling onto his side, Ambarturion looked out through the uneven slats of the cart and saw the orcs, waving their weapons above their heads in triumph, converging upon a small copse of trees. Through their huddled black forms he beheld them leading forth from the trees a wounded Silvan Elf. Ambarturion cursed beneath his breath.

“What is it?” asked Megilaes.

Ambarturion’s voice was as steel through long grass as he replied. “It would appear that we will not be the only Elves in need of rescuing this day.”

[Arry]

‘What’s that?’ asked Snikdul, shading his eyes with his hand. He and Gromwakh had been assigned the honor of packing up the Captain’s belongings and were now just stowing them in the small compartment beneath the wagon. There in the distance, from the perimeter of a small stand of low growing trees came the sounds of Orcs shouting their battle cries and the pounding of feet running toward the trees.

Gromwakh pulled his companion down and they sprinted in the opposite direction, throwing themselves beneath the cover of some densely packed bushes. Hearing no pursuit, they peeked out carefully from their cover. ‘Are we being attacked,’ whispered Snikdul, tugging on Gromwakh’s arm. He had his iron bar gripped firmly in his hand, his eyes wide with apprehension.’

‘Shhh!’ hissed Gromwakh. ‘Let me just creep a little closer.’ He bent low and eased forward to a better vantage point. ‘They’re dragging some one in,’ he said to Snikdul who had followed him like a shadow. ‘Is it one of us?’ croaked Snikdul, his gaze sweeping about for hidden attackers in the shadows. ‘Not unless one of us has suddenly sprouted long yellow hair,’ returned his fellow hider.

They both stood, their heads just peeking over the low bushes. A group of their fellow Orcs surrounded a single Orc who was dragging a blonde headed fellow in by his ankles. An Elf, Gromwakh said, by the looks of him. As the group neared the camp, the Captain came forward to look at the sorry prize. He poked him hard in the ribs with his boot, and when the Elf gave only a faint response, Gâshronk, rolled him over on his back and had several other Orcs hold him down.

‘He’s taking something off ‘im,’ Snikdul said, watching as the Captain’s hand reached down and came up with some shiny, yellow necklace he’d pulled from the Elf’s neck; something red on it, like a drop of shining blood, winked in the sun, before it was tucked into the pouch at the Captain’s waistband. Next, the pretty pin that held the captive’s cloak was undone and found its way into Gâshronk’s pocket. ‘Ooh, I’d like that cloak he’s wearing – looks like a nice warm one.’

Snikdul started to leave the hiding place, drawn by the promise of a possible prize for himself. Gromwakh caught his arm and hauled him back beneath the bushes. ‘If there’s one filthy Elf, there’s bound to be more.’ He looked toward the wagon where the three other captives were bound. ‘They seem to come in sets, I think. And they have those nasty bows with their biting arrows.’

He pulled two strips of dried rat from his breeches pocket and handed one of them to Snikdul. ‘Settle in for a bit . . . chew quietly . . . let’s see what else shakes out of the trees . . .’

----------

Bleeding and unconscious, the new Elf was dragged to the wagon. His hands and feet soon bound with thin, plaited rope. Three Orcs picked his limp body up from the ground and flung it unceremoiously atop the other captives . . .

[Kransha]

Thrákmazh had a good idea why he had been unable to sleep. He rarely slept, but he had actually tried throughout the length of the previous night.

He had taken, for a time, leave of his own tent, and sought the brisk but chilled breezes outside. He had taken with him, grasped in loosely clutching talons, the Elven blade. He had squatted again in the earth, breathing hard as if he’d been running, and pondered in silent meditation. For all intents and purposes, his plan was going well. Koran and Herding surely were at odds now, ready to slay each other in cold blood. When the armies united reached their goal, the unity would end. In the chaos wrought by the warring Southrons, wicked men of their kind, Thrákmazh would step in easily and rally the remaining men. If one either Cenbryt or Herding survived the possible fray, Thrákmazh could use grounds of disloyalty to slay the survivor, or at least keep him out of the way. Mutiny was still a criminal offense to the Eye, and even if the men would not allow their captain to be killed, they would not be opposed to his deposition in the name of their higher lord, the Dark Lord. All would work itself out in the end.

But, if that was so, why was Thrákmazh plagued thus? He knew why, or at least his logical side did. In his hand he held an Elven blade of Doriath, an heirloom of ancient days and a device used for light and its service alone. Thrákmazh was in the thrall of shadow, not of light, and this blade burned him still. Yet, strangely, he could not cast it aside. The last night, when the pale, icy sphere of the moon drifted gently in its customary arc, Thrákmazh had buried it contemptuously in the ground and tried to stalk back to his tent, but his legs would not carry him. He turned back, dragged by a force unseen, and rushed to the sword, both hands grasping it immediately and yanking it from the earth. He pressed it to him, panting again and harder still until his wobbling legs pushed him up. He now stood and raised the blade, is eyes tracing its narrow length and staring, mesmerized, into it. His dark pupil focused on the gleaming ivory of the sword and the watery reflection in the blade as the moon hit it, filling it with a powerful, brilliant white light.

In the blade he saw a reflection…his reflection, augmented by the withered moonlight. But it was not the reflection of himself he knew, not the orc who he’d thought himself to be. He saw one eye, and the rest of the blade held nothing but darkness, swirling shadow. The watery surface of the sword had been tainted by the horrible, nauseating color which coursed over it. It struck him blind to look upon it, and he turned away, dropping the blade again, feeling as if his stomach would turn and lurch from within him. Then, he fell again, and grabbed the sword, ignoring the reflection in the blade. He could not purge it from his hand, nor could he purge those most vile images from his skull. It burned him and held onto him, unwilling to allow its own release. He clung to it, edging back towards the tent to get away from the glimmering moonlight that shone down radiantly upon him. It was sunlight he despised, sunlight, but the whiter, calmer light from above was filling his lone eye and seemed almost as painful, despite its obvious weakness in comparison.

He had lived a long time, in the years of orcs or in those of men. He had felt some age, only in terms of experience, and had seen many conflicts, many battles. He was an orc who knew what his life was about, unlike so many others. He did not remember how or when he came to be. Perhaps in the first days of orcs and perhaps not, he did not know. He remembered fiery frays, minor skirmishes, and countless struggles between his kind and the forces that he’d learned to call ‘enemies.’ It had always been the mighty Eye he served, though a greater master had existed, a darker and more terrible one, an enemy of the Elves, or at least, had existed in his time. Early on in the time called the Second Age of the Sun, he sun that he so hated with a dank and murderous passion, after the first falling-out of his kind, but he had served his most renowned master gleefully and readily when he first began to taint the good and just lands of Middle-Earth when he came there from the island in the eastern waters, now sunken and devoured by raging oceans. In that time, when the orcs of Sauron drove the men and elves back towards the sea and north, into the darkest corners of the world, surrounded on all sides by shadow, Thrákmazh had first engaged the Elves and lost his eye there. To his later thanks, he was not present at Sauron’s fall, the battles in the south that saw the conquering of the Dark Lord and his troops, for if he had been he would not be present in this dark, decaying forest this very day. He had been north, troops newly under his command left with no option but to flee when a greater army hampered them, the army composed of both men and elves, allied for some common good, to besiege Sauron is his dark hold, cast down the peak of Barad-dûr. That Last Alliance had been too great a force for scattered, meager orcish hosts, so they fled.

After Sauron’s fall, the one-eyed captain of orcs had sought more men in the Misty Mountains, hoping their encircling shrouds that fell over him would shield him from outside eyes. There he was named a hero, titled and decorated with the trappings of a king among orcs, for no other commander in the north had lived past the downfall of Sauron. Hoping to counterattack, but dreading failure, Thrákmazh and the other mountain captains led a motley band of savage urûks to seek out some force they could defeat. They happened luckily upon an unsuspecting train of troops belonging to the victorious enemy, the next King of Men. To their amazement, victory was there’s. At the Battle of the Gladden Fields, miraculous to them and catastrophic to their foes, the enemy of Sauron who’d struck him down, fell at Gladden Fields with his kindred, and Thrákmazh brought the tale of the glorious success back to his own brethren in the mountains. Then, despite the harrowing fire of conquest, they halted their spread and the orcs of all surrounding regions let their numbers dwindle quietly as years passed in rapid succession. The next age, a colder, darker age for all, dragged on until the power of the Dark Lord was reared up again, his tainting hands gouging light and trust from the lands, darkening the light of the Elven Woodlands to make dwellings for his spawn.

That was what Thrákmazh the Mighty remembered of his days in the time before. He did not know many orcs who’d seen these things or done such things as he, such accomplishments as he’d achieved. This was what confused him; this was what drove his mind to further shadow than the blackness that enveloped it already. His thoughts swirled uncontrollably, never letting him determine which was which as they grappled together, a muddled mess of consciousness. If he’d seen so much, lived so long, why could he night hold an Elven blade in his hand? Why could he not think of a single living elf without feeling great aches and pains that stabbed at him, unmerciful and unrelenting? He still did not know, and did not wish to seek the answer. Dragging the blade in the earth and leaving an indented trail in the thick dirt, he had dropped the thing again and, with all the might his limbs possessed, he had staggered back to his tent feebly last night and fallen to the floor of it, wishing as he’d never wished before, for sleep. Then, again possessed from within and without, he thrust himself up, left his tent again, and sought the sword out, grasping it and holding it to his heart.

Now the rays of sunlight, bare and cold despite their shed warmth, crested the tree-covered horizon, peering curiously over the gnarled tips of high branches. Thrakmazh still sat where he had all night, clutching the blade, his one eye tightly closed. But, despite his closed eye, the sunlight still pierced him and he saw it through the thick lid over his watery orb of an eye. The one eye drifted open as he seemed to glide onto his two feet, sliding the Elven blade elegantly into his belt beside his orcish weapon. He looked around at the darkly colored tents, now illuminated by dull golden beams. It was time to seek the greatest prey, the greatest prize, time to do the will of Sauron.

“GET UP, WORMS,” he bellowed, his thunderous voice filling the atmosphere hovering delicately over the army’s camp, “GET UP! THERE’S ELVEN BLOOD TO BE SPILT THIS DAY!”

[Arry]

Captain Gâshronk fingered the prizes he had taken from the wounded Elf. ‘Why hide them away,’ he thought. ‘I’ll just wear them for now – put ‘em away before we get to Dol Guldur, so’s no one there’ll take them from me.’ The red stone glinted handsomely as it caught the light.

The other Orcs, especially the one who had dragged in the unfortunate Elf, drew away from the Captain and “his” prizes. ‘There’s others out there; I can feel ‘em,’ he grumbled to his fellows. He seethed with anger, looking at the Captain. By rights those Elf-things should be his! ‘Get your bows and let’s do a little hunting for prizes of our own.’ In a clattering cloud of stirred up dust, the Orcs took off for the line of trees the downed Elf had come from.

Gâshronk called out a few useless threats, to no avail – they had already run out of earshot. ‘Left me to guard the prisoners, did they?’ he growled, drawing his blade and walking toward the wagon. It appeared, though, there was not much to guard – the four Elves all seemed tightly bound and unlikely to escape, though the three they had captured first stared hard at him with their foul grey eyes. A brief chill made the hair on his arms stand up, his skin prickle. He shook it off, and moved a ways away from the wagon to sit on a rock in the sun.

Gromwakh and Snikdul, hunkered down in their little hidey-hole beneath the bushes. At one point, Snikdul nudged his companion, asking if perhaps they could go after the Elves, too. He wanted an Elf finger to put on his necklace. ‘No!’ was the quick answer Gromwakh gave him. ‘Just stay put. That one fool Elf was obviously after the prisoners we have. He got himself shot. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty more Elves out there with the same idea . . . and all of them with arrows that have our names on ‘em!’ He lowered his voice to a low whisper. ‘Remember back in camp, before we started. We got reports of Elves in the trees keeping watch on us.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘You plant your hairy behind right here in the dirt and stay undercover. We’ll sort things out . . . Elf fingers and all . . . when it’s safe . . .’

Snikdul grumbled, about to protest what Grom had said. But the sound of light steps in the camp caught the two Orcs attention and they ventured a look through the leaves.

‘See!’ hissed Gromwakh, pulling his friend back down. ‘There are more Elves! And they’ve come for their own . . .’

[Firefoot]

Thorvel crept silently towards the Orc camp. He had been waiting since dawn to move, and he felt that the time was right. During that time he had had plenty of time to think, and much of it had been about Lómarandil. At seeing the young wounded Elf be dragged away, he had felt worried, but now much of that worry had been replaced by exasperation and annoyance. What had driven him to go after the Orcs? Foolish, foolish, foolish young Elf, to go chasing after the Orcs alone like that. And arrogant too. What had he been trying to do? There would have been plenty of time for killing Orcs today, but now he was captured and there was yet one more Elf to rescue. He sighed softly. He still had no idea how he was going to greet the young Elf, but he determined that he would not yell. He would let Calenvása take care of that, or Targil, or whoever was in charge now.

When Thorvel reached the fringe of the Orcs’ camp, he realized that they were already starting to fan out into the forest, leaving a single Orc behind, who he recognized as the leader of the small party by his single eye. He let out a long, low whistle, made in imitation of a bird, to let the other two Elves still in the forest know the Orcs were coming. The single remaining Orc went to check on the captives, and then sat himself down on a rock in the sun. He shook his head at the Orcs’ arrogance and stupidity. This rescue was going to go even easier than planned! Unless there were other Orcs hidden nearby... Thorvel scanned the campsite and strained his Elvish ears for any sign of other Orcs. He thought he heard a few that were very close. That could be trouble, but it also might not mean anything at all. It was a risk he had to take. He loosened his knife in its sheath and pulled out his bow. He notched an arrow to the string and took cold, careful aim, smiling grimly. He loosed the arrow, but the Orc took that moment to shift positions, and instead of going straight through the heart it only lodged in his shoulder. Thorvel could not tell whether the Orc was dead or only unconscious. He waited a few moments for any sign of more Orcs before stepping out into the clearing, still on guard, and only then did he turn his attentions to the wagon.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

From where he lay in the cart, Ambarturion watched as the orc fell with an arrow jutting from his shoulder. The Elf scowled darkly to himself: whatever plans his distant kinsman had hoped to lay, they had been badly disturbed by the sudden capture of one of their number. Ambarturion strained to see if any were coming to his and his companions’ succour, but he had only a limited view of the lands about and could not tell fully what was happening. There was no more time for debate and doubt, he had to act. With one last mighty shrug he broke the bonds that held his hands and reached for those binding his ankles. Coromswyth whispered to him urgently, “My knives, quickly!” She rolled onto her stomach and held out her arms, and Ambarturion knew instantly what she was suggesting. Reaching into her long sleeves he withdrew the hidden weapons and slashed at the cords at his ankles.

He turned then to Megilaes, but a sudden cry of warning from Coromswyth drew his attention. Ambarturion barely had time to parry the orc’s blow. Three of the creatures had come scampering back to the cart at the sight of their captain’s fall and were now clearly intent on slaying the prisoners. They were enraged and in full furor, while Ambarturion was flat on his back, armed only with short knives and stiff from having been bound for nearly a full day. But he was in his wrath and as he rose up, his eyes blazed with the light of his age and those who looked upon him quailed.

Leaping upon the orcs, the Elf slashed the throat out of the first. The other two came at him, but he swirled below their attacks and spinning about on the ground like a striking adder he sliced through the leg of one, before coming up and burying a knife in the gorge of the third. He then coolly stooped and dispatched with his bare hands the orc he had hamstrung. He looked about for more enemies, but for the moment at least the only living orc was the wounded captain. In mere moments, Ambarturion had freed the other Elves. As he cut the bonds of the wounded stranger, there appeared at the side of the wagon an Elf dressed in the garb of a Mirkwood scout. “Come,” he was saying hurriedly, “come with me! We must be away before they discover your escape.”

Ambarturion drew himself up to his full height and looked upon the Elf with thinly veiled contempt. Ambarturion was unused to taking orders, and did not like the peremptory tone of this person. “Your companion cannot flee in his condition, nor will I run away from orcs. Coromswyth, you remain here with the wounded and see what you can do for him. If it is safe to move him, find shelter in the trees. Megilaes and you…”

“Thorvel,” the newcomer replied, stunned by the manner of this tall Elf with eyes like blazing stars.

“Thorvel, you will accompany my student and I in pursuit of the orcs.”

“Ambarturion!” Coromswyth’s tone spoke in equal measure of caution and resentment – resentment at being ordered once more to avoid battle, and caution for Ambarturion not to presume to lead where he was in debt to a rescuer. Ambarturion noted her meaning, but there was no time for such matters.

“No,” he said coolly. “You must stay here and see to his wounds. If the orcs return they will slay him.” Coromswyth merely nodded in mute acquiescence, but he could tell that she was unhappy with his manner.

Thorvel, having recovered from his initial shock, was the next to protest. “We should not pursue the orcs, they are too many. Let us seek shelter and come upon them in secrecy.”

Ambarturion paid little attention to the other Elf, not even deigning to look at him as he replied. “The orcs are many, your companions are but two. Would you allow them to be overcome by these monsters while we seek shelter for ourselves? Come, we are enough to lend your kin aid – if not, we are enough to die with them.” Not waiting for a reply he returned the knives to Coromswyth before stooping for an orc’s sword, and racing off in pursuit of the enemy.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

The jolt of the cart woke Lomarandil. Opening one eye slowly he saw Gashronk staggering, blood pouring from a wound in his chest. Reaching down slowly for his knife that lay on the cart bottom he muttered to himself, such careless fools orcs are...taking hold of the hilt he twirled it around in his bound hands and sliced upwards, cutting his bonds. Luckily for him the orcs had broken the arrow shaft...and by the looks of it had tried to stop him dying...ransomed, was the first thought that came into his mind. Smiling he stood up slowly. Gashronk was staggering to the cart with his sword, probably to try and kill him. With a huge cry Lomarandil threw the knife with his remaining strength, it embedded itself in Gashronk's neck, the orc gurgled for a second, then collapsed.

Lomarandil stepped onto the ground hesitantly, then walked up to Gashronk, turning the huge body over he saw the orc was still alive, but would die in seconds. "Elf!" the orc tried to say, but all that came out of his ruined windpipe was a gurgle. Lomarandil took hold of the knife's hilt, and wrenched the razor sharp balde right round Gashronk's neck, cutting through the spine. Lomarandil held the head up, before throwing it into the bushes near Snikdul...

Looking at the corpse, he saw a flash of gold and reached for it, the pendant of his dead wife came out in his hands and he put it back around his neck, giving the body a final kick, which jolted something out of a pocket. Looking closely Lomarandil saw that is was his cloak pin. Smiling he retrieved his cloak from the cart and repinned it. Walking over to Thorvel he whispered in his ear. "Thank you." before turning away.

[Durelin]

Targil stared with a look of disgust that bordered on hatred at the scene. He had moved slightly closer to the orc camp upon the disappearance of Lómarandil, and he now saw what his heart had been dreading since Thorvel had said the young elf was missing. Now that it had happened, it seemed that the capture of Lómarandil had been inevitable from the beginning of this mission. With the rest of the scouts having to look after the young elf, while still carrying on with their duty, the focus on this task was lessened, while its importance would never diminish. And its importance would never be forgotten. Not by Targil, at least. He glanced at Calenvása. Thorvel was still trying to believe make the elf his Captain, when he did not want to be. Targil supposed he was the only one who saw it, and this saddened him greatly. Calenvása would not lead, as he had lost all confidence in himself and his actions. Targil had watched for so long, disapproving of the leadership he followed, and now, when all leadership was gone, he smoothly took control.

Feeling a sudden dread come over him, he quickly rose from where he crouched and looked around him, ready to move, even though there was no reasoning behind this feeling. He had learned long ago not to ignore such signs. Today, it was of the utmost importance that he did not, for there was now no sign of Thorvel. Targil turned to look at Calenvása, who sat on the ground, staring at nothing. It was a rather pitiful sight, and so made the elf’s disgust grow. For a fleeting moment, he felt his eyes burn with anger and hatred, one that went beyond the surface, beyond simply annoyance. But this was a quickly passing moment, and one that left him feeling guilt. He did not look at the elf that he should be calling Captain as he spoke.

“Thorvel was with you a moment ago, Calenvása, was he not?” Targil no longer tried to remember to call him ‘Captain’. He now tried not to. The elf had lost the respect that went with such a title when he had gone beyond the greatest extent that Targil would put up with and given up. A Man given up with life and hope was a sad thing, barely worthy of being called living. But an Immortal who had given up was a disgrace to Elvenkind, and a disgrace beyond the reaches of human disgrace fell upon that elf. The fact that an immortal being without any hope or grace walked the earth marred the beauty of the Children of Illúvatar, who were one with Eä, their souls tied down by it and to it.

“He was…a moment ago.”

From several yards away, a small noise rang in his ears. Calenvása practically jumped at the sound, automatically brought out of his thoughts by a foreign sound, the habits gained as a scout not lost, even in his sad state of mind. He rose from where he sat to join Targil as the elf immediately made his way toward the sound. Perhaps it was not the wisest move, but they had few choices, and he knew how to silently come upon a single person or a group of people; enemies, he quickly assumed, in this case. Coming upon the sight he had expected, he did not waiting to see if Calenvasa had followed him before flying out upon several orcs snooping around in the trees, his two hunting knives drawn for the first time on this seemingly fated mission. Finally the elf had something to direct his anger towards, and he battled only to slaughter.

As his third orc went down missing an eye and with its throat cleanly slit, Targil frantically searched the area around him for another enemy, his heavy breathing caused by more than the simple exertion of the fighting. But he was surprised, and his breathing lost its furied heat, his heart slowed and his mind cleared, as he watched Calenvasa stab a quivering orc body on the ground through the middle. Head tilted slightly in a plainly curious look, Targil eyed his Captain. The elf's expression did not change as he pulled his knife out, took his eyes away from the dead orc, and looked his companion in the eye. Targil kept himself from shuddering, as a strange light that glowed behind the despair in the Captain's eyes sent a shiver up his spine and a warning to his heart.

Taking his eyes away from what should not frighten him, Targil scanned his surroundings, even though it was obvious that the rest of the orcs - he had briefly counted 6 - had fled. He knew the creatures, and after watching four of their comrades die, they would not stand to see any more. Another small sound among the trees and Targil tensed up, his eyes darting to where the sound had come from. Looking at Calenvasa out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the elf had not moved, had not tensed. The scout Captain looked disinterested. Luckily the face that emerged from the leaves was immortal.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel stared after Ambarturion and Megilaes as they disappeared into the trees. “The plan...” he started to say, but the words started soft and faded from his lips. The plan had gone to pieces starting with Lómarandil’s capture. Now it was time to improvise. He was too wrapped in his own thoughts to pay close attention as Lómarandil regained consciousness and made his way over to where the Orc lay. The young Elf clearly wasn’t fit yet to do any serious fighting, and the wound in his shoulder didn’t look pretty, to say the least. Somehow there had to be some way to get all the Elves back together. They were spread out now, as surely as birds were scattered when their perch was disturbed. They could do nothing effective as spaced out as they were Why did Ambarturion see that? Thorvel did not think that the other Elf was thinking very clearly at the moment. They needed to escape from the Orcs and regroup, not go plunging wildly in every which direction. Thorvel remembered a small stand of trees not too far from where they were right now; he thought he could see it. He noticed that Lómarandil had regained that which was his from the Orc camp, and turned to the female Elf who was now standing nearby. He thought he had heard her called Coromswyth. Despite her appearance, he suspected that she was very capable of defending herself if need be. Ambarturion had told her to stay there, but Thorvel saw no sense in that and said so.

“I think it would be better if we all gathered together away from here,” Thorvel said. “Do you see those trees over there?” She nodded. “Make your way to those, and take Lómarandil with you. He is in no condition to fight, so make sure he does not try to come after us. I think that he may be foolish enough to think he is a fair match for the Orcs that are around. I will try to find the others and meet you there. Does this sound all right to you?”

“I suppose so,” she replied, sounding resigned. Thorvel nodded, and started to walk towards Lómarandil when he noticed Lómarandil was already coming to him.

"Thank you," Lómarandil whispered. Thorvel was rather startled and somewhat confused; he had not expected it and was not sure what the thanks was for. He did not let it put him off for long though, and he knelt to retrieve his arrow from the dead Orc and replacing it to his quiver before speaking.

“You and Coromswyth,” - this was said with a movement of his head toward the female Elf - “are going to make your way to that stand of trees in the distance. Do not think you are fit to fight the Orcs; your shoulder needs tending to.” The last bit was added when he noted the younger Elf open his mouth as if to speak in argument. Now he scowled: it was a look Thorvel was becoming used to. He decided to take that as agreement. “Good.” With that, Thorvel turned and began running swiftly and softly towards the trees, and the sound of crashing metal.

Even as he went, he removed the knife from its sheath, wanting to be ready should he come on any Orcs. He found one, and slew it from behind before it was aware he was there. He wiped his knife on the fallen Orc, and continued where he found Ambarturion and his younger companion finishing off a pair of Orcs.

“Listen to me, Ambarturion,” said Thorvel, determined not to let the other Elf’s manner overcome him this time. “This is madness. Eventually we will come upon more Orcs than just a few stragglers, and it will be three against many, if we do not find the other two first. I do not care whether you do not want to run from the Orcs or not. If we are slain, it will do nobody any good at all, and Lothlórien will have little or no warning at all of the coming attack. We must regroup elsewhere! I have sent Coromswyth and Lómarandil on to a small stand of trees where the Orcs will not find them, and I said we would join them, and we will. It is in that direction,” he said with a gesture of his arm. “You say my companions need aid? What they need is to know that the rescue is complete so that they can escape!” His tone was soft so as not to alert the Orcs of their presence, but forceful. Ambarturion’s frown had grown deeper with each sentence. Thorvel could tell he did not like taking orders one bit, and suspected that an argument would come if he allowed it to. “Meet us there. I will get the others.” He turned to where he thought he heard sound of battle without waiting to hear the other Elf’s reply. He dearly hoped that Ambarturion would listen.

Sure enough, within a few minutes he found Calenvása and Targil hidden by the trees. There were some dead Orcs lying on the ground, and by the sound of it, more were coming.

“Hurry!” he said urgently. “The prisoners are free, and I have arranged for us all to meet in a group of trees not too far from here. Follow me!” Thorvel hoped they would all meet together. It all depended on whether the Lórien Elves and Lómarandil had decided to listen. He plunged into the trees, Calenvása and Targil close behind. Oh, I hope everything works out...

[Arry]

‘He’s dead! The Elf’s killed ‘im!’

Snikdul’s voice was squeaky as he announced the demise of Gâshronk, ending in a strangulated gasp as Gromwakh clapped his hand over his companion’s mouth and pulled him down. Elves, he’d heard, have a nasty way of overhearing things. The two Orcs were silent for the space of many heartbeats before Grom dared a look up. The captain was indeed dead and the Elf who had done him in was nowhere to be seen.

Nor were there any of the other Orcs about. He’d heard the big Elf and another go thundering after them, weapons at the ready, he supposed. Gromwakh wondered how many of his fellows would return. He’d also heard the big Elf tell the lady she was to stay with their wounded companion. Grom poked his head up to look for her, but did not see her by the wagon. He wondered if she’d managed to drag the wounded one off to the cover of the trees on the other side of the wagon. He debated with himself whether to take a little look-see about the apparently deserted camp, then thought better of it. She’d looked as formidable as the Big Elf. And lady, or no, he figured she was probably as set against dealing with Orcs on anything other than a dire level. He sat back on his haunches and thought for a few more moments.

‘Let’s pull back even further,’ he whispered to the white-knuckled Snikdul. ‘We can circle around under cover and find what’s left of the troops.’ He pulled on his companion’s arm, motioning for him to stay low and move quietly. He recalled a scrap of information one of the Uruks had let drop when they’d first heard about going to the Golden Wood. It wasn’t too far from the mountains in parts, the Uruk had said, and he’d wondered if they’d come down through that route.

In his simple line of reasoning, Gromwakh held on to that word – ‘mountains’. They’d go back to the main body of the army and even if the route didn’t go near the mountains, still perhaps he and his little band could drift away at some point and make for them. That little beam of hope in his Orcish mind, he urged Snikdul on toward where they thought the other Orcs might be

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ambarturion scowled at Thorvel’s retreating back. It was madness to stop the battle now: the orcs were scattered and leaderless, unaware still of their danger and more bent on booty and pillage than ordered combat. With swift action, the Elves could destroy them one by one, rather than face an ordered attack. His disdain for these Mirkwood scouts grew even more. So used are they to hiding in the trees and shooting their opponents from beneath the cover of darkness that they have lost the will to face them in open combat. He tightened his grip on his sword and paused, lost in a moment of rare indecision.

As though he had been waiting for just such an opportunity, Megilaes spoke. “Perhaps Thorvel is right, Master. If we rejoin the others we can take counsel for a more ordered defence.”

He had expected a tart retort, and was surprised when Ambarturion replied to him in an even manner. “Thorvel is not right, I fear. At the moment the orcs are dispersed into small groups and could be easily engaged by us. We could destroy half of them or more before they were even aware of their danger. Retreating now gives them as much time to regroup as it does us.” Ambarturion looked about, having already decided to press ahead with the attack, when he saw through the trees three Elves making their way for the meeting point described by Thorvel. Ambarturion cursed beneath his breath. “Come Megilaes; it would appear that we must follow the plans of our Mirkwood brethren.” There was little point in continuing the battle alone.

They ran back through the trees and saw no orcs, but their cries were all about them. Once, as they passed by a small growth of shrubs, Ambarturion sensed the sickly gaze of two orcs in hiding, but as they seemed more intent on avoiding combat he passed them by. They found the others waiting for them where Thorvel said they would be. Coromswyth had bound the wounded Elf’s shoulder and now stood with her blades drawn. No matter what Ambarturion said to her now, she would not be left behind in the battle. He smiled at that with grim satisfaction. The two new Elves with Thorvel were a surprising pair to Ambarturion. One bore about him a deep despair that Ambarturion did not have the time to think upon, although it was clear that this Elf was the nominal leader of the group. The other seemed in equal parts angry and dismayed by his leader’s manner. Ambarturion began speaking quickly.

“We haven’t much time. The orcs will soon realise that we have escaped and that their captain is dead. They will then seek to recapture or kill us rather than return to their masters with news of their failure. Now that we have withdrawn from the battle they will have time to take counsel for the attack, so we must do the same. You three,” he said pointing to Thorvel and his companions; “you are still armed with bows. When the orcs come, shoot as many as you may. The rest of us will engage them here, in the midst of the trees where their advantage in numbers might be lessened.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

The dark elf, quite as tall as Ambarturion and bearing himself as well nodded briefly as the latter doled out instructions, before turning away curtly and speaking a few words quietly to his companions. Coromswyth watched one in particular more carefully - the gloomy looking, fair elf. He was certainly the eldest among them: the air of age and wisdom that came only through long experience settled around his shoulders like the dust of time. He was evidently the leader of the group, and as Ambarturion began ordering the others around, the female elf kept her eyes on him from under her eyelashes, pretending to be fiddling with some detail on the binding of her dagger's handle. He did not seem to mind so much, nodding mildly, but as Ambarturion turned away, the elf stopped the other two and murmured a few words of his own to them. Interesting.

Ambarturion took a deep breath, surveying the area in front of him as if running through in his mind a mental vision of what would happen if all went according to plan. Then he turned his head to look at Coromswyth, and she saw the pained expression flit momentarily across his face. "Lady - are you sure you will fight with us? I would prefer it if-"

The female elf cut him off with a shake of her head, smiling lightly at him. "Please...please, Ambarturion," she said softly. He watched her with his keen, dark grey eyes, then sighed and seemed ready to turn away. Rather than leave it simply like that, Coromswyth gave a small smile and continued: "Besides - my bow is in the back of that wagon." She spun the dagger and sword in her hands easily in two circles around each other, flashing two deadly rings of silver through the air. She grinned dangerously at Ambarturion. "You don't think I'd leave it there, do you?"

The older elf smiled slightly at her even through his worry, then his brow crumpled in concern and his eyes closed up suspiciously. "Your bow is in the back of the wagon? How?"

Coromswyth felt her pulse increase marginally as she remembered the Southron captain's face and his kind actions. No matter what the male elf thought, that he was merely the lesser of two evils, she couldn't help but fight the certainty in her mind that there was something more in this youngling's kindness. She knew exactly who had put the bow in the back of the wagon. Not letting on for a second, forced herself to shrug lightly, and was pleased to note that her male companion had not tried to probe into her mind. "Who knows? Maybe the orcs meant to get something more out if it - it is a fine weapon, would sell to one of the Men on guard for something extra, I suspect."

Ambarturion's eyes rested on her only a for a moment more before he nodded, satisfied, shrugging as the suspicion departed from his eyes. Coromswyth relaxed slightly but it took a while for her pulse to slow down. The image of the Man's eyes were in her mind again - dark and melancholy, full of wisdom one so young shouldn't have to know. She smiled slightly to herself in confusion - of course, it wasn't surprising that he had made an impact on her, but why should she be grateful to him? He had 'saved' her from the orc's touch...the thought was immediately parried by the instantaneous response in her mind: it was he who had originally captured her. She sighed. She knew who had put the bow in the back of the wagon - but was no closer to knowing why.

Taking a deep breath and calming herself, Coromswyth swung her blades around deftly once more, getting the feel of both long and short together. As she did so, she caught the eye of one of the archers, who had shot a curious look at her as she did so, and smiled without thinking. He seemed slightly taken aback - after all, her readiness to smile was so different from the other, severe Ambassador. Looking away, Coromswyth watched Ambarturion's still form nearby, worry tinting her light eyes.

"Be careful, Ambarturion."

The other elf stiffened momentarily and turned to look questioningly at Coromswyth, wondering why she had chosen to share her good luck for the fight secretively rather than openly with spoken words. She held his eyes for only a moment, then let them flicker to the other elves before they returned to his. Her meaning was perfectly clear, but Ambarturion did not reply: he kept her gaze for a moment, then turned again.

[Durelin]

“You three.”

The curtness of the elf’s voice and the gesture toward Calenvása and the other scouts brought the Captain out of his thoughts with a shock. His eyes snapped up to stare at Ambarturion, one of the newly rescued ambassadors, part of an envoy from Lorien to the Woodmen in Mirkwood, with anger. Blinking, Calenvása realized he had no reason to be angry, and felt a new frustration arise that was directed at himself. His thoughts and feelings had no reasoning to them, and he had decided long ago that his mind required logical explanations to most everything, especially things that stemmed from himself. Very few things had been at all logical in some time, and it frightened him. He wanted so to run away. But he felt cornered as the ambassador spoke.

“You are still armed with bows. When the orcs come, shoot as many as you may. The rest of us will engage them here, in the midst of the trees where their advantage in numbers might be lessened.”

At a surprising thought that emerged his mind as Ambarturion finished, Calenvása brightened. It may have been a sad thought to cling to, but he of course refused to consider this. He refused to think of anything that might make him feel uncomfortable with himself and his state of mind. His state of mind was completely up to him, but he did not even wish to confront this fact. This would mean feeling a weight of responsibility. But all weight was lifted from him as he realized what Ambarturion was doing. The severe elf was taking charge. It felt good, in a way, to be following orders. And yet he could not help but frown at the ground before where he stood. Forcing his features to lighten, he brought his eyes up to nod in response to Ambarturion’s instructions.

For some unknown reason, though, he turned to face the other scouts, to speak to them himself. He felt the weight upon him grow slightly, but he ignored it. “Targil?” he asked softly, refusing to speak with any command. “I’m assuming that you wish to engage them with the others.” Calenvása knew Targil, and knew his weapon of choice. His companion nodded, eyeing Calenvása strangely. The Captain would never be able to ignore that elf’s gaze. “I’m hoping three bows will be enough to cut down the numbers enough that when we engage the enemy, our knives will be enough to cut them down to nothing.” It was strange. It seemed a small slip of his humor had caused him to say that last statement, and yet no smile played on his lips. He looked at each of his comrades. Where had the smiles gone?

“It is all we can hope for,” Targil said, answering Calenvása’s unvoiced question.

~

Targil

Taking his eyes away from his Captain, knowing that there was nothing left to say, Targil watched the two ambassadors speak with each other. He studied them, slowly discovering who they were simply through his eyes, and found his eyes resting on the female. She was a puzzle. Ambarturion was puzzling, as well, but… She, Coromswyth – Thorvel had loosely introduced them to Targil and Calenvása – smiled. Her eyes were full of a profound wisdom, a deep understanding, and yet any sadness did not overcome a brightness of innocent, almost youthful happiness. There was an energy about her as well, a positive one, that she was focusing on helping her land and her people. Targil was already beginning to admire her. She swung her two blades around with skill and familiarity. Yes, admiration was due. She caught his gaze, and smiled again. If he had not been caught by surprise by her eyes, and he was not busy worrying about what had shown in his eyes, Targil would have smiled back. It seemed she had an effect on people. He wondered how Ambarturion could remain so severe around such a warm and jovial presence.

Her eyes quickly passed from his, and back to the other ambassador’s she smiled no longer. Targil could practically feel the energy in the air as the two great minds worked. Looking from one to the other, he wanted so to tap into their thoughts, but refused to do anything to lose their trust. There was no reason for him to mistrust them, or for them to mistrust Targil and his companions. Giving up his quiet observations, he made his way over to the ambassadors and their guards, breaching the gap that had automatically formed between the two parties. He did not apologize for intruding, determining that any considered intrusion would have to be put up with. They were all fighting against the same enemy, and fighting for the survival of themselves and their brethren in Lorien, and they would fight together.

“I am Targil; my knives skin orc with yours, and I bleed with you.” He bowed slightly, with only the slightest amount of respect. Unlike Calenvása, he was not prepared to allow this Ambarturion to take the command that he most likely thought was rightfully his. He considered a separate greeting for Coromswyth, but her eyes stopped him once again.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Things had become quite interesting between the two human captains, and Ehan was able to comfortably watch the goings on from his own standpoint – outside the conflict entirely. The orc captain – Ehan did not know how to say his name, so stayed with the generic title – had decided to get himself involved in the inner battle between Koran and Herding. Obviously their little vendetta had become visible enough for others to decide to take advantage of it. That means that it has gone too far for a strange situation such as this, Ehan realized. When others are able to profit from such distaste between two captains, no good can come of it.

The story of betrayal had often been told by his sister, countless variations where a loyal subject is forgotten or a haughty king killed in mutiny for his trespass. Ehan had never heard a tale quite the same as the one unfolding in the camp among men – and orcs – of such high rank and reputation. Because there had never been an ending to such a story, as far as Ehan knew, all the boy could do was watch and wait for the result of all the battles of words.

But what are words, when actions will decide who is left? Ehan wondered, his mind racing as he and Koran left the orc and his captain pondered the words of both man and beast. What would happen next could only be guessed, and until the end was revealed Ehan would do what he could to make certain that he remained unaffected, and unattached. Surely, Ehan felt some sort of bond between Koran and himself, but Ehan had quickly learned in his life that bonds and ties were broken more quickly than flesh. If he let his mind slip and his heart take over, things would get ugly…as they already had between Koran and Herding. That is their problem, the Southron mused, they let their feelings and their anger and their pride get in the way of things. Koran would surely save his own skin before saving mine, so why should I not be willing to return the favor? Relations between Herding and Koran would have certainly made for a heart-wrenching and enticing tale, and Ehan still wondered who would come out the victor…the hero.

“Captain?” Ehan inquired, gently requesting the attention of the older, but still rather young Southron captain. Koran looked up, his eyes dazed and his face filled with pockets of indignation and contemplation. “Captain, do you know where it is we go next, and what it is we are going to do?” Koran had mentioned before in Herding’s tent that he had ‘business to attend that cannot wait’. Ehan was nearly sure that this had indeed just been a ploy to get Koran out of Herding’s stuffy tent, but still the boy wondered what Koran would do next in the game.

[Arry]

Of the fifteen Orcs left, Gromwakh and And Snikdul were able to ferret out ten of them. It was not that difficult a task. The Orcs were noisy as they crashed through the underbrush; the air was filled with the snapping of dried branches and the curses of those denied their prizes. As it was it took a few whacks of Snikdul’s iron bar to bring a number of them into a listening mode.

A brief discussion ensued. The Orcs snickered when Gromwakh informed them the Captain was now dead and the Elves escaped – freed by those others who had come out of the trees. The hoots and catcalls over the demise of Gâshronk were cut short when they learned the Elves were now hunting them.

‘There was only four of them in the wagon when we left,’ snorted one of the Orcs, leaning on his jagged sword. ‘How many others are there with them?’ Snikdul frowned, counting on his fingers. ‘Three more I think. Can’t be too sure. Me and Grom left in a hurry to find you.’

The eyes of the Orcs narrowed at the small number of Elves, calculating the odds. ‘You know we can’t just head back to the main camp with news that the Captain’s dead and the Elves have taken off,’ said one of the Orcs, voicing that same thought of the others. The rest of the group nodded at this assessment. Old One-eye would kill each and every one of them himself if they brought him that news. ‘I say we just attack the Elves and bring down as many as we can. Cut off their heads . . . we’d at least have something to show on our return.’ The group eyed each other, shifting nervously on their feet.

Gromwakh sighed and shrugged his shoulders; he had no better ideas to offer other than to make a run for it while they could. His companions were grunting for Elf blood now, and snarling, their lips drawn back over their yellowed teeth. He held his cudgel up in the air, calling for silence. ‘Right, then,’ he began. ‘You lot,’ he said, pointing his filet knife at six of the Orcs – circle around to the left. Snik and me and the other four of you will go right.’ The group divided, getting ready to begin the attack.’

‘Hit ‘em hard,’ he called, leading his little group right. ‘Any of us left – we’ll meet back here . . .’

[Firefoot]

Thorvel looked appraisingly at Calenvása. Something had... happened with him over the past few days, and Thorvel was trying to figure out what it was. Thorvel did not like it one bit that Calenvása had let Ambarturion take charge. He did not like Ambarturion particularly; the other Elf had come into their band, assumed charge, and started giving orders as if he had done it all along! Worse yet, Calenvása had let him do it, and that was what truly bothered Thorvel. He trusted Calenvása, but he was beginning to doubt the rightfulness of that trust. Thorvel did not want to be on his own again, but he did what he had to do, and he would not follow a leader he did not trust. That certainly ruled Ambarturion out, and Targil as well. Still, he did not let go of trust lightly or easily, and decided to give Calenvása a few days.

At this point, combat with the Orcs seemed inevitable to him, and though it grated with him somewhat to be doing what Ambarturion had said - or ordered, rather - he took his bow in hand so that he would be ready should the Orcs come upon them at any time soon. Ambarturion would learn soon enough that Thorvel only followed orders if it seemed wise for him to do so, and not always then. That brought to mind the greater scheme of things. The Elves would likely all be travelling together back to Lórien, and even at the greatest possible speeds it would still take a few days. It would be a long few days, if the past hour or two were any indication.

Thorvel became aware of the silence that had stretched over the three Elves - Targil had gone over to the others and was talking to them. Targil looked less wary of Ambarturion than Thorvel felt, but similarly seemed unsure of how to take Coromswyth. Before he could continue with his observations, however, his ears caught the sound of a stick snapping in the surrounding trees. He whirled towards the sound and at the same time fitted an arrow to his bowstring. He had very little doubt of what it was. He saw a flash of black armor gleaming in a patch of sunlight, and loosed his arrow at the point.

“We’re under attack!” he called out, as if it were really necessary; all the Elves had seen his arrow and were instantly ready. Very little mattered to him then; it seemed nothing existed but himself, his bow, and his target. A volley of black feathered arrows came from the trees: both from in front and behind. The Elves with bows returned the shots with their own arrows, and Thorvel was certain he had taken out at least a couple Orcs. He rarely missed. He found himself back-to-back with Calenvása, and the thoughts floated on the periphery of his mind that it was nice to know his back was guarded. The thought floated away, and he concentrated on staying alive and killing Orcs - nothing more.

[Arry]

The Elves were swift in their response, the arrows from their bows flying thickly at the two lines of attack the Orcs had mounted, before and behind their small group. The Orcs had let their own bowmen begin the attack, and under cover of the deadly black arrows, they moved in closer to the Elves.

One of the Elves, in the flurry of first encounter, had been wounded by a black-fletched Orc missile. Gromwakh, Snikdul, and two other of their companions rushed in, clubs and blades held at the ready intending to finish off the hapless Elf. The rut of war was full upon them as they harried him.

And on the edge of their awareness was the sense that the others of their group had put down their bows and raced in also . . .

[Orofaniel]

Once again Herding had thrown himself over his bottle - or should I say bottles-drinking the liquor faster than anyone could guess was even possible. The more he drank, the more distant he became from the world around him. It was only himself, his bottles and his endless swarm of thoughts left now. He tried to concentrate, but it was impossible as the liquor affected everything the man tried to do. His walk was a bit unsteady caused by the dizziness, so he stayed seated most of the time, except for when it was time to find a new bottle. He couldn't remember when he'd felt like this before; so utterly confused over his own confusion.

The man grew in rapidly tired of just sitting there with his own thoughts, opening another bottle now and then; he started to wander about in his tent. It wasn’t such a bad idea at the time, since he could still keep himself on his feet. He hummed a tune he had known long ago, although he couldn't remember where he'd heard it before or if he'd ever hear it again. He wondered where everyone had gone off too, as he longed form someone to accompany him and his lonesome thoughts. Who would want to spend some time whit some drunk Captain, he wondered, and laughed while he pictured the image of himself there he walked around with a glass and a bottle in his hands. Well, he wasn't completely drunk, was he? No, he could still walk without problems, although he felt his legs were somewhat weaker and perhaps not so trustworthy as they usually were, as Herding was a man of stern and steady steps. His mind was not weakened either, he assured himself, as his thoughts were still reasonable and clever.

Koran...

Once again, as every so often, his thoughts turned to the other Southron Captain. Why did Koran always appear in his thoughts, haunting him in his dreams like a disturbed ghost? He wondered. Of course, the annoyance by his present was slightly frustration, he continued, while he sighed. As he seated once again in his chair, he bumped into the table. Another glass, filled with wine, was caught by his clumsy hands as it almost hit the ground. He cursed; there was wine all over him. He found a cloth, trying to wipe it away, but to no use. The Captain’s rage was within reach. He wanted to bring an end to this. He wanted to get Koran out of the way. Then a thought hit him; what if Koran was planning on assassination of him? Koran would most definitely be thinking the same way was himself, wouldn’t? Of course, Captain Cenbryt wasn’t stupid.

The question was; how could Herding get further information about Koran's plans? By talking to Koran of course.

"Get Koran for me!" Herding yelled out from the tent. “Tell the Captain that Captain Herding wishes to speak with him over a nice glass of wine…” Hopefully the Cenbryt would receive Herding’s most gracious ”invitation", although nothing was for certain.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Captain, do you know where it is we go next, and what it is we are going to do?"

Koran looked back vaguely at Ehan for a moment, his eyes seeming to look straight through the younger man before he blinked, the cloud of dark thoughts clearing from his eyes.

"Captain?" Ehan tried again, his voice more tentative this time. Koran held his eyes for a second, his gaze quite serious, then he gave a great, melodramatic sigh and looked away. "Ah, well, we have got that business to attend to..." he replied heavily, as if some loathsome task lay ahead of them. Ehan looked alarmed. "'Business', Captain Koran?"

Koran grinned, his white teeth flashing brightly in the dying light and for a moment Ehan caught a glimpse of the carefree, charismatic Koran that sometimes rightfully asserted itself from within the solemn Captain's exterior as he clapped a hand on companion's shoulder. "The most serious business, dear boy, of finding the best dice and drink this camp can muster!"

~*~*~

"Cheat, it must be!"

Koran glanced up at the Southron who had spoken, his voice loud above the gasps, and gave a small grin at the red-faced man whose eyes were fixed on the double flames that showed on the two dice which Koran had just rolled - again. Picking up one of the coins he had just one, he flipped it in the air and caught it expertly, as he looked around his audience and gave a mock bow. "Well, I try..." he said softly in mock humility. The others around him roared with laughter in appreciation, and various comments were shot from all around the ring of firelight amid the trees where a score or so Southron's sat.

"Luckiest bloody man here, ain't that right, Koran?" said one man, rolling his eyes at Koran's good fortune at dice as the captain collected the little pile of bronze coins he had just won.

"'Tis fate, that's what it is," another ventured, clumsily stabbing a finger drunkenly at the tatoo on Koran's forearm, visible because of his rolled up sleeves - the Cenbryt flame, a black tatoo that seemed to flicker of it's own accord in the dancing firelight. "Guided by the flame of his forefathers..."

"Ha! Poetry doesn't suit you, Parrel, you're much better as your own dull, sober self!" It was the man who had just lost who laughed at the comment, spitting on the ground contemptuously before he took another huge quaff from the chipped and travelworn cup of ale in his hands, wiping his mouth clumsily with the back of one beefy hand. But his voice was slightly less joyful than the others, and in the depths of his drunken, piggy eyes circled a resentment against the man who had just won over him. He gestured with a violent motion towards Koran's long dagger where it lay beside him, then lunged towards it viciously, grabbing the weapon. Holding it with exaggerated delicacy by it's silver blade, he held it up to the firelight so all could see it, yet even the light of the flames didn't seem to full pierce the smoky red depths of the pommel. The man's eyes flashed wickedly as he laughed racously and looked across at Koran. "What say we up the stakes, Cenbryt? And hey, not just a pretty little dagger...what about that necklace you wear?" he added, in reference to the wooden necklace which the young captain wore, inscribed with the same flame motif - the symbol of his leadership of the tribe.

Koran hadn't moved from where he sat, casually leaning against a tree, his elbow resting loosely on one raised knee, the other hand holding his drink. But unlike most of the other Southrons in the circle, Koran had drunk little of the ale, and his eyes and mind were clear. The firelight danced dangerously on his calm features, alighting now on the scar that ripped across one cheekbone, now on his sharp, dark eyes unblinkingly fixed on the other man, now on his lips, slightly turned up at one corner as if in amusement. He raised one eyebrow and beckoned with his head. "Give me the dagger, Tanner," he said softly.

Though voiced as a request, some element of the silky smoothness of Koran's voice made one think not of civility, but of the hidden blade that could lie beneath such a tone. Something subtly changed in the atmosphere, as those gathered privately brought to mind all they had heard about Koran's reputation.

However, it seemed the drunken Tanner was completely oblivious to this - or at least, he was quite determined not to back down now he had made the challenge. He laughed again bawdily, but this time fewer of the other men joined him. "Hah! Haha! Ah, Koran, come on, go out on a limb for once - sure, you're young, risks are what being young is all about!"

"I'll quite happy beneath the tree rather than out on one of it's limbs, thanks," Koran replied, the corner of his lip rising a little more in a smile. He tipped his head to one side. "Come, Tanner, give me the dagger..."

"Come get it!" Tanner was on his feet now, holding it out in front of him. The man was either very drunk, or had an exceptionally strong death wish. He held it out, waving it slightly, like a child taughting a pet cat with a ball on a string. He grasped it more tightly in his huge fist and his tone lowered as he growled, "Come on, boy, let's see what you've go-"

The huge man got no further than that as Koran rolled to one side, ducking around effortlessly to come up behind the man where his strong arm encirled the thick neck tightly. Seizing the man's right hand, the one that held the dagger, he twisted it sharply behind his back until a sudden, grotesque click was heard, causing several around the fire to wince. Koran smiled chillingly, his black eyes seeming like terrible, empty voids, devoid of soul, demonic.

"Sorry, what was that you were saying?" he questioned quietly, his lips just beside the great man's ear. The drunk gurgled something from behind Koran's death grip and from his numb fingers the dagger dropped to the forest floor. Various expressions showed on the faces of the Southrons, from admiration and appraisal, to fear or resentment, but one thing was held in common as the dagger fell.

Not one man among the group moved to pick it up.

"Captain Cenbryt?"

The voice made all in the circle turn in surprise to the owner of the gutterally obnoxious, yet unnaturally nervous, voice: a small orc, standing half seen at the edge of the firelight as if the firelight burnt it with it's goodness. From within their circle of protection, the Southron's seemed to gather as one being, and their eyes and moods darkened against the monstrous intruder who dared to disturb them. The power of the mob seemed to quell the orc slightly, but it stood it's ground, looking straight above Koran and avoiding all eyes and any excuse for trouble.

Koran lifted his chin from behind Tanner, relaxing his grip. "Aye, that's me."

The orc didn't move from his rigid position, paused like a cat caught in suddenly lamplight, ready to flee at the sign of trouble or unwelcome movement. "Captain Herding wishes to see you in his tent, quickly, for a drink of wine," it stammered out in a rush, before vanishinhg as quickly as it had come.

Koran paused for a second, then let go of Tanner, who instantly turned and caught him a clip on the side of the head. "Bah, cheeky youngling!" He roared, but it was accompanied by a drunken laugh as he staggered back to his seat. Koran put a hand to the side of his ringing head and grinned back, then knelt quickly to retrieve his dagger, putting it back in it's customary place at the back of his belt, hidden by his open jerkin. He thrust an arm out after the orc. "I wonder to what means I owe this[/i] pleasure?"[/i] he said loudly to the circle, his voice mocking, inciting laughter and rowdy comments. The violent and unpredictable captain Herding was not popular among most of the Southrons, and it was well rumoured that he seemed to despise his own people. As the games of chance resumed and Koran turned to leave, he felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Ehan.

"Shall I come with you?" the younger man asked, his voice low so that the others would not hear. Koran shook his head, putting his hand on the other's arm.

"Nay - I shall be but a few minutes. I doubt the good captain will want to talk about much at this hour," he reassured his squire. Turning to the others, he doffed an imaginary cap and took a deep bow. "Gentlemen, I bid you goodnight!" he called in a singsong voice, before leaving the circle and becoming enveloped in the darkness.

"Hey Koran, you should be honoured - for once, he's sharing a drink rather than taking the whole lot!" The comment and the laughter that ensued followed a grinning Koran into the darkness. Taking a breath of the fresh night air, he made his way to Herding's tent, a rough, dimly lit shape beyond the edge of the trees. Casting a furtive glance around him - who knew what the Captain's real motives were? - he walked briskly across and opened the tent flap with little ceremony...to see a sorry sight in front of him: the captain, slumped across a chair, surrounded by split wine and bottles on the sawdust of the floor. The table was in the same state: altogether there had to be about five or six empty bottles and a few more full ones.

Koran smiled infuriatingly. "To what do I owe this...pleasure, Captain?" he asked, his voice mocking the captain, a night of drinking and dice making him bold. Herding's head came up from where he slumped and his eyes burned with drunken anger as his lip sneered with sudden and unexpected disdain.

"You tell me, boy," he hissed into the still, heavy air.

Koran's eyes narrowed, and he mentally felt for his dagger, making sure it was exactly where he needed it. Bracing himself, he forced himself to be more careful - he had to be civil to the captain, rashness wouldn't do. Not until this mission was over. "Pardon, Captain Herding?" he asked courteously, painfully aware of the atmosphere as it grew and lurked like some all-consuming monster at the sides of the tent...

[Orofaniel]

"Pardon, Captain Herding?"

"Don't be cheeky with me!" Herding said, raising his voice. He then calmed himself down, while he offered Koran a seat. Koran, surprisingly enough, accepted the chair that was set out for him and found himself seating just across Herding with a table in between. A glass was then offered, something Koran not too unwillingly accepted, just as he had done with the seat. It was a strange atmosphere.

"Some wine?" Herding said, causally, looking at Koran's empty glass. Koran nodded. After pouring some wine into Koran's glass, Herding himself, needed a refill. "What is this all about, if I may ask....?" Koran then asked him seeming confused, and curious. He obviously wanted to get some kind of understanding why Herding was in this mood. "Why had Herding invited him for a nice little "chat" anyway?" He must have wondered about that, Herding concluded. His face expression became stern and he didn't try to conceal any of his feelings towards Koran's question; ”You ask this question, as you didn't know, Captain Cenbryt...." he started curling his lips. Koran looked even more confused, but Herding figured it was just one of those masks this Captain wore when he didn't want to show his real intensions or feelings. "But you do know..." he continued. His voice had all of a sudden become quite harsh. Koran seemed offended by this, or at least in Herding's eyes.

"Excuse me, but I do not understand what you mean. Nor do I think you have any intension of telling me what you mean...so why am I here? To what do I owe you this.. pleasure....?" Herding noticed Koran's sudden change of tone when he used the word "pleasure" and he looked at him with great disgust. Besides, he was tried of that question; He had heard it too many times from this young man, and Herding could hardly control himself. "Get a grip", he told himself. "This will not me the time to kill him. Only scare him a little…Make him understand that..” His thoughts were interrupted by Koran; “Captain?” One moment there, Koran almost fooled Herding into thinking that Koran was completely innocent, but Herding managed to see though him. You don’t fool me, you filthy… He thought before he snapped; "You owe me nothing..." He smiled evilly, yet there was still something else about that smile that would everyone uncomfortable. He took another sip of his wine. He could feel that the huge amount of wine wasn't far of going straight to his head. The dizziness, he couldn't stand. Still, he managed to hold a straight face, keeping his tongue straight in his mouth.

Koran was surprised by the hostility and got up from his chair. "You summon me to your tent, asks me to drink you wine, yet you do not tell m why I'm here!" He almost yelled at Herding. Herding too, got up from his chair. "You know what I'm talking about! You are plotting against me you fool!" Herding said as he punched his fist into Koran's cheek. It was a hard punch, but not hard enough for Koran to fall. A red flame was seen across Koran’s eyes as he cursed. "You didn't think you'd get away with it, did you?" Herding then asked him, looking at him. "You...despicable..." He had completely lost his temper, not to mention that he had had too many glasses of wine.

Not many seconds passed before Koran replied with his own fist....

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran reeled, stumbling slightly, but the punch was too clumsy to make him fall. His right hand rising to his face, he gingerly touched the area where Herding had punched him and fierce anger flashed through his dark eyes. His fists clenched, but he kept his right in full view so the captain wouldn't think anything of the fact that the left had vanished behind his back. Herding didn't care a thing for Koran: the young Southron doubted he would remember such a little thing as the fact that he could fight just as well left handed as right.

"Herding, what in the name of your ancestors do you think you're talking about?" he hissed dangerously.

"Don't you use the name of my ancestors!" Herding bellowed. Lurching to the side, he grabbed a half empty wine bottle and hurled it at Koran. The younger man ducked, hands over his head as the glass shattered on the tent's central supporting pole behind him, showering him with drops of blood red. Despite the captain's drunkenness, the bottle had been well aimed: if not for Koran's reflexes, he did not doubt it could have caught him full in the face. But Herding was still ranting. "Their names become soiled from your lips!" he bellowed again, continuing from his last statement. His eyes narrowed and he stabbed a fierce finger at Koran, at the dagger in his left hand where he had grabbed it from the back of his belt. "Look, even now, even now - dagger in hand he enters my tent, sneaking and creeping, all the time ready to worm his way in and murder me!" Herding's voice rose from a whisper to a yell.

"You think I come to murder you?" Koran responded, his temper finally getting the better of him and flaring up. "If I had wanted to kill you, Herding..."

Herding's lip curled contemptuously as his eyes narrowed and he spat on the ground between them. "I would like to see you try, boy," he replied.

Koran covered the ground between them in less than a second, and this punch knocked Herding to the ground. Reaching down, he grabbed the man by his shirt front, pulling his face close. "You know I could do it, and do it without blinking," he hissed menacingly. A sudden white hot pain lanced across the top of his right arm and he winced, letting go of Herding as he grabbed his arm, staring at the long patch of red spreading on his rolled-up shirt sleeve. Herding laughed, pulling himself to his feet a few feet from Koran. "I have experience, boy, where what do you have? A young life of cotton wool and childish fights..."

Koran pointed at his cheek, where the long white scar shot across his cheekbone. "What, and nearly losing an eye to a man with twice my experience? That is childish fighting and cotton wool, Captain Herding?" He sneered. "You don't deserve such a title."

The older man sneered and rushed at Koran, pulling a long, serated knife from a hunk of bread on the table. But Koran was faster: dropping to the floor, he whipped out one leg in a wide arc, whipping under Herding's feet and dropping him. The older man grunted but rolled with surprising agility and stabbed towards Koran's foot, only narrowly missing as Koran dived backwards. Both retreated for a second, Herding sobering up quickly, Koran's fierce eyes hooded, waiting for his prey to attack again. He didn't wait long - Herding leapt at him, knife held high, and by sheer force he knocked Koran straight backwards. Winded, Koran barely got his arm up in time, knocking Herding's knife away as it came within a few centimetres of his eyes but slashing his arm at the same time. The bread knife flew away, embedding itself in the floor a few feet from Koran, his blood staining the sawdust around it. Taking advantage of the stunned Herding, Koran punched him solidly with his right fist, then again. His dagger came up and he rolled suddenly, legs pinning the older man's arms to his side as he knelt over Herding, the knife held at his throat.

"Give me a reason, Herding, and I will slit your throat-"

"Slit my throat?" Herding interrupted, his adam's apple bobbing over the knife as a few pinpricks of blood were drawn from it. "Well, that would make a fine end to this whole thing, wouldn't it? All would know, Koran, how you plotted against me, how you got me drunk and murdered me-"

"But my men know it didn't happen like that - I have been with them all night-"

"If my followers and I have found out over a long career of subordination, it is that anyone can be bought, boy!" came the snap, like a suddenly rising crocodile. "Bloody naivity, you foolish little whelp - anyone can be bought, and anyone taken out of the picture for a while!"

"And that is what you planned to do with me, is it? Hmm, Captain? 'Take me out of the picture'?" Koran's voice was soft but harsh. He held down his captive with almost no effort, his knees kneading Herding's elbows painfully as he sat back, knife still pressing on the older man's throat. Somehow his quietness was worse than when he shouted, and Herding didn't reply this time, although his sneering, dead eyes looked up at Koran with all the emotion of a fish. Koran leant forward suddenly, hissing fiercely, "You wanted the glory of my victory. You would have taken me out."

"Your victory?" Herding laughed, as much as he could past the dagger. "What victory, boy? The whole operation would be mind! Why would the eye taken any notice of a mere pup, a nothingness-"

"I am not nothing, Herding!" Koran bellowed.

"Koran!"

The young captain didn't look up as he recognised Ehan's voice, and heard the sound of other feet at the opening of the tent, breathing heavily, his eyes locked on Herding's, his knife steady against the man's throat. In the stunned silence that followed, his finally looked across at his companion - and one of Herding's men took advantage. Having crossed quietly behind Koran, he now pounced, grabbing Koran's arms and spinning him around, punching him sounded across the face. Koran reeled from the shock and his approaching tiredness, but replied quickly, ducking around behind the man as he made for another shot, and using both hands to thump him powerfully at the base of the neck with the hard, heavy pommel of his dagger. The man fell silently, but another came forward and Koran threw himself into the fight blindly, until he felt his arms grabbed and locked behind him. Struggling, he stopped as soon as he recognised the voice that spoke urgently behind him. "Captain, Captain, it's me, it's Ehan!"

Koran stopped struggling and relaxed, but Ehan kept hold of his arms. Having got up from the floor, Herding limped towards him, acting as if his injuries were actually far worse than had been inflicted. Koran watched him steadily, his gaze fiery, until Herding laughed in his face. "Nice try, boy," he taunted mockingly. Koran retaliated by spitting in his face.

Herding cried out and thumped him across the face as Ehan belatedly let go of his arms. He reeled, but was ready for it, and his head whipped back with lightning speed. "Those who plot against their own men are the contempt of whatever gods wander this earth, and they will deal with whatever is left after I am done with Lorien - after I am done with you, good captain Herding," Koran whispered. Then, bending down to take his dagger from where it had dropped, he turned and ran from the tent.

[Kransha]

Thrákmazh took his time wondering the length of the orcish camp. Each night, when the army made new camp in the time of the sun’s setting, roads were soon worn into weary earth by stampeding feet. Well-traveled paths had been forged by passing soldiers, paths that Thrákmazh now trod upon, watching as his sentinels and trusted lieutenants aroused there men, forcefully yanking them from their nightly slumber and wrenching them into harsh, humid reality. The air was crisp as the familiar blue of daylight skies began to overwhelm the dawn’s red which bled over the blackness that had been before. A flurry of color filled the sky, red tinged clouds billowing around the golden orb of the sun as it arched its way up into still darkened heavens. Thrákmazh’s one eye peered up, glaring straight through the thick plumes of gray cloud at the luminous sphere. His eye protested, trying to close, but the orc’s dark resilience held the lid back, torturing the eye into staring directly at the bright light that extinguished the sky’s more desirable cloak of shadows. It was barely morning, as heralded by the rising of the sun, but Thrakmazh wanted the day to begin, and, with nature’s passing irrelevant to his power, he sought to begin the march anew. He knew that the Southrons were not yet awakened, and cursed them for their lethargy.

They would betray him, all of them, unless he did it first! He knew this know and was surer than ever of what he had to do. He had to take control. Elven eyes were everywhere in his clouded, and Southrons breathing down his neck. The images of them, swarthy, dark, traitorous, riddled his infected, infested skull, deep down where they could not be purged. ‘You must slay them, slay them all!’ he told himself, his own voice darkly augmented, booming like some strange metallic thunder, grating on his being, ‘This is your chance, your day. The time of the orcs has come. Only the urûks of Gorthaur the Cruel, the mighty Eye, shall survive. A great flame has settled; a great a terrible fire that will scorch the land, darken the sky, shake the pillars of Middle-Earth and bring its lands crashing down, split asunder. Then, when the dust and smoke clear all that will remain are the orcs, mastered of their own designs, masters of all. You, Thrákmazh the Mighty, will be a lord among orcs.’ But, the only way to get these dreams, to fulfill them, was to destroy all the enemies of Sauron, and that included the disloyal men in his service. He knew this too, for, in his state of madness and paranoia, all the orcish naiveté in him had disappeared, evaporated from him fully, leaving his senses honed and sharpened like the tip of a jagged blade, or one of the blood-tipped bolts in his quiver. He needed to eliminate those who would eliminate him, or diminish the value of his deeds.

‘Herding, Herding is susceptible!’ he almost said aloud, still walking slowly, feigning supervision of the waking orcs, ‘Herding will turn. Koran is a righteous fool, a stupid boy. But, he is strong. They hate now, but soon they will hate with a passion so great it will tear them apart…just as this accursed sword devours me, they will be devoured by their suspicion, their anger. Use it, Thrákmazh, use what you were given by the Eye. You have power, Thrákmazh, and that is all you need to destroy those wretched fools. Make them feel the fear you feel, make them fear each other. Naught can go ill if all illness is suffered by others. Make them sick with the parasite of distrust. Let loose the hounds within them and watch them slay each other. Take command, Thrakmazh the Mighty, take what is yours!’

His reverie was shattered by Urkrásh, who, sidling up to him, slunk along beside, avoiding the blade that dangled at his side. As the whole camp knew by now, Thrákmazh had, for no apparent reason, slain one of his troops last night. Many feared he’d gone mad, others said he was producing the proper atmosphere for the fight ahead, and others claimed that he did it purely for fun, Whatever the reason, Thrákmazh’s troops now feared him more than ever before, and mutinous, dark feelings had been welled up in them, bottled up beneath their captain’s unending oppression. Thrákmazh was almost flamboyant in his distaste for them, and cared nothing of their newfound disliking of him. He was their captain, after all, and held all of their useless lives in the grimy palm of his hand. Urkrásh looked to him suspiciously, but remained ever his servant, with familiar unflinching loyalty. “There is something amiss at the Southron’s side of camp, Thrákmazh.” He murmured quietly, after a long, uncomfortable pause.

Suddenly, his eyes blazing embers behind their grate, Thrákmazh whipped around, swiveling on his armored feet, each having taken root like the dual trunks of mighty trees in the earth, and his hand dove up. His groping talons latched onto the hapless orc’s throat, dragging Urkrásh ignobly to the ground and constricting with the hold of a serpent bent on the extermination of its prey. Thrákmazh, his breathing distorted and erratic, pulled the trembling orc serf up towards him, his single eye and hooked nose and inch away from the other’s. “That’s Captain, worm,” he growled gutturally, “Captain Thrákmazh. I am your lord, not your equal, just like everyone else here.” He found his free hand snaking uncontrollably towards the blade at his side again, it’s moon-white gleam, ivory and pure, bathed in sunlight from the new day’s dawning. His eye was widened, trying to pry itself free of his misshapen skull. The veins that could be seen through his rough, leathery flesh bulged outward, making the orc captain look as if he were about to erupt. Finally, his hand quivering in bizarre anticipation, he settled, he tensed muscles relaxing and open hand tugging itself away from the Elven blade. With a breathy snarl, he dropped Urkrásh to the ground. The orc rubbed his sore throat tenderly, looking up at Thrákmazh with a truly fearful look on his face, one of unadulterated terror.

“Are you just going to sit there?!” he bellowed, almost maniacally, causing Urkrásh to sink even lower to the ground. He felt a familiar feeling welling up in him, pulsing in his veins and flowing, mingling with his blood. The same unbridled fury he felt in his sleepless nights, whenever he held the sword of the nameless Elf. Thrákmazh was literally vibrating because of the maddening fury he felt. His hands would not stop trembling, his legs would not stop wobbling, and his vision was obscured by the constant motion of his eye, darting from side to side in its socket. He tried to relax, but he could not. Growling in pain and anguish, he staggered backward through the muddy road. He saw shadows everywhere, dancing across his plane of sight. He saw only shadow, heard only shrill screaming all around him, smelled only the putrid stench of death and decay, and his throat and mouth could form no words. For a moment, he was lost, fading in and out of being in front of Urkrásh, who could not even begin to fathom the madness, the growing insanity of his master. The orc captain seethed and raged, his coughing gasps turning to roars and thunderous cacophony until…

He fell to his knees, level with Urkrásh; his one-eyed closed…He felt oddly better. His eye managed to open, coming into focus, and all things returned to their normal state. His swimming gaze sharpened and became again precise, the screaming and crashing in his ears turned to the vaguely recognizable thumping of orc feet on soft dirt, the smell wafting in his flared nostrils turned from sickly, nauseating stench to that of normality. Thrákmazh almost wretched, pulling in all the air he could after his episode, filling his lungs with it completely. At last, he exhaled, sighing deeply, and staggered onto one knee. He seemed more a feeble octogenarian that the mighty captain of urûks as he pushed himself wearily to his feet.

“Captain…you’re bleeding.” Ventured Urkrásh as quietly as he could, moving towards Thrákmazh to help him up. Thrákmazh felt the warm black liquid seeping from the creased corner of his mouth, forming a river between his fangs. He couldn’t guess where it came from, but he wiped it off all the same with a crude gesture and pushed Urkrásh away. “What…what is amiss?” he managed to say, his commanding voice an angry, disillusioned stammer instead of itself.

“Th-they say there was a fight, Captain Thrákmazh. Herding and Cenbryt were involved.”

The scowl on Thrákmazh’s face turned to a wicked grin. His plan was working. “Good work, Urkrásh.” He said, sounding pleased again, his fit fully ended, “Tell the lieutenants to ready all troops as fast as possible. We have much work to do.” With that, grinning sinisterly from ear to pointed ear, Thrákmazh clapped his servant heartily on the back, a most disconcerting gesture, and began trudging down the manmade path again, mumbling inaudibly to himself. He began heading doggedly past the ranks of awakening orcs, bathed in subtle morning light, and towards the Southron campsite, where his target lay.

He wondered silently who he should go to first. He had assured them both of betrayal, and the seeds of dissent, sewn a day ago, had sprouted in the night’s rain, blossoming into flowers that only held beauty to Thrákmazh One-Eye. He would head to his ‘esteemed colleagues’ and console them. An “I told you so” or two might not be out of place, considering the circumstances. He decided that it would be best to approach the vulnerable, corruptible captain, Herding. Certainly he would turn with relative ease. Also, as if to drive the point home, Thrákmazh was nearest to Herding’s tent, and could see slight commotion outside of it. Smiling to himself, he hurried towards it, ignoring the sharp glances of passing Southrons, and pushed through the small crowd that had gathered, dodging past several men coming from the Southron captain’s tent. Hurriedly, he darted inside, brushing aside the tent flap. He found Herding wandering the length of his tent within, with a few soldiers or guards still working within, perhaps talking with him, and seeking his counsel relating to the conflict. When their eyes fell on Thrákmazh, though, they scurried out.

“Captain Herding,” Thrákmazh said when he finally caught Herding’s eye, an almost mocking air of concern in his raspy voice as his brow softened to look pitying, “I have heard most ill news. Are you alright?” Even though the concern was fully pretend, it still seemed just as inappropriate on the face of an orc as true pity might look. His contorted face showed no semblance of pity, at least not within. Herding looked at him with no more than a glare of contempt, which was followed by a snappy comment which Thrákmazh had expected. “I don’t need your sympathy, orc.” Herding spat, somewhat violently.

Thrákmazh looked amused as he stalked towards Herding. He felt exactly as he had the previous day when he’d entered Herding’s tent. The orc crossed his arms, bemused, and ambled, tracing his steps precisely as he paced the length of the captain’s residence. “Word has reached my ears that you and Cenbryt had a…” he pondered hesitantly over the proper word, or a synonym thereof, “a falling-out. Is this true?” The concern in his voice more sounded like feline curiosity now as the orc glanced, one tuft of eyebrow strangely raised.

“What of it?” Herding snapped back. He was as quick as ever, and his senses seemed sharpened. He was angrier than he’d been yesterday, though in a more reserved fashion. He managed to look and sound very composed. He kept his face turned from Thrákmazh, stooping over an unidentified piece of furniture in one corner. He seemed to be brooding, and Thrákmazh knew why. Hammering down on the deceitful nail endlessly, Thrákmazh continued on, fulfilling the script as it was written. “You know well enough…I was right.” At this, Herding spun, not angrily, but with a concealed emotion fueling him. Thrákmazh now saw that Herding’s face was bruised and discolored, the lingering stain of dried blood on his lips. The fight had been more than a little scuffle and the orc found himself disappointed that he’d missed it.

“Were you, now?” Herding said, still gentle-voiced, but obviously seething, “You spoke to me of youth and foolishness. Cenbryt may be young and foolish, but he is a shrewd devil as well. You spoke in riddles, and that has gotten me nothing but a black eye and a broken bottle of good wine.” He jabbed a finger at the numerous crystalline shards of bright scarlet that speckled the ground around one of the tent’s support beams and then jerked the same finger at his bruised face, then turned away. Grinning undetectably – again – Thrákmazh advanced, hungry for satisfaction.

“He tried to kill you, but failed,” Thrákmazh murmured, “and so he pretended that his intentions were noble.”

“You truly think so, do you? Cenbryt is a fool, just as you said, but that is useless to me.”

Herding found Thrákmazh’s hand suddenly present on his shoulder, resting there nonchalantly, “To us, Herding, to us,” Thrákmazh whispered, in a most disquieting fashion. He paused, as if he had something truly revolutionary or controversial he was about to confess. His words sounded forced, unlike they usually did, and his eerie smile was most certainly not. “…I have a…proposition for you.” Herding looked to him, incredulous.

“Another conspiracy theory? Save your breath.”

“Koran wants you dead.” Thrákmazh stated bluntly.

“I had figured out that much.” The Southron nodded.

“He will attempt again on the eve of battle to slay you.”

“Once again the orc speaks the obvious.” Herding growled, his tone dark and sardonic, he spun, bearing down on the orc, who was shorter than him only because of his squatting, drooping posture. “Get to the point.”

Thrákmazh nodded back knowingly, taking a wary step back, and continued. “But…” he hesitated again, drawing out the silence in the air, “what if we attack him first?” Herding’s gaze turned to a very mild curiosity, possibly even interest, and Thrákmazh could tell he was at least hooked by the orc’s delectable bait “…On battle’s eve,” he continued, droning, “when we are camped near Lorien, we must strike, you and I, together. There will be some manner of signal we share, one of your choosing. The orcs under my command will gladly attack the Southrons of Cenbryt’s, and your will surely follow you to the same end. All at once, we cut off the power of our foe. He will be surrounded and only a few of his men will remain loyal. If we offer them the spoils of war…and the option to live, many will surely come to our side. Then, we take Cenbryt and the remaining ‘rebels’ captive (most unfortunately, we could not kill them all right away, for the Eye would look upon that as unnecessary action). Then, after we have proved they were traitorous to the troops, they will corroborate the necessity to slay them…Then; you can have your way with Koran Cenbryt.”

He stopped, letting silence return again and Herding absorb all he’d said. The Southron was looking down at the ground, his eyes averted from the foul, single-eyed [i]uruk[i]. Still grinning, though more noticeably now, Thrákmazh took back the ground he’d lost, taking a step towards Herding. Slowly, cautiously, he extended his hand, palm open, towards the captain of Southrons, index finger twitching strangely (though, as far as he could tell, Herding didn’t notice). The man looked up at Thrákmazh, taking note of his outstretched hand. Thrákmazh knew that the moment of truth had come. What level would the wretch stoop to? He could only hope his ploy would be a believable one. All he could do was quietly wait for Herding’s response.

“What say you?”