It was the scout, Elur, who spotted the movement from the hills, a large mass of Orcs heading at a brisk pace from the north. It was his sharp eyes that could see the black billowing smoke against the dark sky, blotting out some of the starlight in the west. He gathered his gear from his camp, careful to smother the small flame and kicked apart the charred bits of wood. Moving with speed and stealth, he made his way through the scattered trees, his feet finding the familiar paths in the wild.
The steep hills were golden in the morning light, the tall trees throwing long shadows as the cloaked and hooded men slipped with unseen through the rugged cliffs. This was where the road in a region known as Rhunenlad narrowed, forced between the slopes that the enemy would have to pass through, Torchanar squatted down, speaking in a low voice to his archers, sending them creeping among the jumbled stones and crags of the cliff walls. Nearly twenty archers swept into position on either side of the road, their brown and grey cloaks blending in with the stone and leaf litter. Long, heavy bows made of yew were strung, full quivers rattling softly as the tall grim faced men found vantage points to over look the stretch of road the orcs were predicted to use.
Torchanar watched, his keen grey eyes trained to spot the subtle movements and soon even he was hard pressed to see where the archers hid. With him were around forty men with spears and swords, moving into position on either side of the road, concealed by shadows. Their chainmail was muffled by cloth and leather, dull hoods and cloaks covered their seven pointed badges. Bright steel blades sheathed in sweat stained leather and wooden scabbards that hung on their hips, the swords and knives eager for black blood to stain them. Their boots stepped lightly on the fallen needles of the towering conifer trees. These rangers who had fought the enemy that was scattered all over Eriador he could trust down to the last man.
He made his way closer to the road, crouching behind a boulder. From here, in the rising sun he could see the moving dark mass and hear the faint jingling of their iron armor. Torchanar wrinkled his nose, he could smell them from where he was as well. The stench of rotting leather and caked sweat, of old dried blood and spoiled meat wafted ahead of the marching band. He narrowed his pale eyes, watching and he counted the ones he could see and took a deep breath. As always, the Enemy had the numerical advantage.
The ranger slipped back into the shadow of the wood, whispering to a few of the men to ready themselves and he took his position and cupped his hand to his mouth, pursing his lips to whistle. The sound warbled through the stillness, the song of a morning lark, common enough in the downs at this time of day. The bird call repeated once more and in the cliffs, the archers nocked their arrows.
Elur aimed his bow, pulling the heavy string back, his arm trembling with the strain to hold it until he hear the third call, a short, sharp cry of a woodpecker. It was then he loosed his arrow. He watched it fly true, burying itself into the neck of one of the lead orcs, black blood staining the dusty road. The air came alive as arrows whistled down into the pack of orcs, some finding flesh and others bouncing off of jagged iron armor. Elur was reaching for another of the grey fletched arrows when the roar of the ambush orcs could be heard. Rage and confusion, hatred and even fear in the sound that echoed off the cliff walls, enough to make lesser man’s blood turn to water. The scout aimed once more, forcing himself to stay still and steady as his heart thumped in his chest.
Torchanar waited just as the first volley landed among the orcs, causing them to break their already haphazard formations. He then stood tall and shouted to his men, his rich voice ringing clear in the morning air above the din of the orcs. “Elendil!”
The ancient war cry roused the men who broke from the shadows, hurling spears into the hundreds of orcs and then drew their swords, the steel ringing. Torchanar swung at an orc, the keen blade slicing through the heavy bicep, causing it to drop the iron mace. In a second blow, the Dunedain cleaved the orc’s head from his shoulders, the heavy helm clunking against a stone on the ground. He turned quickly, his cloak flowing around his shoulders and blocked a blow from another orc as one of his rangers hacked into the exposed armpit of the armored creature.
It went on for what seemed hours but truly the time the battle took was not long. The orcs lost heavily and the Dunedain sent them running to the hills. The archers knocked more of them to the ground as they said farewell with a few more volleys of arrows at their retreating backs. Once the dust settled, Torchanar looked around, most of his men still standing tall but more than a few nursing wounds, some grave. One of his men lay in heap of orcs. It was off a fair distance and he called for help, pulling the body from the stinking pile of dark flesh. It was Laeben, a young man who had not long been a ranger and one still green compared to the rest. His death did not come without a fight, he had killed four orcs before succumbing to multiple axe wounds. He had gotten separated and cornered but at least the lad died bravely and with honor. Using their cloaks, he and another ranger made a litter to carry his body back to the strong hold of Esteldin for burial.
Torchanar lead the band of rangers back to safety, glancing every so often to the smoke now visible against the blue sky in the west, the direction of only one place he could imagine. Stoneheight. This worried the man and he rushed off before one of the healers had a chance to look at the gashes on his arm and face. Another man approached, "Torchanar, the captain wishes to speak with you. All went well?"
"Good enough, we killed a hundred of theirs but we lost a man," he replied, the lines of his face deepening.
"It is good news besides," replied the messenger, "We've heard worse since the sun has risen."
"How much worse?" Torchanar asked, tilting his head, almost afraid to know the answer. It was clear these orcs were not rabble, after the surprise of the ambush, they had fought hard and had managed a strategic retreat.
The man grimaced and finally replied, "News from Stoneheight, it is not good. You really outta get that looked at."
He gestured with his chin at the open gash on Torchanar's cheek bone where he had his face slammed against an iron helm. The bruise was swelling around it and soon his eye would as well.
"I will once I speak with the captain," he said absently, already on the move towards the captain's tent in the center of the ruins that was Esteldin.
