It was predawn when the scouting party left Esteldin, four rangers slipping through the dark paths down into the woods north of the stronghold. Rain pattered down on their woolen hoods as they ducked into the underbrush near the clearing. The older ranger Daeriim was next to him, tall silent Dinengel disappearing into the gloom. Ivorneth crouched just to his left, and he glanced at her, unsure he should have brought the healer though she was capable with a bow. She had treated the cut on his cheek that stubborn refused to heal, red and inflamed since the orc sword had caught him a week ago. It was painful but nothing he could not ignore while the dark of night paled as the sun began to rise.
In the dim light, there could be seen a darker mass moving along the rolling hills of the center of conifer forested Nan Almug region. Daeriim whispered, “There, below. A massive band of orcs.”
Ivorneth squinted at the dark mass moving in the drizzle, even above the din of pattering water and leaves the sound of their armor and boots can be heard. She glanced at the men, Torchanar's body tensing. He gestured to Dinengel and Daerimm, four against fifty.
Daeriim squinted his focus on the horde, muttering, "Those odds are not in our favor."
Torchanar licked his lips, nodding but his pale grey eyes are bright. He breathed out, "Never is..."
Dinengel looked out upon the mass of foes, attempting to find any exploitable weaknesses. He shook his head, unable to believe it would be a good idea to take on such a force head-on.
Ivorneth frowned shaking her head. She murmured, "We should go back, fetch more men. They are too many." Torchanar sized up the orc rabble and breathed out slowly, glancing at Dinengel, raising his eyebrow at the silent man. The look in his eyes told him what he needed to know, the mask covering a silent mouth. Daeriim peered upon the mass, focusing intently on what they are doing, “We should not go in there with swords swinging.”
Ivorneth sighed with relief as Torchanar nodded, touching her shoulder and gestured with his head for her to go back. It was not a long run for someone young and fit, she would be back with reinforcements before the sun got too high. He remained where he is and looked at the other men, pointing two fingers to his eyes and then one to the orcs that seemed to come to a milling standstill. Torchanar watched curiously, wondering what the brutes were up to.
He rubbed his chin, wincing when his finger brushed the redness of his cheek. He nodded and whispered as softly as he could, "Let's keep this filth in our sights."
Dinengel disappeared into the brush, remaining ready to strike should the command be given. He had an uncanny knack, even among his skilled brethren, to vanish in plain sight.
Torchanar glanced at the rain which by now had started to slacken into a fine mist, the sun was nowhere to be seen, the light grey and dim. Turning his head slowly, he peered back toward where they came. In the underbrush, there is a rustling and slowly nearly a dozen Rangers in dressed in greens and greys emerged, cloaked and hooded. Ivorneth slipped over to Torchanar and nodded, whispering, "I brought as many that could come." She looked out in the distance the mass of black is more visible as the rain was letting up.
The orcs were headed west, going at a good pace but rather disorganized, no lines but more of a mob. They had stopped for a moment to catch their wind. Daeriim looked back and forth between the rangers and the orcs. "Sixteen to fifty. Still not wonderful but we have the art of surprise."
Dinengel nodded in agreement, it was as they every were. Never did the Dunedain every have a number advantage, but their knowledge of the land and stealth, their naturally sharp senses gave them an edge.
The Chieftain's shoulders rolled backward as he looked too and fro, keeping a glaring eye upon his company. There were no orcs armed with bows, or javelins, all were armed with crude iron scimitars, axes, and spears. "And wha' we gon' do if we see em?' asked one of the orcs, smaller than the rest, with a helmet that nearly covers his eyes and a sickle shaped blade. The Chief didn't bother to give the scum a response. "It's up to us, lads." he started, pausing to rest a heavy boot upon a rock.
He looked over his crude force, "Let the Tarkrips play at war with farmers. Let the Blogmal restore ruins. It will be Ongburz that finds the rangers! It will be us! Our Warlord has led us to victories in the past, why should these pigs be any different!?"
He roared, raising his fist, the orcs crying out in response, bashing their fists against their chest. Of the fifty, perhaps about fifteen were clad in iron, the rest were in a motley set of torn ringmail and leathers, no shields amongst them.
Torchanar raised his eyebrow at the older man, murmuring, "The odds were no better a few days ago and now we have archers." Ivorneth checked the quiver on her hip, slipping one of the grey fletched arrows into her hand. The Rangers spread out in a sort of crude crescent, ducking behind trees and brush, their communication all done by silent hand signals. Torchanar nodded once and gestured to follow. He had no need to remind them of stealth or silence.
Daeriim nocked an arrow on his string, a bead of sweat hanging on his brow to prepare for the fight to come.
Torchanar crouched, making his way down the slope with about nine others with him spread out in a fan, the remaining four arming their bows, ready to release at the signal. The rangers slip into the trees, and Torchanar glanced towards Dinengel, motion to the big orc causing all the uproar.
Dinengel carefully stalked off to the side, surveying the Warband, his sights upon the orc Chieftain, and those closest to him.
Torchanar cupped his hand to his lips and whistled, a good imitation of a morning lark and he dropped his hand to draw his sword as the archers would let loose. He drew his long blade, the bright steel singing and shouted in his deep voice, "Elendil!"
The other Rangers burst from their hiding, cloaks swirling behind them as their blades caught the sun, slamming into the orcs from the rear, five others rush into their center, their swords a blur as they cut this way and that, fighting the orcs. Torchanar and the other two rush from the side, swords flashing in the watery light as the drizzle still fell. Daeriim let loose, his arrow flying true as it pierced the throat of an orc, shoving the beast several paces backward with the force. He then unsheathed his sword, to join his brothers in their assault.
