Barhador and I exited our tent to find the men ducking for cover. Several corpses splayed out across the ground with crudely-made arrows protruding from their wounds.
Since we were taken by such surprise, most were unarmored. They were all scrambling around to retrieve their arms and armor, desperately defending themselves. Fortunately, I still had my arms, but many weren’t so lucky as another peppering of arrows rained down.
As I ducked for cover I heard the horses whinny and and grow restless across the camp, where I could make out a lick of flames wavering back and forth. A group of saboteurs seemed to have moved in from the south, setting the tents ablaze and adding to our panic. 
I left Barhador at the command tent and led a small group to deal with the saboteurs, and hopefully buy our fellows some more time.
We charged them quickly, but these heavily-armored orcs proved difficult to fell. Fortunately, the flashing of our swords in the flickering firelight casted shadows all around us, and illusively bolstered our numbers. The orcs dropped their torches and ran, or were mercilessly slain. They had thought their opponents would be few and unarmed, and provide little resistance.
The small victory didn’t last long, however, as flames were spreading throughout the encampment. Now that our numbers had been thinned by arrow volleys, more orcs moved in from the north to finish off the survivors. They quickly spread throughout the camp like a contagion, spearing the bodies and
pilfering our supplies.
“Rally! Rally!” I called, hoping that any survivors may hear and join me. None responded.
I tried to make my way back to the command tent, where Barhador and the others were, though the orcs came at me from all sides. My rallying calls were like a beacon, causing them to swarm. They poked and prodded with their spears, which I batted away frantically. My resolve dwindled, but was wholly scattered when a large Half-Troll arrived.
He challenged me in Black Speech, and broke through the sea of lesser orcs, whom he towered over. He swung at me with a great axe that impacted with the strength of ten men. I don’t remember the duel well, though it ended quickly with my weapon clattering to the ground.
I was at the Troll’s mercy when a dark cloud of arrows rained down over the camp. These were not the crude orcish arrows, however, but the keen-tipped lebethron teeth of Oromë himself. The teeth consumed the crowd around me in hollers of pain. Two of them bit into the Troll, who stumbled from the impact, but fell not. He swung his weapon once more at me, cleaving through my armor and into my flesh, before he fled for fear of his own destruction.
The arrows came from Rangers of Ithilien, who had been tracking this raiding party for days. Unfortunately they were unable to arrive until it was nearly too late, but they nonetheless saved my life. I returned to the command tent, the rest of the survivors were gathering. There were only ten of us, in total.
Barhador, my lieutenant, was among the fallen. Each man who died here was under my command, and I had failed them. That was the worst defeat of my career, my life. I should have been among the fallen, that day.
