She travelled silently and with haste. The woods of this part of the world were filled with dangerous creatures, creatures of blood and wrath. A branch snapped in the distance. Eyes flashed in the darkness as she crouched to all fours, making herself a smaller target and giving herself more area to push off from if she needed to run. Slowing her breathing, she listened intently for any noise a threat might make.
She had been told stories about the dangers that lay in the West. The wild wolves of legend did not bother Mareke. Her forefathers tamed the wolves of the desert and made them into servants of the Voice, the kindly god who ruled Arda. Even though the time of living with the wolves had past, Mareke still felt a bond with them and though the Wargs howled throughout the night, she felt no fear. It was the Orcs she feared.
They were filthy creatures who delighted in the slaughter of all creatures. Their blood-lust did not halt even to spare their own kind. The Orcs of the Eastern wilds had become cannibals. When they caught nothing on a hunt, which was often due to the thunderous commotion of their heavy boots, they fought amongst themselves until one of them killed another. Then, mealtime began. Mareke was lucky to have managed to bypass all of the Orc dens during her travels.
Another branch crackled in the distance. With delicacy, she crept to the nearest tree and began to struggle up the length of it. Mareke barely clung to the vertically ridged bark of the pine tree as she reached for the lowest branch, careful not to make an abundance of noise. She crouched on the branch, careful not to catch the blades of her double scimitar on the tree. From her position, she waited in almost silence, the cadence of her breathing and the sedated whistle of the wind creating a small tune. Patience served her well as a gaggle of Dwarves scuttled beneath the boughs of her tree.
Several of them looked out of breath as they halted at the base of the trees. A Man dressed all in grey followed them and as they halted, he urged them angrily into the trees. They scurried up the trees as far as they could go without the boughs giving way. From the direction they came in, scrambled a small humanoid, childlike in his appearance. He glanced around tensely and then turned back to view those pursuing the group. An odd tremble moved his body and he grew rigid with fear. Without warning or any notice at all, he was pulled up into the trees just as the wolves caught up with the group.
These were no mere wolves, however, but Wargs. Mareke knew nothing of such monstrous breeds and marvelled at their size and ferocity as they jumped and snapped at the Dwarves. She thought about climbing down to aid the Dwarves in escaping and was indeed about the leap from the tree when a Warg caught up her scent, looked up, and growled something sinister in the foul language of evil beasts.
A howling came down from the hills and the Wargs looked back to see the moonlit skin of a pale Orc appearing through the dense foliage. He rode atop a Warg the colour of tarnished silver and he looked confident, as if he had won a battle of great significance. The Orc spoke in a tongue that Mareke recognized but did not understand. Then, a great commotion began as the Wargs pulled down the trees. Mareke was forced to jump from tree to tree as her tree began to topple. Along with the Dwarves, she became housed at last in a large pine tree with the Dwarves, the grey Man, and the child-creature.
Her hand shifted as the tree trembled and it touched a solid, conical object attached to the tree. She tugged at it and, after finally freeing it, felt the weight in her hand and then lobbed it at a Warg. It whined in surprised and looked up, baring its teeth at the Dwarves.
Mareke pulled another pine cone from the tree and shouted, "Grab these! They can be used to stun and harm the wolves down below." Fifteen heads turned towards Mareke. "Act now or we shall tumble down to the mercy of the wolves!" They exchanged looks with each other, deciding upon whether or not the stranger in their midst was trustworthy or not but the Man had already decided. A light sprung from where he perched and he tossed a pine cone down to Mareke. She nearly dropped it for it was bright with fire which stung and bit her. Gathering her wits, she threw the flaming projectile at the Wargs, hitting one and scattering the others.
Within moments, fire rained down upon the Wargs and their riders. The Orc with skin like polished sea pearls looked at the Dwarves with dismay and irascibility. Despite their efforts, the Wargs knocked the tree down and without another tree to jump to for safety, the Dwarves and their company were left to hang over the edge of the cliff. Panic ran amok and the Dwarves began to struggle, only loosening the tree from the ground and causing the tree the dip further.
Mareke saw one of the Dwarves get up on the trunk and unsheathe his sword. He walk towards the pale Orc and when he reached solid ground, the Dwarf flew at the Orc to no avail. With one swing of his mace-hand, the Orc knocked him to the ground. From there, Mareke could see nothing of what happened. Her hands slipped on the bark of the tree, the canvas gloves she wore burned against her hand as her grip strengthened. She looked down, terrified. As she fell, she looked at the cliff top which seemed so far away and wished that she had never taken her feet off of the ground. A weight lifted from her head as her fitted helm came loose and toppled from her head, revealing cloth that wrapped about her head.
Closing her eyes, Mareke felt the pressure of the air and imagined her home, the red sand that filled every cranny of her family's wooden house, the pungent scent of her mother cooking up a new concoction of beans and roots. She felt the warm, searing wind of home as it lifted her up and she felt the cooling of the wind as it slowed and dropped her to the ground of the Western forests.
Mareke opened her eyes and found that she faced a sun bleeding red into the icy blue of the morning. She sat up and observed, bewildered, the Dwarf who had fought the Orc, embracing the short creature with gratitude and the possessiveness of brotherhood. Mareke peered behind her to the grey Man who stood behind her. He smiled kindly at the group and when he noticed my curious view, he spoke in a slow and assured voice, "Our guest is awake."
Fourteen pairs of eyes turned sharply towards Mareke's position.
"You might very well have saved us, miss...?" The air was left open for her to speak but she hesitated. "Well?"
"Mareke of Rhûn." The company tensed and hands went to the handles of axes and swords. Mareke swiftly grasped her double scimitar and pulled herself into a crouch, away from the Man. Her thin almond shaped eyes opened as she regarded the company with wariness and alertness. Though it was just a hiss, Mareke heard a Dwarf call, "Easterling!"