AN - Do not own LOTR. Any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone, corrections are welcome. Another assignment, names are spur of the moment (probably should check that...) If you cannot stand them, tell me, I might just change them. Please review!
"Not possible! No more than 20."
"No, I'd say no less than 30."
"I disagree! I am certain, at least 50!" A group of voices bantered playfully amongst themselves, attempting to make light of the fact that they were being chased by a large party of orcs.
None of them could or would look back as they were traversing unstable ground where even the most cautious and quick glance back could cause one who did to trip and fall. Not only that, but being the youngest of the group, they were being herded by the elder scouts, and couldn't see behind them if they had looked. They were were being as quiet as they could, not that it mattered to much, as the orcs made enough noise to cause the dead to grumble.
A fourth voice spoke up; "I bet it's about 35."
"How much are you willing to bet?" panted the first, and youngest voice. Morlan was tall and thin, with light hair and eyes. He was the greenest scout and was the spry age of 19 years.
His older brother Toras was the tallest, oldest, and least optomistic of the group and had been the one to guess 50. He had been his younger brother's protector from the time when their father had died doing the very thing they were doing now. He claimed he had every reason to be pessimistic.
He coughed before rasping out "Nothing he has on him, of course, and even less at base or home. Besides, even if you were to win, you don't really have time to enjoy!"
Their captain chose that moment to signal a split. The group scattered, becoming practically invisible in the woods. There was an outpost ahead, and they might be able to stop for a moment. But that hope was dashed when an instant later, movement was heard behind them and they knew they would have to fight.
"Tor, Glat! Left and around." hissed the leuteniant.
The two scouts darted left, but before they left, Tor hissed to his brother and friends, "30c on 45!" Snorts of laughter followed them as they ran into the trees.
Glat and Morlan stood over the fallen body of Toras. He had been shot three times as he'd charged across a stream to help Glat, who had twisted his ankle. The orcs were dead, but so was he. At least he'd died doing something he loved. Protecting people. The scouts were about to fill the hastily dug grave, when Morlan stopped them. He knelt by the head, and dropped 30 small coins on the body. He stood, and moved away. Glat nodded to the others and they began to fill the grave.
The patrol was worried, as Morlan and Toras had been espcially close. They were always together, and were practically the same person. Toras' death would be worse than the loss of their father. So the words of the young ranger startled them as he stalked away; "I can't believe he won that!"
Laughter soon followed him.