Chapter 3

"My lady, we really ought to catch up with the others. We've lingered too long, and these woods aren't safe." The young guard looked quickly about, shifting his axe from hand to hand. There was something off about the ruins they were standing in. Ranulf would never admit to being nervous, but he was nervous all the same. An orc pack had attacked their caravan two nights prior, and victory had been a near thing. He did not like to think about what would happen if he had to face a group of orcs alone.

The Lady Penelope did not seem to share his concern. Her face scrunched in concentration, she was studiously copying runes etched into the ancient slabs of stone into her notebook, muttering to herself all the while.

"My lady?" Ranulf asked again, louder this time.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Ranulf!" Penelope looked up from her scribbles and gave him a sheepish grin. "You know how I get when I'm concentrating. What were you saying?"

"That we really should be leaving. I don't mean to rush you, but it's been a full half turn since we stopped here. I promised your father I would not allow us to fall too far behind."

Penelope sighed. "I still do not see why they could not halt here with us. We've been traveling for a fortnight. Why not spare a few hours to explore to the first interesting thing we've come across!"

"Your sister, I mean the Lady Rosamund, is not handling the journey well. Your father is concerned for her delicate health."

"Oh, come off it, Ranulf!" Penelope could not help the derisive snort that escaped her. "The Lady Roasmund is hardly ill, and we both know it. My father knows it, as well. He just approves of her motives for hastening the journey. The sooner Rosamund arrives in Erebor, the sooner she can entice the King into marrying her, and the sooner we can all go home."

Ranulf studied his boots. "As you say, my lady. I'll not speak ill of your lady sister."

"Not to me, at least," Penelope grinned. "In any case, I suppose you're right. We should be going. Let me finish transcribing these last few lines and then we'll press on."

Penelope bent to her task, and Ranulf took a quick moment to look closer at the runes on the stone. They were certainly unlike any other runes he had ever seen. The markings were faint, faded with years of exposure to wind and rain, barely discernable as they swooped and curved in swirling loops across the stone. Lady Penelope was something of an artist herself, and had done a fair job capturing the pattern with her charcoals.

"I wonder what they mean," Ranulf said softly. He could read and write, but only in Khuzduhl. The runes did not look dwarvish to him, of that he was reasonably certain.

"It's some form of elvish, but ancient. From the first Age, I would guess. These lands were some of the first to be settled, did you know that?"

Without looking up from her work, Penelope continued to ramble on about the first age, never noticing that Ranulf had fallen silent. When she finally looked up, it was to find him motionless on the ground before her, a black-fletched arrow sticking out of his chest.

She screamed.


A high-pitched shriek broke the calm of the forest. Thorin immediately jumped down from his perch in the trees. He'd been tracking an orc pack for two days, and had been lying in wait, certain the foul creatures were about to crash their way towards him. Unfortunately, it seemed they had fallen upon someone else first.

Wasting no time, he drew Kili's old bow from his back and ran through the underbrush, though his heavy boots made hardly any noise as he advanced. Not much of a perk for living as an elf-dwarf mutant, but it certainly had its uses.

The enhanced eyesight also didn't hurt. Before he physically reached the clearing, Thorin could clearly see the situation he was about to encounter. A well-dressed young woman had her back to a stone ruin, with a pack of seven orcs closing in around her. A guard lay still at her feet, felled by a great black arrow. Whatever questions he had about what a young lady of obvious means was doing in the middle of orc-infested woods would have to wait. The girl would be dead in a matter of moments.

Two more strides, and he would be in the clearing. Without pausing, Thorin drew an arrow from his quiver, knocked it to the bow, and released his shot. The largest orc in the group roared with rage as the arrow shot through his breastplate. Thorin dispatched two more arrows and the orc dropped to the ground with a thud. The other orcs hissed and screeched and turned wildly about, momentarily forgetting about their victim as they searched for the yet un-seen threat. As Thorin approached the pack, he noted that the girl had the good sense to scramble out of sight.

He re-slung the blow across his back and drew Orcrist quickly from its sheath at his hip, thrusting the sword into the gut of another orc as he crashed into the clearing. He felt a grim satisfaction as he stared into the outraged eyes of the monster, knowing the last thing the orc would see before death was his face. Thorin pulled his sword from the creature's belly just in time to parry a blow as another orc sprung upon him. He swung viscously, Orcrist ringing clearly as the elvish blade met the shoddy iron of the orc's sword. The orc met his blows stroke for stroke, but tired quickly, and Thorin saw his opening. He made a quick faint, and as the orc lunged forward, he brought his blade down across its neck.

Bloodlust sung in his veins, sharpening his senses even more; he was certain he could actually smell the scent of fear rolling off the other orcs. And there was another scent, separate from the orcs. He recognized it is as fear, too, but it was sweeter, less foul. The young woman. She had hidden herself, but she could not hide the smell of her fear. If he did not kill the orcs, they would be able to scent her out easily enough.

With that in mind, he turned to face the next orc. He needed to kill them, and quickly, before one of them took it into its head to run off and get reinforcements.