As many before me have said, "A man lives only to fight and love!" Actually, only one guy said that. Some poet around the time of WWI. I think it's appropriate for the forthcoming chapter, but I'm really not sure if it applies to those of the female persuasion, elves or otherwise. Come to think of it, I'm not sure it even applies to men anymore. I mean, we've got more going for us now than bayonets and monogamy, right??
As she ran down the uneven slopes, Nephryn focused on the ground, trying as best she could to lead them on the most direct path to the river. But her sense of direction had never been very good when there was no trail to follow. If Frodo had passed through here, the trail was very light and highly irregular. She became gradually aware of Sam's ever-more laboured breathing and realised that she had unwittingly increased their pace, for she was used to such tracking on her own. She forced herself to slow, at the same time tightening her grip on the halfling's arm.
"Do – you – think that Mr Frodo – is in – trouble?" The question came gasping from Sam's mouth as the edged down the steepest portion of the slope. Nephryn did not miss the tone of fear and panic in his voice.
"I do not know. It is possible that he merely wished to be alone and lost count of the minutes. Such things happen when one is worried or preoccupied."
Though she did not look across to the faithful hobbit, she knew that his words did little to comfort him. Indeed the forced bravado sounded hollow even to her own ears.
"Fear not, Samwise Gamgee. If the Ringbearer is in danger, we will help him."
As she ran on, Nephryn missed the silently breathed 'I know' from Sam.
Suddenly, they heard a thump and crash behind them. Nephryn dragged them both to a halt. Sam was about to speak, but she held up her hand to still him. Her keen ears strained to pick out sounds. She could hear thrashing sounds, and they drew inexorably closer. She could not what was making the sound, but knew that it most definitely not one of their group, for not even Gimli was so loud and ungainly.
Her instincts screamed for her to act and hers eyes darted uncertainly across the top of the hill over which they'd come. There was no doubt in her mind now that there was danger behind them. She turned to Sam and held him by both shoulders.
"Listen to me," she whispered urgently, "there is something over that hill. I do not yet know what, but it may well be dangerous. I want you to go to the river. If Frodo is there, stay there with him and hide in the boats. If he is not, do not search further. Stay there until I come to get you."
Sam began to shake his head, clearly uncomfortable both at the prospect of abandoning her and being alone and defenceless himself.
"No," he mumbled, "I cannot leave…"
"Sam!" she urged more insistently now. "You must go. If there are enemies up there, I will stay them as long as possible. If not, then there is no danger and we are merely being cautious."
The panicked hobbit considered this and appeared to accept it as the most logical course of action. All the while, Nephryn kept one eye squarely of the ridge, watching for any betraying movement.
Just as the halfling turned to run, Nephryn held him back and pulled out Legolas's dagger from its sheath on her hip. She pushed the hilt of it into the hobbit's fist.
"I do not know how to use this!!" He frowned, staring down at it.
Nephryn stared at him. In other circumstances she might even have laughed. It was a dagger. There wasn't very much skill in knifing your enemy and taking flight.
"Use it as a last resort. Just take it and go!!"
She watched his progress as he half-slipped, half-ran down the incline and sprinted off once he hit the flat. She breathed a relief as he disappeared. Now she had only herself to protect. This she could do, for she'd had to in order to get away from Isengard.
Silently she crept back up the bank, bow in one hand and two arrows in the other. She stayed low on her haunches, moving so fluidly that her view of the horizon remained utterly steady. As she neared the top, she could her voices; rough, rasping tones that barked out words. She knew of only one creature that made such sounds. The words were clearer now and she recognised it as Black Speak, the language of the Orcs.
Nephryn knew that she needed to see how many she faced in order to make her decision whether to fight or run. She made a diagonal line across and reached the top of the ridge at such a vantage that the dark creatures had their backs to her.
From her position, she counted five. They stood together, inspecting a trail that led over the top of the hill. Sam's tracks, she realised frantically. They would follow it all the way to the boat. There and then the decision was made for her. She would have to fight.
These five would have to be dealt with quietly, so as not to raise the attention of others, for there were undoubtedly more of them as Orcs travelled in packs of twenty or so. From her position, she had a clear shot of two. Furtively, she crept forward and as she did, she nocked both arrows to the bow. Her hands shook momentarily and it took all of her will to steady them.
Her knuckles were white from the power of her grip and she raised the readied bow slowly and steadily. As she did, she rose up from her cover and dropped her head to sight down the arrows. For a split second she held herself utterly still as she adjusted her aim minutely. In that second she was spotted by her targets but it mattered not, for as they realised their trap, she released the single finger that kept the arrows held.
Her aim was impeccable and the arrows felled both Orcs instantly. She did not wait to see the reaction of the rest, but took off at a run across the top of the ridge, back toward the camp and away from Sam. She would have to dispense with them quickly though, for neither could she bring them upon their camp.
The elf maid changed course suddenly and veered again toward the river. She ran easily now uninhibited by the rough, uneven terrain but branches whipped at her face like stinging rain. Her view had shrunk to a tunnel-like blur of the foliage that mingled into one grey-green and whipped past her in a blur. The Orcs were slower to follow and she found that she had doubled back on one. She pulled another arrow and waited with baited breath until she had a clear line of sight, and then loosed the arrow. The cumbersome Orc fell quickly and rolled down the incline until it collided solidly with the bole of a large tree.
She turned to run again toward the river, but saw that another had looped down to the river and was now approaching her from below. There were only two, so where was the last one? There was no choice but to go where she knew that there were none and that was toward the camp. She ran again, this time taking the straightest path but jumping high and ducking low to make it more difficult to target her.
Nephryn was about to jump over a large, uprooted tree when the fifth and final Orc emerged directly in her path. She could not stifle a scream as she careened into it. She lashed out with her bow for it was all she had to hand. She beat it back and fumbled frantically for her dagger, but moaned as she remembered that she'd given it to Sam. She might have had the skill to battles swords with one Orc, but she knew that with another close on her heels it would be a death warrant.
The seething creature that circled her now held no crossbow, but the longsword it wielded would be equally effective. The elf-maid had one remaining arrow to hand and she fingered it now. She could not shoot for she would be dead, cleaved in half, before she could even set aim. Without warning, he lunged at her and she shrieked, sidestepping him and stumbling at the same time. As he passed her, her arms drove out instinctively to wield the knife on him. There was no knife, but before she even realised what had happened, the Orc slackened and crumpled at her feet, the reed-thin arrow embedded in his neck.
Bewildered, she stared down at the figure, hypnotised by its grotesque death, curious how it happened for she did not believe that she could brandish an arrow with such strength. She heard movement behind her and the dark recesses of her memory screamed to her. The last Orc!! Her quiver was empty. No sword. No dagger. The Orc was running up toward her at full tilt now, broadsword drawn, for it could see well enough that she was unarmed.
She looked down at the fallen Orc and she realised that there was but one option. Swallowing bile and grimacing, Nephryn bent down and pulled to the arrow from the Orc's neck. Time slowed and blood pounded in her ears as she struggled to set it. It was awash in blood and slime and she could not grip it to pull it back far enough for any measurable force. There was no time left though and she released her wavering grip and the arrow shot forth. It hit the Orc on the side of its neck, but the fell creature did not slow.
The instinct to flee rose up like a fever but she was gripped by fear and shock, and stood rooted to the spot, an eerie calm descending on her. She watched as the Orc tried to raise the sword, but could not. It began to falter and its legs twisted under it as the wound began to take toll. As she stood there, in a trance like stupor, gasping for breath, she did not know if her luck would hold. He drew ever closer, drawing his sword back and at the same time, stumbling further off his path. She raised her hand and bow to deflect the blow, but it never came.
At the very last moment, the foul creature's strength ebbed and it dropped at feet with a sickly thud. The flat of the broadsword thumped heavily at Nephryn's ankle as it clattered to the ground, its hilt still in the death grip of its master. The only sound came as the blood from the seeming fatal wound to its neck gurgled and flowed freely, pooling blackly on the moss green ground. That sound and the current of pain that reverberated up her leg were the only sensations Nephryn was aware of for several moments as time crawled and blurred.
At last she looked out though her raised arms, at the fallen Orc. It was dead, the long brightly feathered arrow protruding brokenly from its neck. Still she could not move. She gaped aghast at the slaughter around her. Her clothes were heavily stained with the blacked blood, and she could feel heat blaze from grazes on her face. She could not choke back a hysterical giggle that broke the eerie silence. The hiccupped laugh came in gasps and soon the tears flowed from her eyes. The pale, exhausted elf-maid sank to the ground, and sobs shook her shoulders as she cowered down in the blood bath wrought by her own hand.
Soon the stench of death and the belated shock assaulted her, and she stood on weak legs and stumbled away from the dead creatures. Nausea washed over her and she knelt down and let it come. Cold sweat broke across her brow and her senses numbed. Her bow still clutched in one hand, she picked herself up and staggered down the incline to the river. She was vaguely aware that the boats would only be around the next cove, but an unquenchable desire to wash away the black slime that had imbued her every orifice demanded that she stop at the water.
Nephryn collapsed at the bank, plunged deadened hands into the cool water and bent her face into it, letting it dribble over her face and down her tunic. She closed her eyes, achingly tired of sight without the sense of feeling, only able imagine the cool sensation of water over her grazes cheeks. Inhaling deeply, she opened her eyes and stood, feeling only slightly more surefooted. She longed for Legolas, but she knew that now was not the time for such wanton and desperate thoughts.
Feeling washed down her limbs as blood began to flow once more, and she broke into a jog along the bank. Nephryn was almost round the last curve of the bank when she realised that she was utterly defenceless. She smirked cynically to herself. How unlike her it was to be so unprepared. Yet she could not bring herself not to proceed, for she owed a debt of protection to the halflings, even if it was with her bare hands.
Her keen eyes glanced over the surrounding hills and then out onto the river. She did not notice anything untoward at first, but then out on the water, near the shores of Tol Brandir, a flash of blue drew her gaze. She squinted at it, slowing to a halt and shading her eyes with one hand. To her dismay, she could make out a boat and two small figures aboard. The blue glow that had caught her gaze was the Sting, Frodo's sword; alive in colour for the woods was not doubt awash with foul Orcs.
"No!" She breathed aloud.
She had failed. Frodo had taken Sam and they would surely continue onto Mordor alone, without the bearer of the Vessel at their sides. Quickly she swallowed back a beckon forming on her lips. It would do no good now to alert the Orcs to theirs and her own presence. She stood disconsolately at the bank, tears welling in her eyes as she pondered what the fellowship of the Ring would do now that the Ring was no longer in their care.
She might have lingered there indefinitely, but the deep resonant drone of a horn pierced the air broke her exhausted trance. The Horn of Boromir! The Steward of Gondor was under siege. Casting tearful eyes to the vanishing Ringbearer once more, she murmured silent prayer and took off at a run toward the camp, pausing only to retrieve the broadsword of the fallen Orc.
Well, was there an proper amount of blood, guts, gore, entrails and terror there to class it as an 'action filled chapter' that has thus far been lacking? Want more?