A/N To everyone who reviews this, thank you!
Oh and my other site – Stories Of Arda . Com holds the more completed version of this story – so go on there and review – go on, y pen name is Horns of the West!
Strider carefully looked down over the cliff face, his elf-trained eyes glinting in spring's morning sun; below he could make out the small party of orcs he and his companions had been tracking across Eregion for several days – all the way from the most westerly reaches of the Misty Mountains.
He made a small signal with his left hand to the opposite cliff side and a concealed ranger there drew his bow silently, the point darkened to stop it reflecting the sun's light. Strider drew his own bow carefully and aimed the three-foot arrow downwards at the orcs, his right eye closed to perfect his aim.
With a sharp hiss he released the raven-feathered shaft and hid himself once more in the sparse grasses of his hiding place, listening for the answering whistle of his group's own arrows and the cries of the orcs from below. He strained his ears for the familiar sounds of an ambush and grinned to himself as he heard them, and then drawing his hood over his face he looked back down at his prey.
Few of the orcs that had survived the initial bombardment remained, they fled to save their own hides for another day – but one or two braver Uruks had run for cover as their comrades had fallen around them, and they were now searching the skies above for their attackers, their fiery eyes dimmed by the sun.
The ranger smiled to himself again and drew his sword and, with another quick hand motion to the once again hidden rangers, he silently moved down the shallow cliff face, moving slowly so not to disturb any of the loose shingle. He dropped to the scrubby grass below and bent his tall frame slightly to move quickly and quietly towards his quarry. He picked up the faintest of noises as another ranger took to the ground – but only because his ears had been in the company of elves for so long – he neared the first orc, a great ugly brute, wide shouldered and long-armed, and in his hand he held a cruel blade, gleaming dully in the sun. The creature was shining with sweat and spittle and his thick red tongue lolled out of his fanged mouth as he struggled against the sun's light. This one would be an easy kill.
Strider rushed the orc suddenly and caught him unawares, with a gurgle the headless orc collapsed, his black blood spreading over the scrub. The ranger heard the surprised squeal of another of the orcs as it fell to another Northman's blade. Tugging down the hood of his cloak, Strider looked around to make sure his party had fully dispatched the remaining orcs; he smiled approvingly at their work, four orcs – including the one he himself had slain – were dragged into view, all were cleanly decapitated.
The ranger's piled the carcasses of their ambush into a heap in the middle of the basin of the two cliff faces and set them alight. The four separate heads were set upon their own cruel pikes as a warning. The foul smelling, black smoke rose in a thick plume, but an unexpected gust of wind, however, sent the smoke down the channel like a chimney and its putrid darkness swept over the party of rangers, blocking out the sun and sky.
Strider could hear his men panicking and barked several curt orders before he pulled his cloak around his face, masking his mouth and nose from the smell, his eyes stung and watered – forcing him to close them.
A short moment of silence passed and then the smoke cleared, exposing to Strider his red-eyed, coughing rangers, he exhaled thankfully and went over to them.
A noise, akin to the tearing of silk, and a painful rush of air passed him; he turned swiftly to identify the cause of the noise – though he had already identified it as arrow-fire – but he could not see past the veil of smoke that had swept down the channel.
"Cover!" he cried and leapt for the safety of the rocky cliff face, he saw his rangers do the same as more arrows screamed through the air towards them. Despairingly he saw one of his companions fall under the hail of black shafts, he fell awkwardly, blood spluttering from his mouth.
Strider looked out from his rock, the smoke had finally cleared – and he saw another group of orcs filling the far end of the thin chasm – he counted twenty before he had to duck back behind cover as another wave of arrows clattered around him. One orc, evidently the captain of the rabble, was mounted on a wiry warg.
Strider pulled out his bow, and heard his party do the same as they watched him. He cocked an arrow ready and leapt up, his arrow left straight but his hasty aim went awry and the ranger's first shot skitted uselessly against the rocks, his comrades had no better luck – out of the ten arrows fired only three found their mark. The wails of the hit orcs echoed around the rocks but were cut short by another screaming volley of orcish arrows. Strider saw another of his rangers fall under that wave, a crude arrow sprouting from his head, his eyes wide in surprise and red with flowing blood.
The rangers fired again and managed to thin the orc archers, but Strider's first estimate seemed less than accurate, more of the filthy creatures were pouring into the bottleneck of the channel. Several broke away from their captain's formation and ran leering at the waiting rangers; Strider sent an arrow into one's neck and was splattered by its steaming black blood.
Strider risked another glance at his attackers; another warg had arrived and was pacing backwards and forwards, barking its hunger. It charged straight at him. The beast leapt the rock and was bearing down on the ranger when he was pushed roughly out of the way by another of his men, the warg – not caring who its victim was – grabbed the faithful ranger with its powerful jaws and tugged him away from Strider.
Strider could not block out the cries of pain as his savoir was taken to the wicked hands of the orcs and dealt with in evil ways. Strider looked up from behind his rock and saw the orcs tearing at the ranger, and then the two wargs grabbed him and began a grotesque tug-of-war with his limp body. An indescribable noise signified the ripping of his body and Strider flinched as he saw his faithful companion's innards being fought over by the foulest of creatures…
Strider awoke and cried out in anguish at his dream – it was a painful memory that he had tried to forget…he looked up and gasped in surprise, Aurëil, the elf-child was standing over him, she looked down at him and before he could speak, she spun away lightly, her hair flowing about her – she laughed and disappeared into the mist.
The ranger looked around him wearily, his hand on his sword. He looked after the elfling in wonder and fear; the look in her eyes as he had awoken had been disturbing, her face contorted into a hungry, greedy sneer and her eyes dark and empty like the depths of the Void.
He passed a shaking hand over his aching eyes and let out a shuddered breath – what was this forest, that girl, doing to him?