Unbeta'd as my wonderful Anarithilen is focused on Seven Stars, but I knew I had to put everyone out of their misery. Apologies for how long since I posted but Covid is just in the way!

Characters:

Thranduil Celeborn. Legolas. Galadriel. Galion

Non canon characters:

Laersul- oldest son

Thalos- middle son

Anglach- Thranduil's foster son, who was amongst those 'taken or slain' in Gollum's escape. He was killed cruelly.

Gilvaren: Thranduil's old friend from Doriath, a lord of the Wood.

Galadhon: friend of Thalos, warrior.

Gystalya: Thranduil's sword, given by Dain in return for Orcrist

Gob a goblin of the Mountains.

Azgarâzir: Name given to Thranduil by the Nazgul. The Nazgul's name for Thranduil, whom they hate more than any other ruler for his defence and war against them in Dol Guldur. Equivalent to Warmonger, Death-dealer, Scourge.

Agannâlo – Nazgul's name for Mirkwood. Literally death-shadow.

Zigserat- names for Laersul. Sorcerer of Death

Thrakagâsh- and Thalos. Fire-bringer.

(Legolas is just Azgarâzir's whelp.)

Durb-hai - lord of our people

Búbhosh-dug - Great Filth (their name for the Wood elves)

Burzehai: Folk of the Tower. This is what the orcs and Uruks of Dol Guldûr call themselves

Pavise: kite shaped upright shields that were used to shelter archers as well as the usual function.

Chapter 4 The Wood

Lothlorien

The air was heavy. Pressure crushed them, so heavy it must break and rain, thought Galadriel. It was hardly surprising for this was the second onslaught they had borne against Dol Guldur and repelled them. Now there were clouds gathering over the edges of Mirkwood and she lifted her hand to shade her eyes, to see the dark edge of the shadowed forest. She frowned. This was no ordinary storm. The clouds were purple edged and lightning crackled around their edges. The air shivered and thunder rolled slowly across the plains.

Her fingers caressed Nenya, her light flashed and glowed and suddenly ignited. Her face was lit with the uncanny white light of the Ring and she heard a Summoning, the Song in the North that pulled the Earth and Air, caught a rushing wind and harnessed the lightning and …rain.

Nenya strained towards the Song, its Power was …immense. She felt its pull on her, how she wanted to run towards it.

Who is it? she thought with a terrible gaping hole in her heart for there was only one who could wield the Song like this and he… he was long gone, torn apart in the dungeons of Sauron. He is reborn, Glorfindel had said. Had he returned to these lost shores? Was he here?

She hurried to her Mirror and sketched the signs over the Glass, ran Nenya around the rim of the Glass and opened the strange mechanism, peered into the darkness. There was an urgency in Nenya now, and the Mirror seemed almost cognizant, shivering under her hand and the obsidian-darkness had a crimson hue, streaked with yellow… like the elliptical pupil of a great, lidless Eye.

She had seen that every time she had opened the glass but now the yellow suffused the whole mirror and she saw it was not the yellow pupil as before.

No.

Smoke.

Dense yellow smoke that coiled through the trees, threading its way like groping fingers.

There was distant screaming. A roaring the sound of trees crashing…

Mirkwood burned….Trees alight with flames that roared over the wood like dragonfire.

She did not wait.

Celeborn, she called him as she ran, fleet as she had been in the time before, when her name was Artanis. Celeborn turned towards her in alarm for he had heard something too.

It was not only Mirkwood that burned.

Ooo

Thranduil's mouth was open in a scream of rage and grief. His limbs flailed to free themselves, fighting to get to Laersul's side but he was held and the yellow smoke poured and coiled and thrashed around him like a serpent and for a moment he thought he saw Legolas standing amongst the trees, his eyes wide in horror and his mouth open. But it was not Laersul that Legolas saw, but Thranduil himself, as if it were Thranduil who had fallen beneath a scrabbling, frenzied horde of orcs.

Suddenly the sharpest pain imaginable pierced through Thranduil. A spear or lance had been shoved into him. The shock of it made him cry out and he felt his weight pulled upwards by the spear.

'Fuck, Thran. You fat bastard!'

Thranduil's eyes flickered open and saw his own arm was slung over another's shoulder. Galion. He was being hauled through the yellow choking smoke by his old friend who cursed and swore enough to bring the Valar in fury at his blasphemy. 'You're…too… bloody… heavy.'

His own feet dragged behind him and his other arm hung loosely by his side and the reason Thranduil thought he had been pierced with a spear was because he had a thick black bolt sticking out of the arm that hung by his side. He must have groaned because Galion stopped hauling him suddenly and turned his head. The fear and anxiety in Galion's eyes suddenly turned tender. 'Elbereth's tits, Thran. You gave me a fucking scare. Don't do that again. How are we supposed to win without you?'

Thranduil wanted to say something but he could not and suddenly he was being hauled up onto a horse and Galion said tersely, 'Take the King to the fortress. Quickly now.' There was the sound of a horn sounding the retreat and then Thranduil was being gripped again, this time by a mounted warrior. He felt the horse's smooth hair beneath his hand and the warrior clasped him about the chest. Then he was flying through the flames and smoke.

Ooooo

At last Galadhon saw the hill fort the elves had raised north of the battle ground. Gilvaren's green and gold standards streamed and snapped in the wind. There was a ripple of disciplined consternation as Galadhon galloped his snorting, steaming horse up to gates that opened for him and he charged through with the King clasped to him. The King's head lolled back against Galadhon's chest. There was blood on Galadhon's lamellar armour, both his own and the King's.

Gilvaren was already striding towards the horse and reached up to Galadhon to take the King in his arms, cradling him. 'Thranduil?' his voice was full of fear. He held the King against his own strong body, careful not to jar the thick black bolt that stuck out of his arm, and glanced round at his men, knowing the effect of them seeing the King like this. Knowing that their plan might come to naught without Thranduil to summon the power of Earth and Air and Water to aid them. 'Arm yourselves!' he commanded. 'Take up your weapons and ready yourselves for battle! They will come and we will be ready!' But there was no doubt that their victory was far less assured now with the King wounded.

There was a sudden flurry of movement as his men broke to arm themselves; cavalry troops ran for their horses, swung astride and snatched up lances. Archers ran to the serried battlements and stood behind the upright pavises dug into the ground, fastened quivers on their backs and strung bows. The infantry rapidly formed their ranks.

Gilvaren jerked his head at the orderlies who hovered nervously nearby. 'Take the King. Make him comfortable.'

'Do not dare,' Thranduil said so quietly that only Gilvaren, Galadhon and the two orderlies heard.

Gilvaren's face changed. A smile of utter relief slipped over his face. 'I think you should be in bed, let me take charge,' he said with a grin and he put his strong hand beneath his old friend's uninjured arm and hoisted him upright. 'Well if you are going to do this, at least let me bear your weight.' His eyes were bright with pride and affection when he saw how Thranduil's mouth pressed into a thin line against the pain.

Leaning heavily against Gilvaren, Thranduil leaned so his forehead gently touched Gilvaren's in gratitude and murmured, 'I have seen Laersul fall beneath an attack. Orcs are upon him. We cannot wait. We must begin the Summoning now.'

Gilvaren looked grimly at Thranduil and nodded once. 'I will assemble the men and we will do as you say.' He gripped the King by his arm, holding him upright and turned his head towards the watching, anxious men. Breathing in, he made his voice powerful, low, commanding. It was his gift. 'We summon the Wood!' he cried and his voice seemed to reach into the heart of every man in the fort. 'Give the Aran your song! Give him your strength for our brothers, our sons, our fathers are beset in the West and our commander is taken!'

The whole fort turned in stunned silence for a breath. Every man's face turned towards their King, utterly still.

Suddenly, there was movement, like wave after wave coming into shore. One by one, the men began to drop to one knee upon the earth. Riders dismounted and archers leapt from the battlements to the forest floor. The Wood elves dug their fingers into the rich mud, drew the dark, deep soil like paint over their faces so it barred them like the great mythical cats of the East. With their lamellar armour of green and brown, they seemed to melt, become invisible. As each one rose, he took a breath and hummed a low note. As more and more of them stood with their fierce, barred faces, the notes grew, wove together in a tremendous chord of power.

Thranduil closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, listening. There was blood on his face, on his leather lamellar armour, and he leaned heavily against Gilvaren, but he stood straighter and when he slowly opened his slate green eyes, they seemed more intense, as if they had absorbed all the colour of the Wood. His hand was clasped over the thick bolt in his arm, but now he barely felt it. He gazed fiercely at his men, knowing he looked Silvan, bloody and grinning.

Then he too dipped his knee and Gilvaren gripped his uninjured shoulder so he did not falter. He plunged his hand into the earth and rose with a fist of mud. Grinning, he smeared the three fingers of his hand down each side of his face and his eyes burned furiously. The single chord that came from the throats of a thousand Elves reverberated and the Air trembled with its Power. Lifting one arm to the Air, he opened his hand as if he physically caught the huge notes, twisting his hand like he gathered them into chords and wound them about, weaving courage, strength, great ribbons of sound.

Come, he said, summoning the Wind that howled around the great empty spaces of the world.

Come, he called to Water, summoning the great thunderheads gathering over the Hithaeglir. And like the pull of the Moon on the tide, he felt the surge as Air from the North and West swept towards him, bringing rain, storms in its wake. There was something else in the Song, something Thranduil did not recognise; he paused for a moment, listening to the new chords and harmonies in Song, rolling and swelling like the waves of the Sea he had never seen but could imagine, and his heart was struck with a desperate yearning, a longing for a home that was not his.

The orcs in the north of the Wood pouring through the burning forest to the villages and stronghold of the Wood elves were not connected to the Music, their souls had been cut from it. And so they did not know what was coming when the Wind rushed from the North through the trees, tossing and bending the trees, cracking branches and hurling twigs and leaves down upon the invading armies of orcs. But it fanned the flames too so they leapt higher and ever more ferocious, beating the fire southwards away from Thalos and the stronghold where Orcs looked about themselves in panic for the fires they had lit now cut them off from each other and the trees crashed around them as they burned.

In the East Bight, the Orcish army marched on unaware of the defeat of their northern troops. And in the Carrock, where the Uruks and goblins and orcs ululated their victory for they had Laersul bound and captive, did not know that the Wind stormed through the Wood, tearing up trees in its wake like a marauding army towards them.

Ooooooo

Gob had been lucky to escape the battle in the East Bight that had seen Burzebag and his battalion wiped out. Gob had loped through the forest, carefully evading both orcs and elves, for one would have killed him as an enemy and the other might have killed him for food, or for desertion or for fun. But he had got to the edge of the forest safely and without encountering either.

Above him, the mountains gleamed with snow. Home. Thank the Dark One.

It had been pure misfortune that he was spotted by the Burzehai, the boys from Dol Guldur. He was lucky they were not hungry and needed recruits instead. The big ugly Uruk captain from Do Guldur, Lugdug, had gripped him by the scruff of his neck and shaken him till his teeth rattled. Lugdug would have thrown Gob to the Warg pack but Gob had gabbled that he had a message from the Gul and that he was sworn to deliver it to the generals in the Carrock. He had made up some lie about the battle in the East Bight going well and that the Gul would heap all sorts of honours upon Lugdug, whilst in his heart he hoped he could steal away again once they reached the battle. For these Burzehai were reinforcements and the main army was already engaged with the dreadful alba army.

Lugdug had grinned and bared his pointed teeth and thrown Gob to the ground. He had roared his approval and beat his chest, shouting, 'Azgarâzir is on his knees in the East! We will be victorious here! We will drag Zigserat to the tower for the Lord to rip out his heart!'

At the time, Gob had been terrified to hear that they were to attack Zigserat. He had almost fallen to his knees to pray to the Great Eye that he would be spared whilst all around him, the brothers from Dol Guldur roared and swore and cursed and bared their pointed teeth. Though he had seen too that he was not the only one who was afraid.

Zigserat. Death bringer. The terrible elvish sorcerer. Wicked committer of atrocities including the infamous Slaughter of Bagronk. It was not his only atrocity, but was probably the most notorious for the sheer number of innocent civilians killed in one day as they went about their business supplying and running the slave camps of Dol Guldur. It had shocked the goblins of the mountains and inflamed their hatred of Zigserat and his flame eyed alba. The Búbhosh-dug!

They had come upon the battle already in full swing with their own troops attacking a settlement. It was not elvish but a settlement of Men and the Orcs had already set fire to the village and it burned. The air was yellow and sulphurous. Lugdug turned with a vicious snarl to his troops and lifted his heavy sabre.

'Attack!' and without any warning or time to think, they charged. Gob was hit by the charge of Lugdug's own stinking hot Warg as it lunged forwards into the affray. Gob lay for a moment, stunned and breathless until he realised he could simply roll away into a ditch nearby and play dead. Which he did for most of the battle.

He could see the smoke was dense, tinged yellow and sulphurous. Black silhouettes of Elves and Men and Orcs struggled and fought against the infernal backdrop of the burning settlement. Suddenly a group of screaming children appeared, running for their lives. One orc leapt forwards, grasped a child, and without pause cut its throat with horrible efficiency. It turned and snarled, dropping the limp child. There was the unmistakable sound of a terrified horse screaming somewhere not far away.

Gob was afraid. As much of his own side as the enemy for they might just as easily kill him. He lay very still and watched.

Light from the fires caught a glint of steel, made it bloody and red. Orcs dragged a woman between the burning trees, her blue dress ripped open at her breast. She struggled against the leering, mocking orc that held her. It drew up its cutlass and plunged it into her belly, grinning as she twisted in agony and gasped.

The smoke seemed to part suddenly and a tall, powerful Elf in shining armour charged into the clearing. He raised his wicked gleaming sword and struck down the orc and then turned upon others who ran from his fury. Gob hid his eyes then for the Elf's hair was golden, his strong face proud, angry, and his eyes raked the forest. Gob gibbered a little and his teeth chattered for this was Zigserat. Everyone knew that there were only two Elves in the forest who had hair this colour: Azgarâzir himself and his oldest son, Zigserat. There was another whelp of Azgarâzir who was hated by the Gul but he was nothing compared with Zigserat.

Gob hid, pressing himself into the ground and whispering prayers to the Dark Maker that he might be spared even if all his fellows were caught and butchered, just spare me, he muttered.

But there was a sudden, disbelieving roar and Gob looked up.

He stared, astounded. For Zigserat, Sorcerer of Death, Butcher of Bagronk, sank slowly to his knees. His sword fell heavily to the ground and he raised his hands to his neck where a slow red stream seeped out between his hands where an arrow pierced the juncture between armour and gorget. He raised his eyes and his lips moved briefly and then suddenly, orcs swarmed over him.

oooooo

They dragged Zigserat into a clearing before the burning settlement and bound him and threw him down just out of bowshot so they could jeer and goad the defending Elves. But there was nothing from the settlement. No arrows. No bravado or courageous attempt to rescue him. Gob looked about himself anxiously. Was he the only one who did not believe the elves would give up their lord quite so easily? Where were they all?

The big Uruk general, Thrakat strutted up and down in front of him, shouting and boasting loudly. Still no arrow shot from the settlement, or charge from the Elves.

They had won.

Or at least, Gob assumed they had won because soon, every goblin, Orc and Uruk was now crowding into this one place in front of the burning settlement and Gob could no longer see anything but feet stamping and kicking. An Uruk knifed an Orc that had shoved him out of the way and a brawl started on the edge of the crowd but few took any notice. Surreptitiously, Gob rolled out of his ditch and skulked along the edges of the hooting, jubilant crowd. He recognised one or two from his own clan and glanced at them in that obsequious way that acknowledged his low status. For Gob's status, even amongst the goblins of the mountains, was very low indeed.

There was one awful scream that silenced the crowd for a moment, before the gnashing and snarling resumed.

Gob scrambled up a tree so he could see better. The settlement still burned, an inferno, and there was a slow crash as a building near the stockade collapsed. No one took any notice. The crowd was enormous; the whole of the regiment it seemed, or at least, those that had survived.

Zigserat knelt before Thrakat but the arrow that had pierced him had been pulled out and was held aloft by Thrakat as a trophy. Rough cheers and ululation surrounded the Uruk general as he paraded round the circle in triumph. He towered over the rest of the soldiers, like Azog and Bolg, those great heroes of the mountains. One stride took him back to his prisoner and he leaned down and seized the golden hair of the Elf and pulled his head up and back so the ghastly white throat was exposed. Blood pulsed from the terrible wound in his shoulder and Lugdug bared his teeth and then stooped suddenly, mouth agape over the Elf's throat. The Elf struggled weakly but could not fight his way free.

Gob felt a surge of disappointment. Was this really Zigserat? He had looked glorious enough when he was fighting but the blood that soaked Lugdug's mouth when he raised his head in a roar of triumph was red enough, and the Elf only lived because Lugdug was enjoying his triumph, making it last. The Elf's eyes were squeezed tightly shut against the pain like any other Elf Gob had ever seen. There was nothing special about him after all it seemed.

Thrakat was speaking now, the blood smeared over his face and mouth. Gob could not really hear what he said but he saw the General turn suddenly and lash out at Zigserat with a kick that sent him sprawling on his back and then another in the belly that made him collapse in on himself, heard the jeer that went up when he retched and gasped. Two huge, beefy Uruks with the mark of the Gul on their ugly faces rushed forwards excitedly, ropes looped over their muscular arms.

Will they simply hang Zigserat, thought Gob. But that would not be enough to kill him; everyone knew that Elves came back to life if you did not make sure they were dead, and surely the general would eat his flesh so he absorbed Zigserat's legendary power?

There was the slightest tremble in the tree in which he clung and he looked down to see another of his clan climbing towards him. Grunt. Grunt was even lower in status than Gob, in spite of his fancy long name and he kicked out and caught Grunt in his little pointy teeth. With the sound for which he was aptly named, Grunt fell out of the tree. Irritated by the interruption, Gob turned back to see that Zigserat had struggled upright again, his face bruised and bleeding now, he seemed only to have one eye for the flesh around his face was swollen and bloody.

To Gob's shocked delight, Zigserat leaned forward slightly and spat a great gobbet of bloody phlegm onto Thrakat's manskin boots. An outraged, excited gasp came from the crowd and Thrakat threw himself furiously at the bound Elf, his great meaty fists flying and punching, his iron shod feet kicking mercilessly. Blood spattered over the shouting orcs and they leaned in and jostled closer, jeering. Suddenly the ranks parted in one place to admit a number of elite Uruks, the General's own guard it seemed and they carried a great lance, one of those heavy spears carried by the biggest and strongest Warg riders. There was an orgasmic roar of approval and other orcs rushed in to help drive the haft into the ground.

On the edge of the crowd, farthest away from Gob's tree and nearest the forest, one goblin turned its head towards the fringes of the wood, its long ears pricked. Then another looked the same way, and then another. Gob too became aware that it was suddenly colder, like the wind had changed and came from the North. Some of the goblins slipped away and Gob wondered if he should too.

But Thrakat was kneeling on the Elf's neck now, where the blood seeped, and he had his thumbs over the Elf's eyes and was pressing down, gouging at them amidst catcalls and lewd comments at the way the Elf squirmed beneath him.. But the clamour at the lance's arrival distracted him and he looked up irritably. In that moment, Zigserat, if that was truly who it was, suddenly lashed out at Thrakat with his feet so the Uruk crashed to his knees. The Elf rolled quickly to the side, and it seemed impossible but he was on his feet suddenly. He put his head down and charged Thrakat, slamming his own head hard against Thrakat's face. There was a roar of agony and Thrakat reared back, clutching his nose.

Thrakat stumbled to his feet, swearing and cursing. Furious now, he advanced upon the Elf who, though his hands were still tied cripplingly tightly behind his back and wounded, moved swiftly and even got a few more kicks in before Thrakat gestured impatiently to his guards and they pummeled the Elf into the ground, then dragged his limp, bloody body upright. Two Uruks steadied the great lance.

Gob's pulse quickened and he found himself salivating in anticipation of the torture. A thin stream of piss escaped him as if often did when he was over excited. It ran down his thigh, stinking, but he did not care. He thought Zigserat would piss himself too now. They would spear him, raise him upon it so he screamed as he slowly, slowly slid down upon the blade and they would cut him open then whilst he lived and pull out his entrails. Thrakat would eat them hot and steaming and absorb the magic power of the sorcerer. He might share them with another of the commanders, thought Gob. He might throw a morsel to his favoured guards.

Suddenly another huge Uruk broke in through the crowd shouting. 'The Gul will have your hide for this, Thrakat you dumbquat! My men will take Zigserat to the tower as the Gul has commanded.' There was a stir of excitement from the watching crowd.

Thrakat turned, his nose crunched and splatted, and without a word, stuck the interloper with a wickedly serrated knife. 'Who else wants to deprive me of my sport?' he roared.

'The Gul will hear of this!' one of the dead Uruk's men said. Thrakat's own guards turned on him them and there was a brief and bloody brawl while Thrakat dropped Zigserat on the floor while he pummeled the rebel and slashed his face, drawing the same serrated blade from one ear to the other while he howled. 'Just to give you something to remember me by,' Thakrat snarled, wiping his knife upon the Uruk's own hide.

Gob was ecstatic at the violence, and stroked a hand over his stiff cock. This was even better than he had expected and suddenly he was glad he had been found by Lugdug. He wondered briefly where Lugdug was, felt even a strange twinge of loyalty and then shook it out of himself. But there was movement again on the edge of the crowd. Goblins have sharper senses than orcs and now more of them were glancing again towards the trees. Gob had not noticed how dark, how sentinel were the trees behind the inferno of the burning settlement. A steady stream of goblins were slowly sneaking away from the edges of the crowd and skulking off into the long grass towards the river and the mountains. Gob was alarmed. He tilted his head to one side; had the other goblins heard elves readying for battle? Did they smell reinforcements on the wind?

No. There was only the smell of charred meat and burning on the wind. Flames devoured the dry wood of the settlement, the crack of stone as it snapped and the roar of the flames. He could feel the heat on his face now. It was being fanned by the wind; flames leapt high, higher than the stockade, and sparks settled in the trampled grass. Some Orcs and Uruks were restless and milled about, staring into the inferno, into the dark trees which swayed and sighed, but Thrakat had turned back now to the prisoner and most of the crowd were baying and gibbering again for blood and suffering.

But Gob had heard something. It sounded like the wind was blowing up a storm deep in the forest, racing through the trees towards them. Or the Sea rushing in on the high tide. He had heard it once. It had come in faster than he could run and he had been afraid. That was the sound now that rushed towards them and tossed the heads of the trees and hurled twigs and pine cones and beech nuts. A tree cracked and crashed, tearing other trees with it. It looked as though some huge and monstrous beast was stampeding through the forest. Or an army.

'Azgarâzir has come!'

'Azgarâzir!' For surely this storm heralded the advent of the Warmonger, Scourge! It must be Azgarâzir's army that hurtled towards them was bringing down trees. It must be his anger, his rage.

Goblins fled, scrambling over each other in their panic while the Orcs tried to rally, glancing at each other nervously and shifting as if they too might run. Another tree crashed and fell, closer this time. Much closer.

Thakrat bellowed to his troops. 'Stand and fight you curs!' he shouted. 'The Gul will have you if you do not fight!' But it was not enough. The Uruks whipped and shouted at the Orcs to stand and fight but some still fled. They turned their crossbows on the cowardly traitors and shot them in the back.

Gob found himself back in his ditch, crawling along on his belly and whimpering. Azgarâzir would bring Thrakagâsh, firebringer. They would all burn in revenge for what had been done to Zigserat. They would all be disemboweled. They would all be devoured by the wicked and cruel elves and their spirits be consumed by light. They would never know the embrace of the Great Darkness. Gob wanted to go home.

Azgarâzir and Thrakagâsh thundered towards them in their fury, tossed the trees aside and the roared like a hurricane. Gob scrambled to his feet and tried to run but the wind was so strong now that he had to lean against it and leaves and twigs and branches were being hurled through the air. A tree crashed somewhere near him. He threw himself to the ground and buried himself under the body of a huge Uruk hoping that no one would find him there and he could pretend to be dead; it had worked before. Cringing, he peered through his thin and spidery eyelashes at the tossing, frenzied tree line waiting for the onslaught of the approaching army. The storm struck then; thunder cracked like a whip and the lightning flashed over the mountains. Thunder cracked again and the rain came. Blown by the gale, it drenched Gob and he could no longer see the mountains. He could only see the trees, waving, windblown, stretched out and hear the roar of the wind, the rain.

They came suddenly from the eaves of the forest as Gob knew that they would. A mighty bear smashed into the frightened orcs, throwing them wide. After that, only the Uruks stayed to fight. Behind the bear were others. Huge, grizzly. No ordinary bears. No. These were the terrible Shape changers and they must be the vanguard of Azgarâzir, thought Gob, weeping. There was a loud gurgling screaming as one bear seized an orc by the throat and shook it like it was a bunch of bones and rags. It might have been Thrakat, Gob thought and pressed himself into the ground. One Uruk reached down and grabbed Zigserat, dragging him towards him like a shield but the huge bear that had led the charge swung round and with one blow, cuffed the Uruk so its head flew from its shoulders, leaving bloody stringy gore as the torso collapsed.

The bear dropped to all fours and stood over the Elf, lying drenched in the rain. Around it, its sleuth of fighting bears formed a dense and ferocious wall, fur and teeth and claws against which the Uruks had no chance. It was bloody and brief and when it was over, they melted back into the forest taking Zigserat with them and it seemed to Gob, cringing and hiding behind a dead Uruk, that the trees closed over them as if the wood had swallowed them up.

Oooooooo