Poised on Arod's back, Legolas drew his bow and loosed an arrow, catching the leading orc spear-thrower in the neck before it could cast its weapon at Aragorn and Gimli. The spear tumbled from the orc's grip and it collapsed in a white burst of river spray, tripping the orcs behind. Howls of dismay and confusion echoed in the night-swathed gorge.

But though many orcs stumbled, a smattering of spears arced, black on black, towards man and dwarf. Aragorn ducked and swept Andúril over his head, bright in the darkness. Legolas winced as a spear clanged off Gimli's helmet.

They could not continue like this. Dawn was too far off – if even that would deter their foes, for these orcs of the White Hand did not seem as weakened by daylight as they ought to be. And elf, man and dwarf had been fighting too long. At the beginning, Aragorn had seemed driven by some strange inner fire; but now, even in this poor light, Legolas could see his sword-strokes growing clumsy. Gimli's shouts had long since quietened. And although the elf had been sparing with his arrows, and as strategic as he could contrive, he had yet one remaining; those that had fallen in the gulley were lost to the waters, and he could gain no more. If his arrows were spent, his knife would have to serve. And that would be desperate work indeed.

Yet he did not give up hope.

These was something peculiar about this battle.

For one thing, the orcs kept to the stream-bed. Legolas held the low point on the southern shore himself – many were the foes he had deterred with his barbs – but what of the northern? Even the spear-throwers seemed more willing to take poor positions than approach the northern cliff. Legolas fancied he saw movement there, where the land dipped towards the river. The figures he'd half-glimpsed in the darkness were orcs, he was certain – yet they did not descend. Perhaps they fought some unknown enemy, or waited for a signal yet ungiven. He could not tell: the battle-din and the roar of the stream obscured all sound. If the orcs to the north only bided their time, this stand of the three hunters was surely doomed. Yet, his heart told him it was not so.

And what of their orc-captive? There was no sign of it, but Aragorn was hale, and did not look as though he had been attacked – for surely their prisoner would have left grievous injuries ere Aragorn overcame it, and he had been strong – even over-strong – when battle was joined. Had he, then, bested the orc while it was tied? But Legolas could not imagine Aragorn executing a helpless prisoner.

He watched the orc spear-throwers regroup with chagrin. Aragorn and Gimli had only been granted a momentary reprieve. A contingent of uruk-hai was massing in a dark bulk beyond the spear-throwers, about to charge. Legolas' bow would be needed, but the spear-throwers were blocking his shots. He hastened Arod further along the lip of the gorge. He would put his last shaft to good use before he dismounted and the battle became ugly knife-work.

As he halted and readied his bow, he considered whether this riddle of the prisoner could be read in Aragorn's missing horse. No – for if Aragorn had fallen from the saddle, the horse would have panicked, thrown the orc, and returned to his master. The orc could not have taken Hasufel.

Surely Aragorn had not let the orc go? Even in his most noble, mortal stubbornness—

A sudden light rent the sky to the north, stark and blinding, a brilliant green.

Legolas shielded his eyes. 'Ai!'

Arod let out a great whinny.

And the light was gone.

Legolas blinked away the red afterimages of the northern shore, only to see a shadow pouring down the wet-glinting cliff-face.

His heart went cold.

'Yrch!' he whispered.

There were so many of them. That green light surely had been the signal to attack.

His intuition had misled him.

Filled with horror, Legolas notched his last arrow – and stilled.

The orcs jumping the cliff paid no heed to the ranks of their fellows below. They ran into them, trampling them like reeds in a marsh.

It was as if they fled in retreat rather than attacked in force.

The elf's brows drew together in confusion.

Then, disregarding the chaos, the uruk-hai charged.

Legolas cried out and sighted along his final arrow. The leading uruk-hai – a massive captain – pulled ahead of the others. The panicking orcs from the north shore were not enough to deflect its headlong chase. It sprinted for Aragorn and Gimli, legs pumping up river-spray, broad blade weaving. Its helm obscured its neck, and its backplate and breastplate were snug. Nothing was visible of its face but the side of its gaping maw.

It was an impossible shot. He could not hit anything vital.

Turn to me. Turn, hideous enemy. Just a little. Let me end you.

And yet another hulking shape also hastened from the far shore. One huge orc stood out amid the panicking mass, running from the direction of the north bank, the smeared White Hand on its face ghostly in the dark. It pounded surefooted over the rocks. It, too, ran towards Aragorn and Gimli. Legolas caught the flash of fangs; the orc's face was dead-on. It would be an easy shot. But it was not the orc he needed to fell – it was too far off.

And it was familiar.

The prisoner!

Yet, as Legolas watched, it outpaced the uruk-hai captain.

He wavered.

Which orc should he shoot? Aragorn and Gimli were exhausted. They could not overcome either of these monsters.

Then the solution came to him.

The two orcs would align at the last moment.

He could take both with one arrow.

It was the only way.

He drew his bow back past his ear, hearing the tension of the bowstring, the faint sing of the Galadhrim-hair.

The uruk-hai were nearly there.

Two more paces.

But as Legolas stilled his breath to take the shot, the orc-prisoner swerved. It rammed into the oncoming captain. There was a smack of flesh and a screech of metal.

Legolas gasped; his arrow flew wide; the two orcs went down in a brutal mess of limbs and iron.

The charging ranks of uruk-hai floundered. Bellowing cries rang in the gorge.

What had just happened? Had the orc-prisoner tripped? Why—

And the green light flared again.

Legolas ducked his head, hiding his eyes; Arod shied and snorted. Orcish howls rent the night. Legolas covered his ears as the roar of iron-shod feet thundered between the cliffs. When he looked up, the host of orcs was stampeding downstream in a dark mass of yelling figures. They crushed each other in their desperation to flee.

But the rock where his companions had stood was empty.

'No!'

He leapt off Arod's back, ready to spring into the gorge.

But the light flared again – and revealed two shapes clinging to the foot of the northern cliff: one tall, one broad. Above them, a magnificent silver-white horse pranced and tossed his mane, while a second mount danced like a shadow behind. And dismounting from the white horse was a rider, robes shining as adamant in their own brilliant light, a green-burning branch held aloft in his hand.

Legolas let out a great shout of joy, realising – finally – that he knew the green light: he had seen it before, on the pass of Caradhras. Even in the confusion of battle, how could he have thought ill of it, that lifesaving token of a dear friend?

'Mithrandir!' he cried. 'Mithrandir is come!'

Gandalf dismounted, threw aside the flaming brand and, crouching, held out his staff; Aragorn and Gimli gained the top of the cliff. The orcs flowed away like a departing tide; their distant screams echoed and were swallowed by the night. The silence was broken only by the roar of the river.

Legolas let out a glad laugh.

And stopped dead.

For, crawling over the lip of the ravine towards him was one, final orc: massive, filthy, its miscreated face further marred by the imprint of the White Hand. It was cradling what was left of its right arm to its chest, and it limped.

But were all the ages of the world to run again, he would know those burning yellow eyes.

Legolas stepped back and drew his silver-hafted knife.

Uglútz bared her fangs and snarled.