Orcs seethed under the mountains, from Gundabad to Redhorn. None could tell the time the surge would be loosed, seeking to overwhelm the western lands. For five hundred years and ten Elrohir had fought to stem the flood. Now at the moment the tide would surely crest…

Aragorn has need of his kindred.

Could the addition of one warrior, however skilled, make a difference? Perhaps. Less than a score of riders gathered here; a few more waited towards Tharbad. He fingered the razor edge of his blade and sheathed it. Elladan could stay and fight without him. His place was south.

Elladan saw how carefully Halbarad guarded the staff, sable banner tightly wound and tied. It hurt that his sister had not asked him to carry it, thinking his rage focused only on the orcs of the mountains. If proud Aragorn called for aid, the need was dire. And surely Arwen deserved the happiness that would come with victory.

There would be orcs enough in Rohan and Gondor. Elrohir could stay and fight here.

Packs shoulder-slung, the brothers met and inspected each other, brows raised.

“I could not let Estel fight alone.”

“Nor I. Do we not share a father?”