Chapter Seven: The Snare

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has left a review. I sincerely appreciate all your words! Hopefully, this chapter will prove exciting and worth the wait. I’ve decided to move the OC list to the end of the chapter—since it was getting a little long. Basically, every new character is going to be a warrior…but definitely check the list to keep them all straight. Enjoy! (and don’t forget to review!!!)

PS-Like Tolkien, I use the terms “orc” and “goblin” interchangeably for roughly the same ugly creatures. I know there is variety among the species, and I’ll leave it up to your imaginations as to what the goblins in this story look like. Please let me know if the use of both terms gets confusing and I’ll pick one.

Finally, thanks to Kayson135 for beta editing this chapter!

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“Well?” Girithron demanded tersely.

Helediron shook his head sadly. “No sign yet, my lord. We will keep watch.” He bowed formally before the Crown Prince and retreated to a beech tree at the southernmost tip of a small clearing in the forest. The warrior disappeared amidst the foliage in the moment it took for Girithron to resume his pacing.

The Crown Prince balled his fists in frustration and glared at the sky as he rounded a corner of the clearing and turned to repeat his path. The sun had begun to sink in the sky and twilight was fast approaching. Girithron had been wary of this method of signaling, which Legolas had proposed, but now he was convinced it was utter nonsense. What if their arrow had gone astray or unseen? What if aught had befallen Rochiron’s group to prevent any signal whatsoever? Any number of possibilities may have occurred, and he should have known better than to trust the judgment of an elf so many centuries his junior. He should have relied on his own instincts and had runners relay messages between the groups. Girithron shook his head vehemently as the absurdity of this idea agitated his mind. No, there was no better way. And what if they did not signal? Then Girithron must move and take his patrol with him south downriver with aid. The Crown Prince all but swore with vexation. He should have placed himself in the first group, not Legolas, and—

“The signal!” Helediron’s shout cut both Girithron’s thought and his step. The Crown Prince hurried eagerly to the foot of the beech tree from which his scouts had seen the sign.

“What news?” Girithron called anxiously.

“All is well, my lord. Their arrow bids us wait.” Helediron combined these last words with descending from the tree. The warrior winced as a note of incredulity had crept into his voice.

Girithron’s frown echoed the suspicion beginning to stir in the patrol’s camp. Other elves had heard the report and had gathered around their prince.

“So they bid us wait,” the Crown Prince concluded. “They have discovered naught, then.” Girithron shifted as an awkward silence began to press itself upon his mind. He turned to contemplate the warriors standing behind him and noted that few met his gaze.

“Málchanar.” Girithron addressed the patrol’s veteran warrior, an elf he both respected as a teacher and trusted as a friend. “What say you?”

The weathered elf did not look away. “They may have discovered a situation beyond all aid, my lord.”

Girithron tensed. “You refer to the total annihilation of the Southern Company, I presume? They need no help to bury the dead.”

Málchanar looked to the south. “We cannot be certain,” he replied slowly. “I am afraid we have no choice but to wait until the morrow and another signal.”

“Waiting,” Girithron growled. “I have had enough with waiting.” Ignoring the sympathetic looks from his warriors, the Crown Prince strode angrily to the riverbank. He contemplated the water running swiftly to the south. What purpose and direction had the river, he mused. The water did not wait to be sure of smoother path or better course. It simply flowed onwards with headlong speed.

Girithron closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He had served as a warrior for hundreds of years before his promotion to military commander. He was well aware that his supply of patience was on the thinner side. He had taught himself prudence and caution. He knew when to strike and when to hold, however long the waiting took. Yet this evening Girithron found himself anxious for action. The wait had been gnawing at his mind all day, and he sensed that urgency was now required. Should he ignore the signal and travel south? Or, would his untimely departure endanger the patrol further north and ultimately jeopardize the defense of the palace and settlement?

The Crown Prince bent down suddenly and retrieved a few small rocks buried in the soft mud of the riverbank. He threw them sharply against the water. Girithron knew that the questions he now asked himself had already been answered before the rescue party had ever left the palace-cavern. The dialogue he held with himself was merely a distraction, an attempt to disguise the impotence he felt and had known he would feel. For Girithron had no choice in the matter: he had to wait. From the beginning, he knew he would be given no choice.

Turning on his heel, the Crown Prince stalked back to his warriors grouped around the beech tree. “We will make camp for the night. Divide the watch.” Girithron ignored the knowing resignation evident on the faces of most of his warriors. Despite the redundancy of the order, he was still in command, and he would still provide leadership. Settling against the trunk of an oak, Girithron prepared his mind for another night and day of waiting.

The Crown Prince let his mind wander and senses drift amongst the evening of the forest. He quashed a small voice in the back of his mind, which suggested that all the other creatures of the forest had greater purpose in their actions than he at that present moment. The autumn wind rustled through drying leaves with quiet determination. Birds called to one another in definite conversation. Why, even the clacking of spiders—

“Spiders!” Girithron shot upright.

Elves near to the Crown Prince paused in their activities and registered the unmistakable clicking of spiders.

“To the hunt!” Girithron announced jovially. The patrol quickly organized itself into an attacking unit and began to move west toward the spider sounds.

Málchanar eyed Girithron in amusement as the two elves fell in step together. “Should we not wait by the riverbank as planned, my lord?”

The Crown Prince waved his hand dismissively. “We will not journey far. Besides,” he said with a savage gleam in his eye, “we should not sit idle when evil moves about us.”

“Indeed.” Málchanar suppressed a smile as the elves took to the trees. Fortune must be favoring the company, the veteran mused. For these spiders had obligingly appeared at precisely the right moment.

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Captain Rochiron stood apart, at a distance from the group of warriors checking their weaponry by the river. The elf faced the western sky and did not shield his eyes from the brightness of the sun. Had it been any other sunset, Rochiron mused, he would have waited until the last dappled rays had faded from the leaves of the trees. Had it been any other sunset… The Captain rubbed the hilt of his sword as he surveyed the warriors gathered by the riverbank. He read determination in their faces and duty in their bearing. They were ready.

Rochiron signaled the advance, and fourteen elves began the march. Before moving himself, the Captain sought the eyes of the youngest prince of Mirkwood. Legolas was evading his gaze, and the prince’s eyes flitted among his fellow warriors and searched the ground beneath his feet. The group drew even with the Captain, and then they began to pass around him. Rochiron met any curious glances with his stoic mask that forbade questions. The Captain stood alone, almost as if those he commanded had abandoned him. Suddenly, one elf detached himself from the group. The young archer stood rigidly tall, facing south.

Finally, Rochiron began to march. He drew even with Legolas, who still did not meet his eyes. It was enough, however. The Captain quickened his step to join the others, and he knew that Legolas had taken his place at the rear.

The ground was rocky and dry. Before them rose mighty firs, which had always made the Mountains seem taller to Rochiron then they perhaps were in reality. The Captain had been across the Hithaeglir twice in his youth, but he still remembered the awful heights of the misty peaks. The ground barely sloped upward as the elves ascended, but Rochiron knew they were climbing.

“Captain, might it not be wise to keep to the trees?” Galadthor barely whispered behind Rochiron.

The Captain turned and eyed the surrounding firs warily. His gaze pierced the gloomy boughs and dark canopies that extended far above their heads. “I think not,” Rochiron replied slowly. “They seem dry and brittle branches will make for unsafe footing. Further.” He paused.

Galadthor prompted him with a raised eyebrow.

“Further,” Rochiron continued, “these trees are evil. I sense they have been twisted and would aid us not.”

Both elves contemplated the forest mistrustfully.

“If they will not help us, they will shield our enemy.” Galadthor glared at the firs.

“Perhaps,” Rochiron agreed softly as they renewed their steady march. “Our alertness must not fail as we venture further into the snare.”

Galadthor did not answer, but his heightened watchfulness was evident to Rochiron though the elf walked behind the Captain. Indeed, Rochiron felt the tension amidst the group was palpable, even solid enough to shift obstacles in their path. Elves can move with stealth unfathomable to mortal senses, yet even Rochiron had to concentrate deeply to assure himself that he was indeed followed by fourteen elves. Despite dry pine needles and loose rocks along the ground, the warriors made no sound. After his brief dialogue with Galadthor, no words were exchanged among the group. Even Calethor’s normally inexhaustible voice faltered.

The sun sank behind the horizon, and the shadows lengthened. Weird patterns of light and dark now danced about the Captain’s feet, fading quickly and reappearing further ahead. The muscles in Rochiron’s neck tightened as he realized that no birds sang the closing of the day. The silence that pressed itself upon the group seemed unnatural to the Silvan elf. It was not the quiet of a peaceful forest gone to rest, but rather an eerie stillness devoid of life. Rochiron was familiar with this silence for it was the same emptiness that surrounded Dol Guldur.

 Senses snapping, Rochiron drew his sword. His eyes pierced the gathering gloom ahead like so many spears. Behind him, he felt that other weaponry had been prepared. Spears hefted, swords raised, arrows notched.

If it was possible for the elves to move with even greater stealth, then they did so now as the light faded. Darkness came quickly under the great fir trees. Slowly, shadows enveloped the group. At first, only their bodies moved in shadow, as their dark clothing cloaked their presence. The sun had reflected off the small amount of metal the warriors possessed—an arrowhead, the tip of a spear, the flat of a sword—but now, the weapons were dulled. Their faces sank into shadow, and only the light from their eyes stayed the night.

They had arrived at the base of the first peak.

Rochiron stopped, and he felt his warriors come to rest behind him. Before them rose the Mountains, slightly steeper than the lower-lying hills, which seemed as the offspring of their mightier sires. In their course due south, the Captain knew three such elevations had to be crossed before the group could arrive at the forest below. The forest south…the Road…such a vast league of distance to the south. Rochiron’s shoulders slumped slightly as he contemplated the magnitude of the task before them. The attack on the Southern Company had occurred roughly a week ago. If prisoners had been taken, then with such cruel jail-keepers as goblins, their comrades could be halfway to Dol Guldur by now. The Captain had not the time or resources to pursue them so far south. Such was not his mission.

Rochiron cursed himself silently. Had he honestly supposed the task to be so light that he would discover the missing warriors amidst the peaks themselves? As the Mountains rose, many caverns pocketed the rock-face, and these were notorious as the favorite hiding places of orcs. Had he suspected an ambush as soon as his group had crossed the first hill? And then, was it simply a matter of freeing their comrades from bondage? Or, had he hoped to find the remnants of a battle, traces of weapons and clues to a fight? Would such evidence be enough to settle his mind and put his heart at rest? Did he desire to find more bodies, more elves slain? How had he lost his focus? Rochiron was not an elf swayed by the allure of an easier road or lighter task. Yet somehow he had miscalculated the chance of success.

“Captain, what orders?” Calethor’s voice broke the silence harshly and abruptly.

The darkness had become so absolute that the gaze with which Rochiron now directed to Calethor could only be sensed by the younger elf. The dark forms of the other warriors shifted uneasily as the darkness deepened and the silence grew.

Rochiron turned back south and faced the mountain before him. Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes from all distractions and cast his hearing into the night. The Captain tried to pick apart the profound stillness, layer by layer. There had to be a sound at the core of the silence, a movement, a rustle, something. Rochiron emptied his mind, forbidding his imagination from creating or remembering a sound when there was none.

There was only silence.

“Gather branches for torches,” the Captain whispered as he turned to contemplate the group of warriors at his back. The force of their disbelief hit Rochiron like a wave breaking against a cliff. “We will not light them yet.” He swept aside their doubt. “However, once across the first peak, we will have light.”

“If we seek to make easier targets for our enemies, perhaps we should discard our weapons here as well,” Esgaldir’s sharp voice from the rear of the group cut through the darkness.

There were no murmurs of assent, but Rochiron felt dissension and resistance. With broad steps, the Captain closed the distance between himself and Esgaldir. He gazed sternly at the young elf before him. “Should you question my orders again, Esgaldir, I will send you back to the settlement in disgrace. Do not treat such disfavor lightly,” he warned.

The younger elf’s eyes flashed sullenly, but he bowed his head in acknowledgment of the rebuke.

“Gather the branches,” Rochiron repeated. “Quietly.”

The group dispersed, and despite the rapid snapping of a few of the drier branches, the task was accomplished in relative silence. Once assured that his instructions had been followed, Rochiron signaled for the warriors to continue their journey. The Captain struck a quick march, but kept his senses primed for the slightest disturbance in the night.

The elves moved rapidly, almost a shadow themselves, practically indistinguishable from the deep shadows cast by the firs. The trees grew thickly, even unto the Mountains themselves. The terrain became rougher with hidden rocks lying treacherously loose in the mountainside. The hours stretched. The darkness solidified. The silence sharpened.

Rochiron felt the muscles in his legs and back conveying him upwards as the climb steepened. He narrowed his eyes and could barely discern a slight change in the shadows before him that designated the top of the peak. The ground leveled off, and the Captain was about to command his warriors to light their torches, when he heard it.

In the shapeless darkness before him, Rochiron heard the sound of a stone rolling down the mountainside. An outside agent had dislodged the rock. The quiet echo of stone falling against stone manifested itself to the group of warriors. The Captain froze, his sword poised in midair before him. Spears were hoisted and bowstrings drawn tautly as the group waited. An Age of silence passed, and the elves made no movement.

Rochiron hardly dared breathe as he strained his hearing to its utmost limits. But he heard no growl of warg or gurgle of orc. He smelled no foul odor of his enemies. The Captain narrowed his eyes. His experience with orcish intelligence had taught him that these creatures hardly had the patience to bait a trap, never mind wait to spring it. The Enemy would not wait so long for the elves to venture within its grasp. Rochiron did not entirely delude himself into thinking their group so hidden. He knew that goblins could smell them out without the aid of noise or light. Could it be another creature that had shifted the stone? Was the company alone?

“Light the torches,” Rochiron breathed softly.

“Heard you not—” Esgaldir’s frantic whisper caused a ripple of uncertainty within the group.

“Light them,” Rochiron repeated.

The first crackle of fire seemed like an explosion of thunder. The pine branches burned quickly and noisily. One by one, each elf held a lit torch. Silently, Galadthor extended a burning brand to Rochiron. The Captain took the branch and surveyed his surroundings.

They stood exactly where Rochiron had expected they would: the first peak would more appropriately be deemed a narrow plateau. Behind them lay the fir-covered hills, shrouded in darkness impenetrable. This particular plateau was too small for caverns or ambush, as it rose alone above the nearest rock faces. Rochiron turned to check his warriors before he could allow himself to look ahead.

No warrior had relaxed his stance with the lighting of the torches. The spear-elves and sword-elves held their weapons at their sides, while the archers fingered their bows. Grim were the faces of many, yet fear danced in the eyes of some. Out of habit, Rochiron counted the number of fighters, and he started at coming up short. Narrowing his eyes, he peered into the group behind him, until he ascertained that all but one elf had lit a torch. Legolas stood far into the distance, swallowed by darkness. The Captain frowned at the disobedience, but before he thought to reprimand the young archer, Rochiron understood the strategy. If Legolas had to run for aid, he would have to do it quickly. He would have no time to extinguish a fire, nor would it be prudent for him to be marked. Grateful for the check on his pride, Rochiron turned to examine the small dip, which occurred before the next peak rose before them.

The darkness lay heavily in the hollow and on the rocks of the mountainside. Rochiron wished for a sturdier torch with which to part the shroud, but knew he should be happy for what little light he possessed. He waited for another moment. Surely, if there were orcs in the near vicinity, the creatures would not let fifteen elves continue onwards. Rochiron began to suspect that somehow, orcs were not the minds responsible for this trap. He did not care to guess the identity of their leader, and so without further hesitation, the Captain descended into the shadow.

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Gwiwileth’s fingers deftly worked a needle into a bolt of emerald-green cloth. Her posture spoke of peace, her demeanor was placid. Yet her mind belied her calm as a thousand myriad thoughts swirled about in a desperate dance. The princess had not felt such inner turmoil for years. She knew this gift of turbulence was in fact a warning she could neither control nor understand. For whom was the danger? For her father, thousands of leagues hence, bargaining for aid? For Girithron and Legolas, courting danger in the shadows of the forest? For the elves of the Southern Company, lost, imprisoned, wounded, and hopeless?

She pricked her finger in an attempt to distract herself from fruitless thoughts. Worry was not what was required at this time. She forced stillness upon herself. Gwiwileth was like an oak tree that had weathered many storms: she might bend, but she would never break.

“I beg your pardon, my lady.”

The princess raised her head and smiled kindly at the old she-elf before her. “Why, Faelwen, what tidings? You seem perturbed.”

The head cook of the palace nodded worriedly. “Aye, my lady, I have strange tidings. I was not going to bring this before you, but the situation is getting out of hand.”

Gwiwileth had set aside her sewing, and she rose in concern. “Speak, tell me all,” she urged.

“It is the food, my lady. I cannot fathom how, but someone has broken into our winter rations. At first, the damage was hardly worth noticing, and it was just some prepared foods we had made for that day. But now, the result is sizeable and has spread to our stores. All of the lower kitchens have been raided, and we have set watches, but we see no thieves, yet always the stores have been affected. It would not be of consequence, my lady, but with so many extra mouths to feed, and with winter coming on, and with the war I hear it going to take place, why—”

Gwiwileth raised a hand to still the elf’s tirade. “Peace, Faelwen. War is not yet certain. Can we not make up our stores through our trade with Men?

“Aye, my lady, we are doing that, but if the raids continue? We cannot depend on the supply once the cold weather sets in.” Faelwen’s eyes implored the princess for a solution.

“The days will soon grow chill and game scare,” Gwiwileth murmured as she looked out the window.

“What I cannot understand, my lady, is who would dare steal food from our rations?” Faelwen glared at the space before her. “Every elf knows what we can get from the forest, and how precious that food is which comes from the outside!”

“Are the stores locked at night?” The princess regarded the cook intently.

“Aye, my lady.”

“Lock them during the day as well, Faelwen. If the kitchens are not in use during the night, lock them also. Have sentries at the doors—or have them pass the kitchens in their rounds,” Gwiwileth amended as she recalled their current dearth of guards. “This shall not continue.”

“It will be done as you command, my lady. Thank you.” Faelwen bowed gratefully as she left the chamber.

She was barely out the doorway when Hananuir practically bowled her over in his haste to enter the room.

“Beg pardon, Faelwen,” the prince managed as he righted her and shut the door at her departure.

“Hananuir!” Gwiwileth admonished.

“No time,” her brother replied tersely. “We have been attacked. Goblins to the west. The Western Company is holding them at present, but they need reinforcements. I am taking every warrior off duty and all guard companies, with the exception of one. Malaithlon is staying here with enough guards to protect the palace should it come to that. I have warriors recruiting every able-bodied refugee with the slightest notion of warfare to join the defense.”

Gwiwileth had gasped at this news, and it was a moment before she found her voice. “I will get the rest of the settlement inside the caverns. We will make ready for the wounded. Hananuir, how many?” Gwiwileth gripped her brother’s arm as he made to leave.

Hananuir’s shoulders slumped. “The scout reported a large host. Enough.” He nodded. “They are enough.”

“Hold,” the princess commanded as the prince turned the door handle. “Can we not send a small group south to call the rescue companies? They must be summoned!”

“Ai! Of course! I did not think of that!” Hananuir ran his hand through his hair in agitation. “I should have thought of that, I—”

“Now is not the time for self-doubt, Hananuir. You know what needs to be done, and you will accomplish the task necessary.” Gwiwileth held her brother’s gaze until determination had kindled in his eyes.

“Aye, I will. May the Valar protect you,” he said gently.

“And you,” she replied softly. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Hananuir was running out the door, Gwiwileth trailing at a furious pace. “Galion!” She pitched her voice to carry far down the corridor.

Now was the time for action.

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Legolas felt that his body was about to snap in pieces. He held himself so tensely that every muscle stiffened and groaned with his smallest movement. His fingers had practically etched themselves into the wood of his bow, and he felt that he would not be able to release them should he actually be required to shoot. His eyes bored into the darkness around him with such intensity that he feared he might go blind. The slightest rustle about him—the brush of fabric, the crackle of the torches, the footfall of an elven warrior—caused him to start and hold his breath. He was constantly turning around to scout the terrain behind them, suspecting at every instant that an unseen enemy had managed to track them and creep up unawares. Several hours ago, he had caught himself imagining stealthy footsteps behind him, and his increasing paranoia had caused his breath to come in shorter gasps.

He had memorized the breathing pattern of Tuilinnor and Feron, who walked immediately before him. Had the prince not been so preoccupied with checking the rear, Legolas had no doubt he would have memorized the respiratory habits of every elf in the group. Legolas cursed himself for his anxieties, but found he could not keep his fears at bay. They should have been ambushed hours ago. Indeed, the night was practically spent, and they had not discovered hide or hair of friend or foe. Something was uncannily, unnervingly, abnormally wrong.

Without warning, Feron stopped abruptly, and Legolas nearly collided with the shorter elf. Feron practically jumped at the prince’s touch, and in the flickering torchlight, Legolas made out an apologetic smile. Ahead of them, the warriors had drawn into a circle and amidst the shadows cast by torches, Legolas discerned relief on the Captain’s face.

“Captain?” Calethor asked respectfully.

Every eye was trained on Rochiron as his eyes gleamed. “Listen,” the Captain whispered. “Do you hear?”

Legolas frowned as he concentrated on the sounds of the night. Beyond the crackle of fire and sounds of breathing from their group, the prince heard nothing. Indeed, his ears had been screaming for hours at the deafening silence upon the mountainside. Beside him, Tuilinnor shook his head in frustration.

“There is nothing, Lieutenant,” the younger elf whispered to Legolas.  

The prince closed his eyes and searched deeper. He trusted Rochiron and knew that the Silvan elf had superior senses in the forest. Legolas had served under him for an unusual number of missions and patrols. Indeed, Rochiron had taught him much about the forest in his own way. If the Captain heard a sound, then a sound there must be. But he could not sense…there. Legolas opened his eyes wide. There, he had heard it. At the utmost limits of his hearing, there was indeed a sound. It was faint, perhaps no more than an echo of a sound. It was the sound of metal clanging against metal.

Somewhere, a battle raged.

Legolas met Rochiron’s eyes and nodded. Not all of them had perceived the sound, and Calethor finally voiced his doubt.

“I hear it not, Captain. What is it that you sense?” Calethor demanded.

Beside Rochiron, Erethion had his eyes tightly closed. “It sounds like…ringing.”

“A battle!” Feron called triumphantly as understanding dawned on his face.

Rochiron raised his hands for silence as murmurs began to escalate within the group. “The Mountains are deceitful, and the sounds you hear are no more than two hour’s march due south. I can discern both orcs and elves. Our goal is quite near.” He surveyed the group with his particular version of excitement. “I would not tarry when our comrades’ need is dire.”

Several elves nodded in assent, and Legolas allowed himself a small smile as he recognized this familiar tactic of Rochiron’s. The Captain caught the prince’s eye briefly as he turned to lead the group forward. Legolas’s smile broadened, as there had been unmistakable mirth in Rochiron’s eye.

The Captain took three steps forward and broke into a run. They were more than halfway across the peaks, and the downward slopes were steep. As the other warriors followed suit, Legolas waited at the rear for his turn to move. Ahead of him, Tuilinnor and Feron began to run, their bodies fluid in rapid motion. Finally, Legolas himself took off, all tension gone and muscles singing with practiced ease. As he ran, his mind became clearer, and he felt his anxieties fall away with each step he took. With barely a hitch in his stride, Legolas swerved to avoid a cleft in the mountainside. He leapt nimbly over a small boulder and relished the feeling of strength in his legs and the firmness of the ground beneath his feet.

Ahead of him, Tuilinnor slipped on a loose stone, but recovered his balance in an instant and continued forward. The torches bobbed up and down regularly as their owners did not alter the pace. As he ran, Legolas attempted to discern further sounds of battle. Yet Rochiron’s words held true—the Mountains deceived the prince and concealed all evidence of a fight. Occasionally, he caught the faint echo of ringing metal, but mostly it seemed to Legolas that a heavy fabric encircled his ears. He grimaced: trying not to listen as he ran was akin to trying not to breathe.

The group approached the top of the last peak of the Mountains. Below them lay the foothills on the southern end of the range, and further ahead, the forest. Suddenly, Captain Rochiron stopped abruptly, teetering dangerously on the last sharp ridge. Legolas skidded to a halt and abandoned his post as rearguard as the rest of the company fanned out along the ridge.

The sound of battle hit him like a hammer. On the foothills below them, Legolas saw a small group of elves completely outnumbered by a large company of goblins. The prince gasped as he realized that about half the elves had been taken prisoner—bound and guarded, they remained mostly unmoving under the last foothill to the west. The remaining elves had been separated from their kin, but they were battling to hold a position in the opposite direction from the prisoners. Strategically, they should help the free elves first, he thought. Legolas observed this in an instant, and his mind raced to comprehend the situation, as he turned frantically to Captain Rochiron.

As the prince turned his head, he felt the other warriors around him direct their attention to the Captain. In the same moment, a harsh orcish shriek emanated from below them. The group had been spotted. Before the yell had ceased, the elves moved to draw their arrows. But in the split second between the draw and the release, a black arrow came whistling through the air. It struck Rochiron and with a sharp intake of breath, the Captain lost his footing on the ridge and fell forward.

For a moment, time stopped. Legolas froze and his companions were immobile. Then, the crash of metal, the screams of goblins, and the calls of elves accosted his hearing in a cacophony of urgency. Voicing his own yell, Legolas released his arrow into the press of orcs as he charged down the mountainside. Thirteen elven warriors joined his call as the company dove into the melee.

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ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

*The Southern Company:

Captain Maeglir, Calardir (runner), Lastor, Filechon, Ornor, Lalvon, Brethildor, Dorothor

*The Rescue Team:

Group One: we’ll meet these guys in the next chapter.

Group Two: aka Girithron’s group, includes: Helediron

Group Three: aka Captain Rochiron’s group, includes: Calethor, Galadthor, Erethion, Tuilinnor, Feron, Esgaldir