Chapter Six: The children shall lead

The sound of screeching orcs and shouting elves spurred Legolas and the warriors he had accompanied south from a jog to a flat run, closing the short distance to Leithor’s village as swiftly as possible. Two of the warriors drew arrows from their quivers; the more experienced warrior drew his sword and took the lead in their charge. Dollion pulled his blade and rushed forward along side him. Without giving his guard a chance to protest, Legolas matched the archers’ pace, also drawing and nocking an arrow. To his surprise, Colloth’s only reaction was to ready his own bow.

‘Telain,’ Legolas whispered to himself only a few breaths later. “The outskirts of the village.’  His hand tightened around his bow in anticipation. The villagers’ voices were getting closer, their screams more desperate. Despite having run the entire day after leaving the patrol’s camp just after dawn, Legolas pushed himself harder…faster towards the village courtyard. They needed to reach the battle soon if they were to do any good….

Two bows twanged.

Legolas’s attention snapped east in time to see the archers, a few paces ahead of him, drawing more arrows from their quivers. Amongst the trees, two orcs pitched backwards and fell. They had been trying to circle around the village to present a more scattered attack.

‘That is an obvious tactic when attacking superior numbers in a superior defensive position. One I should have expected,’ Legolas scolded himself.

He widened his focus to the entire village perimeter, searching for other enemies that might be attempting the same strategy. There had to be more than two. He immediately spotted a second pair of orcs now skulking in the shadows of dusk a few paces further west. He drew his bow and sent an arrow into one orc’s neck. Colloth’s shaft struck the other. Cold satisfaction surged through Legolas as the orcs dropped hard to the ground, no longer able to damage village or forest again.

He raced on.

The fight in the village center finally came into view. It was a larger battle than Legolas had expected. Quickly counting the enemy, he tallied three dozen orcs, facing many fewer elves, apparently the village guards. They fought with swords, though with less skill than many of Legolas’s fellows in the training program. The majority of the villagers had taken shelter in telain, but they still wielded their bows, shooting any orcs they safely could target. Half a dozen orc archers returned attack on the telain while hunkered down behind trees for protection. The sight of them made Legolas’s heart race and blood heat, all at once.

The senior warrior and Dollion charged straight down the path towards the battle.

Legolas, Colloth and the archers spread out. Following the example of the warriors, Legolas took up a position partially obscured by a broad oak, drew his bow and released an arrow. An orc archer fell to his attack. Three others dropped moments later, victims of Colloth and the warriors’ bows.

The two remaining enemy archers cringed back behind their trees, squealing in panic and searching the forest for this new source of danger. When they finally spotted the patrol, they broke and ran. Legolas swiftly sent them to their death and turned his attention to the sword battle in the village center.

The orcs there were attempting to flee as well. Dollion and the senior warrior, along with the village guard, surrounded as many of them that they could. The ones they could not corral fled into the forest in all directions. The villagers in the telain targeted them, but some escaped.

The archers turned and looked at Legolas.

“We will chase down the ones fleeing west. You go east,” Colloth replied to their implied question.

Their only acknowledgement was to dash away.

Legolas followed Colloth in the opposite direction. They had not run a half dozen steps when he spotted two orcs. One was dodging from tree to tree, hiding. The other was running straight towards them, wielding a spear. It hefted its weapon to shoulder height the moment it saw the two elves.

A glance at his guard showed Colloth already at full draw, aiming at the charging orc, so Legolas targeted the other. His arrow went through that orc’s head before it even realized it was under attack. He automatically drew another arrow and turned his bow in the general direction of the remaining threat, searching for it quickly to make sure it was eliminated. It was not! That orc had ducked behind a tree, evading Colloth’s arrow. By the time Legolas found it again, it was hurling its spear at them.

“Move,” Colloth shouted, side-stepping right.

Legolas had already jumped left. He drew his bow and let fly the arrow on its string. Both he and Colloth struck the orc despite its clumsy efforts to allude death a second time. It fell heavily onto its back and did not move again.

Without pause, Legolas and Colloth rushed onward, searching for more orcs. Colloth shot one in the back as it fled. Legolas finished another. Finally, reaching the southern edge of the village, they met again with the two warriors that had run east.

The warriors gestured into the village and moved off in that direction. Colloth pursued them, and Legolas followed, racing towards the sound of clanging swords while shouldering his bow and drawing his sword. He held its hilt with a strangling grip that would have earned him a sharp rap on the wrist from Master Langon if this were only a training exercise.

A dozen orcs still fought Dollion, the senior warrior and the village guards. That many more were strewn about on the ground. As Legolas leapt over their bodies to join the battle, their blades caught his attention. They were smeared with a dark, sticky goo. Poison.

Colloth glanced back at him, noted the direction of his gaze and nodded with apparent satisfaction that his charge had already recognized the danger.

A moment later, Legolas was side-stepping one of those poisoned swords as it swung at his shoulder. He lunged inside the range of the orc wielding it and drove his sword into its gut. It fell. Legolas wrenched his blade free of its body and used the force of the effort to parry another blow aimed at his neck. Colloth finished that orc as Legolas cut the legs from under the next to attack them. He automatically repositioned himself in preparation for another attack, but none came. Looking around himself, Legolas saw only elves—the village guards, the warriors, Dollion and Colloth. They all stood over orcs on the ground—some writhing in pain, some motionless, but all adequately disabled.

Legolas forcefully loosed a breath, a little stunned by how abruptly the battle had ended.

Colloth inspected him briefly. “You fought well, my lord,” he said in a quiet voice.

The surge of pride that compliment elicited helped compensate, if only slightly, for Legolas’s suddenly wobbly limbs. But, unless he counted that forced duel with Tureden—and Legolas did not count that—this was the first time he had drawn a sword since his fight with Demil. At least he had proven to himself that he could do it. That was an encouraging thought.

Colloth turned his attention to the village perimeter, studying it.

“Did any escape?” Dollion and the senior warrior asked at the same time.

Dollion cast the warrior an apologetic glance and took a step back while wiping the worse of the muck on his sword off on a nearby orc’s corpse.

The warrior smiled and also took a step back. “You are a captain, after all,” he said with a half bow. “Even if not in this patrol.”

“None escaped to the east,” Colloth said, answering the original question.

“Nor to the west,” one of the archers said.

During this exchange, Legolas focused on the village. Leithor was approaching the group of warriors, a relieved and grateful expression on his face, but as he passed under the telain, he was ordering the villagers in them to get back to work. Legolas frowned as he watched the elves shoulder their bows and head towards several half-loaded hand carts and a wagon he had not noticed during the heat of the battle. The carts contained food, cloth, and even furniture. A horse—one of the horses recently gifted to the village—was tethered to a tree near the wagon. Its nostrils were flared and the whites of its eyes showed as it reared, fighting against its restraints. Fortunately, an elleth had descended from one of the telain to sooth it.

“You have been sent to cover our retreat?” Leithor asked the warriors as he drew near. “Your timing could not have been better. We thank you for your help. That was the biggest group. We held off the other two smaller ones, but that one would have had us. And now that night is near, we expect even worse.”

Legolas’s eyes widened. Retreat? What retreat? And this village had been attacked twice today before this? His attention was drawn to two ellyn. They bent down, seized an orc by its ankles and dragged it towards the far side of the village. With a start, Legolas realized there was already a mound of orc bodies there, along with a pile of armor and weapons.

Dollion and the senior warrior glanced at each other, whether in confusion over Leithor’s reference to a retreat, surprise at the number of attacks the village had faced or indecision over who would speak for them, Legolas did not know, nor did he bother to try to guess. He stepped around Colloth to address the village leader himself.

“You are very welcome, Master Leithor,” he began.

Leithor’s mouth popped open slightly when his gaze shifted from the warriors to the king’s son.

“May I ask what you meant when you mentioned a retreat?” Legolas continued, gesturing to the carts and wagon. “It appears you are moving your village, but surely that is not the case.”

“Well,” Leithor stammered. “Yes, of course we are retreating…moving…further north. The orcs are about to breach the mountains. If they have not already.” He looked over his shoulder to survey the dead orcs scattered about him and the mountain slopes rising in the distance. “We are far too close to the Emyn Duir. We must get out of the orcs’ path.”

The warriors began murmuring. Dollion and Colloth took a step forward to flank Legolas, obviously eager to ask questions.

Legolas did not give them the chance. “The orcs are going to breach the mountains, you say? That information came from whom? The Troop Commander? The King? And when? Within the last hours?”

Leithor shook his head. “It came from Moralfien. This morning before dawn. She sent word that her village was under a massive attack and the warriors there said they could not hold it. She told us to move before we were overrun. She said she was sending that same message to Nenon, Pellion, Nindor and Selwon too. She said, if we were smarter than Maethorness, who she also warned, we would move quickly. Maethorness’s village was destroyed. Of course, you must already know that.”

Legolas had to force himself not to scowl. “I do not know that,” he replied, his tone much sharper than he had intended. “Who told you Maethorness was overrun? A courier from the Eastern Patrol?”

“No. Moralfien included that in her message this morning,” Leithor answered.

Legolas put his hands on his hips. “Well, this morning I saw a message from Delethil—who is commanding the defense of that village—saying his patrol still held it. And we sent reinforcements to ensure that did not change….”

“Apparently it did,” Leithor interrupted.

“To the best of my knowledge, it did not,” Legolas countered, cutting Leithor off in turn and allowing annoyance to creep into his tone.

Leithor pressed his lips together and appeared flustered.

“My information,” Legolas continued before Leithor could argue further, “comes from reliable sources. Yours, on the other hand, comes from a traitor who the King is in Dolgailon’s village to arrest….”

“A traitor! Who?” Leithor exclaimed. “And…it is true the King is in Moralfien’s village?” He sounded oddly fearful asking that last question.

“Moralfien is the traitor,” Legolas replied. “She is commanding these orcs herself. She wants you to yield ground before them…”

“That is insane!” Leithor spluttered, gaping at Legolas.

“As insane as it may sound, I assure you that it is true,” Legolas said, making a conscious effort to imitate his father’s most stern court manners. It seemed to work. Leithor mouth was open and forming words, but he did not dare voice any contradiction. “Do you remember the elleth from Dannenion’s village that plotted with Easterlings to abduct the Queen shortly after my birth?” Legolas asked.

Leithor nodded. “Manadhien, the warriors told us her name was. They searched throughout the southern realm for her, at the king’s orders. We were to report any elleth by that name entering our villages. She was never found, I heard.”

“Moralfien and Manadhien are the same person,” Legolas said.

Leithor’s eyes flew open. “How could that be? How would no one recognize her? Report her?”  

Legolas remained silent and gave Leithor time to think through his own questions—a tactic he had seen his father put to good use in court, at least with elves smart enough to make it worthwhile, and Legolas knew both Thranduil and Dolgailon counted Leithor amongst those.

“I never met Manadhien, of course. No one in my village did. Dannenion and Dolwon’s villages were on the eastern border, far from here, and everyone that associated with her in their villages was taken north,” Leithor said, thinking out loud. “I suppose no one is left in this part of the forest that would recognize Moralfien as the same elleth that was accused in Dannenion’s village.” He looked back at Legolas. “What about Lord Dolgailon, or the King himself? How could they not recognize her? She has led that village—all of us in the south, to be honest—since Lord Aradunnon fell.”

“Lord Dolgailon is too young to have met Manadhien when she lived in the Old Capital. He knew her as Moralfien, just as you do. And Moralfien has dodged every summons the King has sent to speak with her, including one when he traveled to the village himself to meet with her. A warrior of the King’s Guard finally recognized her and reported her presence to the King.”

“Mercy!” Leithor exclaimed, finally believing it all. Then he drew a sharp breath and took a short step closer, holding out his hands and then pulling them back, as if stopping himself from grasping Legolas’s arms. “You said the King was in her village right now? To arrest her? Are you certain he is there?”

Legolas nodded.

“Elbereth, preserve us,” Leithor whispered, wringing his hands together. “In her message,” he continued, speaking quickly, “Moralfien said the King and Lord Dolgailon both fell in the battle in her village. We heard Lord Dolgailon was there, so we feared that might be true. We had not heard the King traveled south, so we could not believe….We thought she must be mistaken….” He stopped speaking, almost as if he ran out of breath, and looked Legolas up and down with obvious mounting panic. “That is not why you are here, is it? Because it is true that…. No, I refuse to believe that! The King surely is not dead.”

“He is not dead. He is alive,” Legolas immediately replied, ignoring the alarmed looks Dollion and Colloth cast towards him in response to Leithor’s claim.

Though they had no word from the King since he left the stronghold, Legolas had no doubt he spoke truthfully. Galithil said he felt the absence of his parents fear after their deaths. Legolas could not believe he would fail to feel his father’s loss. The whole forest would surely feel that. Besides, every word of Manadhien’s message was lies. There was no reason to believe her claims about the King and Dolgailon were anything other than more lies.

“I have come south to help ensure Manadhien cannot use these battles to evade arrest,” he continued. “Nothing more. If she is claiming the King has fallen, she is only doing so as part of her plan to usurp his rule. Her intention is to kill him and Dolgailon—and me—and lay claim to this forest while rewarding her orcs by earning them more territory to ravage, but she will not succeed in any of those endeavors. Not while I still breath.” Speaking of her schemes had left Legolas with clenched fists. He looked down the path leading south and west. He needed to hurry on to Dolgailon’s village. Things were obviously much worse than he expected.

“She intends to try to…!” Leithor gasped, before cutting himself off. Then he glanced at his people, still loading carts and frowned. “Our retreat is part of her plan, then? To yield ground to the orcs? We should stay put and fight?”

Legolas’s gaze darted from the path back to Leithor. He had not intended to try to sway him, one way or the other, with regards to the best decision for his villagers’ safety. “That choice remains yours,” he said quickly.

“But, Lord Legolas sent reinforcements to Maethorness’s village, as he already said,” one of the warriors interjected, “And he sent warriors from our patrol to each of the villages you named—Nenon, Pellion, Nindor and Selwon’s—to help protect them. We were sent to stand with you, if you choose to stay.”

Legolas stared silently at the warrior. Strictly speaking, that was not true. The captains had made those orders. He only facilitated them somewhat, by moving the Path Guard….

“I will not give up any part of this forest, much less my home, uncontested and betrayed by secret allies of the Evil One,” Leithor declared, pumping his fist up and down in the air to punctuate his words. “We will stay, if the King’s patrols will help us defend the forest.”

“We will,” the warrior answered.

With a nod, Leithor turned on his heel and marched over to speak with his villagers.

“I suggest we go find out precisely what is happening in Dolgailon’s village,” Colloth whispered into Legolas’s ear.

“Indeed,” Legolas replied. He turned to the three warriors. “We will leave you here, then. To coordinate the defense of this village. Any communications I send to it…”

“Will contain the symbol,” one of the warriors finished for him. “Understood, my lord. Good luck. Catch her before she makes this worse.”

“I intend to,” Legolas answered. Then he jogged down the darkening path that led from Leithor’s village, south and west, to Dolgailon’s.

*~*~*

The failing light would not have been a barrier to elven archers, even on a starless night such as this promised to be. The smoke, on the other hand, made seeing the enemy-not to mention breathing—much more challenging.

Galithil reached over his shoulder and his hand fumbled for an arrow before finally encountering one. He yanked it from his nearly empty quiver, nocked it and thrust it through the protective slats of the talan railing to aim at the neck of a spear-bearing orc on the eastern side of the battle front. He let the arrow fly. The orc jerked back and fell several paces short of the warrior it was charging. Instantly, another orc filled the hole in the enemy line. A villager near Galithil in the talan dropped that one as Galithil groped at his quiver again.

“Arrows!” he shouted, and nearly choked on the words. He spared a glance at the fire devouring the trees and telain on the eastern side of the village and cursed it.

“Curse the orcs and the flaming arrows that set the fire instead,” Galuauth muttered to him as he continued to cut down orcs. “Besides, the fire is better over there than here. We are lucky the wind is blowing eastward, toward the mountains.”
 
“True enough,” Galithil agreed.

Despite the lack of water in the talan’s barrels—Mornil’s attempt to cripple the village’s defense—the ellyth had thus far managed to beat out any flames that orc arrows brought to their shelter and the tree that held it. Their efforts had allowed the village archers, Galithil and his guards to fight longer than the enemy commanders seemed to expect. They had been able to eliminate a large portion of the orc archers and even some of the spears.

But there was no end of orcs stepping forward to take the place of those that fell. The number of elven warriors, on the other hand, was quite finite and slowly declining. And the fire meant the villagers would not be able to remain in this talan forever.

Galithil felt a downward pull on his quiver and it was full again, courtesy of the elleth that had been replenishing the archers' arrows. “Thank you," he called as he dropped another orc.

"This is the last of the arrows," she replied, her voice just over his shoulder. "And you are welcome, my lord."

From the corner of his eye, Galithil saw her stuffing arrows into Galuauth's quiver. To his left, Lanthir elbowed him and gestured with his bow to the east.

The wind had picked up again. The flames in the trees were growing taller. And moving faster. That fire was a much more serious threat than the orcs—one the village had no defense against. Even as Galithil stared at it, embers danced upward, swirling out of the flames and through the air, landing on telain, cottages, and the grass in the village courtyard. Galithil held his breath as his eyes followed several bright sparks floating towards the platform of the talan. Ellyth darted forward and pounced on them quickly, before they had a chance to catch.

More ellyth scrambled into the branches to extinguish the embers that fell on the tree. Unfortunately, this time there were too many and they fell where the limbs were too slender to reach. In several places, the bark on the branches glowed red. Small flames flickered. Then dry autumn leave caught.

“Our luck has run out,” Lanthir said even as he continued to release arrows. “We need someplace else to send these people."

"The orcs will advance if we come out of this talan," Galuauth countered, also still shooting orcs. “And there are not enough warriors to hold them back.”

"We will have to hold back any orcs that charge ourselves,” Galithil replied. “Our choice is that or burn to death.”  

But where could they go? When Dolgailon and Seregon had briefed him on village defense, none of their lessons mentioned how to respond to forest fires. He scowled and looked over the villagers around him. There were wounded. It would be impossible—far too slow—to retreat north while carrying them. But going to another talan would do little good. Aside from the fact that they could not escape the fire that way, the rest of the telain in the village were designed as homes, not fortified shelters for the poorly skilled to fight from like this one. These people needed someplace safe to wait out the battle. He looked back into the village. The Hall was still a good distance from the fire, and it was the most strongly built, defensible building in the village. He loosed two short whistles.

Seregon, still commanding the village guards at the rear of the ground battle, replied with two short whistles of his own. He immediately began repositioning his guards, spreading them further apart.

"Prepare to retreat to the Hall," Galithil called. He pointed at the elleth that had been replenishing arrows. "Go get the medicines and bring them with us." He pointed to another elleth. "Help her."

They both ran into the shelter.

Galithil pointed at four ellyn--the ones he had noted were the worst archers. "You carry the wounded. Go now."

They passed their arrows to the nearest elves and rushed into the shelter after the ellyth.

Finally, Galithil pointed at the five best archers. "You stay with Galuauth, Lanthir and I. We will cover everyone's escape as best we can."

They answered by continuing to release arrows into the orc ranks.

Galithil glanced at Galuauth.

The guard nodded once. "I cannot think of anything else you could do, my lord," he said softly.

Galithil drew a long breath and then whistled again. "Go," he ordered a moment later.

The ellyth with the medicine and the ellyn with the wounded scrambled down the rope ladder first.

At the sight of them, apparently defenseless and on the open ground, orcs screeched in excitement and surged forward in disorderly furor, thirsting for blood.

The tiring and thinning ranks of the patrol and guard did their best to hold them, but the sudden reduction in support from the archers in the talan and the enemy’s renewed enthusiasm severely tried their strength. The elven lines were pushed back enough to allow some orcs to flank them, squeezing between the warriors and the mountains.

Galuauth, Lanthir and the five villagers targeted them, trying to cut short their charge, as Galithil directed the retreat as quickly as possible.

The first to flee, including the ellyn carrying the wounded, reached the Hall unscathed. They flung open its doors and disappeared inside. The next few groups Galithil sent also made good their escape without incident. But the orcs could not be held back entirely.

“To the east! Stop them! Hurry!” Galuauth shouted as the final groups of elves began to descend the talan.

Galithil looked over his shoulder. Well over a dozen orcs were running straight at the fleeing elves, frothing in anticipation.

Some had bows.

Elves screamed and others yelled for help as orc arrows hit their targets.

Galithil spun around to face the orcs, drawing his bow. He, his guards and the remaining five villagers dropped over half the charging orcs before they passed under the talan and into the village, but the rest raced forward, through the courtyard, and closed in on the escaping elves.

Those orcs, armed not only with bows, but also with spears and swords, did real damage.

Galithil watched, helpless, wishing for his cousin’s precision with a bow, as the village potter was struck in the calf by a thrown spear. He struggled to limp away and managed to reach the Hall, but he would likely lose the use of that leg. At least. The orcs’ weapons were poisoned.

Several orcs surrounded an elf Galithil remembered gathering berries with when he lived briefly in this village as a small child. Cackling with laughter, the orcs poked him in the gut with a spear. The rest of the elves turned to help him, leaping onto the orcs and attacking them with their knives. Some dragged their wounded friend to the Hall while the others fought, but Galithil knew such wounds were fatal. He clutched the railing of the talan, anger and grief at the death he had allowed making his breath come with difficulty.

The villagers managed to bring down the remaining orcs at least well enough to resume their retreat.

Galithil gritted his teeth and watched them flee while trying to decide how to convince Galuauth and Lanthir to allow him to join the village guard in the battle. He could not bear to retreat to the Hall.

Before he could form an argument, one of the wounded orcs the villagers had left behind raised himself up on one arm.

Gauluath and Lanthir already had their bows drawn. They released.

The orc threw a spear at the same moment.

It hit an elleth in the center of her back. Her body arched and her arms flew up in the air before she dropped like a sack to the ground and did not move.

Galithil stared at her, momentarily paralyzed in shock. It was his friend Galasserch’s mother, Naineth. Galithil had a sudden flash of memory—Naineth, framed in the doorway of her cottage with a jar in her hand, offering him bread and jam while scolding her much older elfling when he teased Galithil for still wanting such ‘baby’ treats.

Galithil’s focus shifted back to the wounded orcs. The guards’ arrows already protruded from the one that killed Naineth. Galithil sent five of his own swiftly into the remaining orcs.

He should not have discounted them so quickly. What would he say to Galasserch? He turned and looked towards the battlefront, searching for some sign of his friend amongst the village guard. He found him, struggling with a large, brutish orc and not with all the skill Galithil had come to know his friend had cultivated with that sword. He was distracted by his loss—by the sudden absence of his naneth’s fea. Galithil knew that grief.

‘Please do not let Galasserch fall,’ he whispered to himself, watching.

Seregon’s blade fell across the brutish orc’s neck.

Another took its place but Seregon pulled Galasserch to his feet and back into proper position to defend himself and the village.

"That is everyone but us," Lanthir declared, drawing Galithil’s attention back to where it should be—his own surrounds.

And not a moment too soon.

The southeastern corner of the talan was fully engulfed in flame. It was so hot on the platform that Galithil's skin felt dry and taut. "Get moving," he ordered the five elves he had asked to stay. “Go to the Hall. Close and bar the doors when you reach it. Lanthir, Galuauth and I will cover your escape." He grabbed the arm of a passing elf. “Keep an eye on the fire. Get the wounded out of the village and to the north if it turns west. And, obviously, keep an eye on the battle. Flee north at the first sign they have broken through the lines. You will have no time to waste.”

“Yes, my lord,” the elf said.

Galithil released his arm.

The platform listed violently as one of the branches supporting it collapsed.

“To the ground," Lanthir yelled, scrabbling towards the ladder and sliding down its ropes along with everyone else.

Once on the ground, the five villagers began to run for the Hall.

“Move,” Galuauth ordered Galithil, also taking a step backwards towards the Hall while still facing the line of orcs to the south.

"I am not going with them," Galithil replied. "Once they reach the Hall, we will join the village guard."

That announcement was enough to drive Galuauth to turn and stare at Galithil, shaking his head.

"I am not hiding in that Hall," Galithil forestalled him. "Not as long as I am capable of defending this village. We are going to join the guard.” Without waiting for further argument, Galithil drew his sword and ran south.

*~*~*

Thranduil planted his foot against the ribcage of the orc he had just killed and pulled, heaving his sword from its gut. He used his backward momentum to leap away from the blade of another orc. Conuion finished that one as Thranduil smoothly parried a spear thrust, turning the much lighter weapon easily while, at the same time, slashing the throat of the orc that held it with the knife in his off hand. Then he retreated back several paces to survey the field. Belloth and Pendurion filled the void he left in the line, but orcs pressed in against them, lunging viciously at their preferred target.

It was clear since the battle was joined that the enemy had specific orders: capture or kill the king.

Thranduil barely repressed a snarl in response to their efforts. To his increasing frustration, Manadhien had proven herself a capable tactician. She consistently recognized and resisted his attempts to draw the orcs into vulnerable positions that his more skilled warriors could exploit, despite their lesser numbers. Instead, she held the despicable creatures to unprecedented levels of discipline, settling for a battle of attrition that the elves had no hope of winning, given how badly they were outnumbered.

A quick scan of the battle front showed her strategy was well chosen.

The lines of warriors from the Western Patrol that fought with Thranduil near the forest border were thin and tiring. On the far front of the battle, the fire from the orcs’ flaming arrows was now consuming the pines half way up the slopes of the Emyn Duir. Those flames would be a much greater threat than any orc if the winds should shift. Recognizing that danger, half a dozen or so warriors of the Southern Patrol had diverted from the fighting to open a wide swath of cleared land between the fire and the battle. Thranduil could not fault them for trying, but he doubted the strip they managed to clear would be sufficient if tested and, worse still, it weakened the elves’ efforts against the orcs near the mountains.

He spared a glance upward at the now black skies, trying to determine if clouds or smoke blocked the stars. A heavy rain would be welcome, but not something he could control. He turned his attention back to the battle.

The eastern and western fronts were bad enough. It was with great reluctance and no small amount of fear that he turned his gaze to where the village guards struggled to hold the center of the field—to where Galithil had joined the sword battle after signaling the village archers’ retreat just before nightfall. Thranduil automatically noted the guard’s depleted ranks, but that was not what caused him to hold his breath.

There!

He closed his eyes and loosed a quiet sigh.

Galithil was still fighting.

All too aware that he should be focused on the battle as a whole, Thranduil could not stop himself from taking a moment to study his foster son. To his relief, both Galuauth and Lanthir still stood with him. And Galithil was skilled with that sword! Much more so than the village guards around him. But Thranduil’s next realization made his breath stop again: Galithil was fighting with his off-hand. His right arm was held tightly against his body.

He clenched his fists and looked away, studying the orcs’ positions for some exploitable weakness. He was running out of both time and warriors. He needed to finish this battle. Where were the reinforcements he had called for? Surely Engwe had time to deliver his orders and return with more warriors by now. If they did not appear soon….

Thranduil ground his teeth. ‘I will not retreat from her!’ an angry voice growled in his head.

‘I will not sacrifice the better part of this realm’s warriors in a hopeless battle either,’ a more reasonable voice answered.

Conuion stepped into Thranduil’s field of vision, expression fixed, staring steadily past him, over his shoulder.

Carefully, concealed as much as possible by Conuion, Thranduil glanced towards the village.

On its far edge, pressed against a tree in the shadows, stood Engwe. When he saw the king looking at him, he held out three fingers, low next to his hip.

Thranduil nodded almost imperceptibly. Engwe had managed to muster enough reinforcements for all three fronts of the battle. That was very good news. The key was to use it wisely. That meant, above all else, quietly. No audible or visible signals. It also meant employing tactics Manadhien would not expect him to dare. Shielding his hand from view with his body, Thranduil made circular motion with his index finger.

Engwe frowned slightly and slipped deeper into the shadows of the trees.

Thranduil again faced the orcs, suppressing a grim smile. Now he needed a diversion to keep the orcs’ attention focused forward. He had the perfect idea for that. One that would solve two problems. He called Galithil’s signal, loud and clear. He wanted Manadhien to see what he did next.

Across the battle field, his foster son finished the orc he faced and appeared to argue for a moment with his guards. Thranduil’s eyes widened. He could not believe Galithil would disobey any direct order, much less one he issued. Finally, Galithil and Galuauth disengaged from the fight, leaving Lanthir with the village guard. That must have been the cause of their dispute. Lanthir had hesitated to leave Galithil. Thranduil understood that—his orders were to protect Galithil—but Thranduil also could not argue with Galithil’s reasoning to leave Lanthir in place. The village guard would be strained to their limit by the loss of even two warriors, much less two of their best. Still, Thranduil wanted Galithil out of this fight.

“My lord?” Galithil panted as he approached. His gaze was focused on the line of orcs behind Thranduil. Their shouts reached a frenzied pitch at his arrival. Galithil automatically assumed a mid guard and eyed them defensively.

“Have they been targeting you, specifically?” Thranduil blurted, his battle plans temporarily forgotten.

Galithil shrugged, lifting his chin. “She did not kill me this morning,” he replied, with a level of hatred Thranduil had never heard from his young foster son. “Her orcs will not manage it now.”

Thranduil stared at him. Manadhien had tried to kill him this morning?

“I should have killed her myself, when I had the chance, before this battle began. I regret that I did not. Deeply.” Galithil turned grief-filled eyes from the remains of the surrounding dead elves to face the King. “I beg your pardon for it.”

Frowning, Thranduil reached to grasp Galithil’s shoulder, but stopped himself short. That shoulder’s arm was tucked securely between Galithil’s sword belt and body. Thranduil’s hand hovered in the air as he tried to determine exactly what wounds Galithil bore.

“It is nothing, my lord,” Galithil said. “A broken bone. I am wearing mail, as you ordered. It held.”

Thranduil silently thanked the Valar he had made that order. A blow heavy enough to break bone? Delivered with a poisoned weapon? His mind reeled at what the result would have been if Galithil had not been wearing a full hauberk.

“And I can fight just as well with my left hand,” Galithil continued. “Master Langon saw to that.” He snorted derisively. “But I need more practice fighting while wearing mail if you intend to require me to use it regularly. It makes me much slower.”

Blowing out a long breath, and hopefully some shock with it, Thranduil scowled at him. “It kept you alive,” he retorted. Then he forced himself to practicalities. “Do something to bind his arm and your own wounds while there is time,” he said to Galuauth. Then he looked back at Galithil. “You have fought very well,” he said. “And as for Manadhien, she was never your responsibility. Put her out of your mind. I want you to go back to the village…”

Galithil immediately began shaking his head and mounting a protest.

“Silence,” Thranduil commanded. “Go back to the village.” Then he leaned closer to conceal his words. “Do not react to what I am about to say. There are reinforcements in the forest behind us working their way into position. Engwe is going to lead them behind her lines, but it is imperative that Manadhien not discover them. I need her focused on something more interesting and you are it. Go to the Hall, tell the villagers what we are planning and make them ready to retreat, if needed. Then order some of them—the ones most able to fight, if it should come to that—out of the Hall and make it look as if you are evacuating them. Take your time. Perhaps pretend you are moving the wounded. That will give Engwe time to get into position and should make Manadhien believe we are preparing to surrender the village. She will focus her attention on stopping us from escaping and Engwe will be able to take her by surprise. Be prepared to flee in earnest if this goes badly and the orcs break through. If they do, get the villagers north as quickly as you can. Understood?”

Galithil nodded and grasped Thranduil’s arm, pulling him closer to speak into his ear. “What if she has more orcs in reserve herself? What if Engwe comes in behind her and is trapped between the orcs here and her reserves?”

Thranduil felt a flash of irritation. It had been a very long time since anyone dared question his orders. Anyone other than Aradunnon, that is. He always questioned any order. And, in his youth, that was one way he developed the knowledge to become such a strong tactician.

“You are wise to fear she might have more orcs. Wise to advise caution,” he replied, forcing himself to patience. “The possibility of more orcs is why I sent Engwe and not just any officer to command this attack. I trust him to make good judgments.”

Galithil’s brows knit, but he did nod his acceptance.

Thranduil gave him a light shove in the direction of the village. “Go, then,” he said and watched with no small amount of relief as his foster son raced back to the village.  Then he turned back to the battle and adjusted his grip on his sword while scanning for the weakest point in his front. He would reenter the battle there to reinforce it.

Immediately, his breath caught.

There she was! Right in front of him! Manadhien! She was leaning out from behind a thick trunk, watching Galithil while giving orders to an orc. It was the first clear glimpse he had of her since he last saw her in the Old Capital. He only saw her face now. Her head sticking out from behind the tree. Well, he only wanted her head, so that was enough for him. Without taking his eyes off her, Thranduil thrust his sword into Conuion’s hands and reached for his bow. In one swift motion, he nocked an arrow, drew and released, sending the arrow flying towards her nose.

He followed its path with his eyes. It flew true—straight at her as she spoke. He had her. He had her! His fist tightened around his bow in anticipation…

At the very last moment, Manadhien finished speaking. The orc stepped back towards the enemy lines and Manadhien moved to hide behind her tree.

The arrow struck.

Rather than hitting her squarely, it tore across her cheek opening a gaping wound, but not a fatal one.

Thranduil loosed a curse and reached into his quiver.

Manadhien squealed in shock and pain, sounding very much like one of her orcs. Her hand flew to her face and she spun around again, searching for her attacker.

Her face contorted with fury upon finding Thranduil glaring at her.

Thranduil’s jaw clenched as he nocked and drew his bow a second time, hurrying before she darted away.

But she did not flee. Instead she stepped fully from behind the tree—Thranduil tracked her movements, keeping his arrow trained on her—and she raised her own bow, arrow nocked.

Conuion was instantly between the king and the arrow threatening him.

Thranduil released.

So did Manadhien.

Conuion stepped back, pushing Thranduil bodily to the side. A blue-fletched arrow with a silver shaft whistled by them.

Manadhien was on the move as well, bolting behind her tree. Not fast enough. She loosed another scream.

Thranduil peered around Conuion, searching for her and trying to determine what damage he had done. He could not find her. He shoved Conuion aside and took a step forward, squinting into the gloom. Where was she?

Deeper amongst the trees, in the shadows, too far away from her original position to be her, Thranduil glimpsed something else. A slender form. Long braided hair. Another elf, certainly. This elf was pointing straight at Thranduil. Orcs scurried forward at his commands. The elf had to be one of Manadhien’s servants. Thranduil searched the trees above him and found Tureden. He continued searching. Yes, there was Geledhel, another of his spies, leaned low over a branch, poised for movement or attack, taking little care to avoid discovery for the moment. He intently examined the ground below him, near where Manadhien has just been, his expression grim but….hopeful?

Could that mean that Manadhien was wounded at least badly enough to eliminate her as a threat in this battle?

Belloth shouted a sharp series of commands to the surrounding warriors, pulling Thranduil’s attention back to the battle. The warriors near him tightened their ranks and met the onslaught of charging orcs sent by the elf in the shadows.

Whether in response to Thranduil’s attack on Manadhien or the evidence of their supposed impending retreat, this attack was the most ferocious thus far.  Thranduil shouldered his bow and reclaimed his sword from Conuion. Even as he raised it, an orc lunged through the elven warriors, landing a cut on Thranduil’s sword arm and forcing it down. His mail prevented the poisoned blade from cutting flesh. The orc stepped forward to press its advantage. Thranduil closed range also and, with his left hand, drove his knife up, under the orc’s armor and between its ribs. It convulsed and dropped to the ground.

Another instantly took its place. Conuion’s sword flashed across that one’s throat, but not before it delivered a bruising blow across Thranduil’s shoulder. His mail again protected him, but Thranduil loosed a pained growl as still more orcs surged against the elven warriors.

To his left, Pendurion screamed, staggered back and fell, clutching his leg.

The warriors of the Southern Patrol struggled to close the gap his loss had caused.

Thranduil brought his sword from a high guard down across the shoulder of the nearest orc with enough force to cleave its arm from its body and send the plates of its shoulder pauldron flying through the air. With his upswing he gutted another orc.

In his peripheral vision, he saw several orcs to the east break past the village guards and rush north.

Thranduil struggled to turn…to see if anyone was in a position to stop those orcs before they reached Galithil and the Hall. He sidestepped an orc’s blade. He ducked under another attack and hamstrung that orc with the knife in his offhand. He parried the next sword that came at him and shoved the orc bearing it back. Conuion finished it. Another orc swung a mace at his head. Cursing, he stepped out of its range.

Behind him, in the village…he strained to hear over the screams and clanging swords around him. Did he hear arrows? Orcs screeching? Or elves screaming?

“Galuauth stopped them all,” Conuion said through a grunt as a blow fell on his right shoulder. The orc that landed it lost its legs at the knees. “But the village guard will not hold much longer.”

Thranduil nodded and tore his attention away from the attack long enough to confirm Tureden and Geledhel were still in place. They were. Enough of this, then. He called a signal ordering some of the Southern Patrol to reinforce the guard. He immediately heard the patrol’s captain signal warriors to comply with that order.

“Too thin,” Conuion warned. “The orcs will flank the patrol near the mountains.”

“No,” Thranduil replied, speaking loudly enough that all the warriors around him should hear. “They are going to come to us. Be ready.” He shifted his attacks until he had drawn near to the captain of the Western Patrol. “Morillion,” he called, “Take command. You need only hold them back from the village a little longer.” He glanced at Conuion. “I am going after Manadhien. You stay here and help the patrol. Belloth, you are with me. If they still have archers, I do not care to be shot.”

Conuion loosed a scoffing noise and shook his head at Thranduil.

Thranduil’s brows drew together. “You are no archer,” he said to the captain of his guard, jerking his chin at Conuion’s right shoulder. It had been so badly damaged in the last battle they fought against Manadhien that he had been rendered incapable of wielding a bow, or even a blade with his right hand. “You will be no use in the trees. Stay here.”

With that, Thranduil lunged against the nearest orcs with a flurry of attacks that might not destroy them, but would certainly drive them back, if temporarily. That was all he needed. He and Belloth leapt into the trees and quickly climbed as high as the branches would support them.

“I can still prevent arrows from reaching you,” Conuion shouted, following them. “And that is exactly what I intend to do.”

Orcs screeched furiously, scrabbling ineffectively at the trunks their prey had scaled so easily.

Thranduil ignored them and Conuion’s disobedience. He pulled a dozen arrows from his quiver, adjusting them in his hand. Belloth did the same.

Even as orc officers called for archers to stop Thranduil and for other warriors to go east to make the attacks Conuion predicted, Thranduil called a signal that Manadhien and her allies would not recognize. Glilavan had not known it and could not have taught it to them. It was a signal known only to him and his spies.

Instantly, arrows rained down from Tureden and Geledhel’s positions, as well as one other deeper behind the enemy lines, destroying the orcs that guarded Manadhien and her servants. An eye blink later, writhing orcs covered the ground.

Wood creaked as the surviving orc archers tried to return that unexpected attack while seeking cover behind trees.

Thranduil dropped them with the arrows he had readied.

The few orc-archers that managed to escape cowered behind trees.

Belloth moved through the branches to finish them.

Thranduil nodded his approval and headed straight towards Geledhel, knowing that spy targeted Manadhien and the orcs around her.

“Get them under control! Send them forward! Overrun the western flank. Force Thranduil back,” he heard Manadhien yelling as he approached her position.

The orc officers around her brought their whips down on their underlings in an effort to comply with her orders, but one by one, they fell to Geledhel’s arrows.

Manadhien, still mostly hidden from Thranduil’s sight behind a broad tree, put a stop to the spy’s efforts, sending half a dozen silver and blue arrows at him in fast succession, driving him to take shelter on the far side of the tree. But the damage was done. The orcs around Manadhien, now largely bereft of leadership, ran chaotically, this way and that without reason, desperate to escape the sudden onslaught of arrows, completely out of control and useless for any defense.

A slow smile reached Thranduil’s lips and he focused solely on his prey. Creeping forward, ignored by the orcs below, he sent a handful of his own arrows towards Manadhien, sinking them into the trunk of her tree and pinning her down. One even grazed the tip of her longbow when it peeked from behind the tree.

Geledhel immediately complimented his efforts, targeting her from his position as well.

“Shadow take you, you cravens!” she shouted and she jumped out from behind her tree, arrow nocked, at a full draw. She raised her bow and quickly found her mark amongst the trees. Her arrow flew straight at Thranduil.

Conuion leapt between it and the king. The arrow struck him squarely in the chest, throwing him backward, knocking the arm of Thranduil’s bow hard enough to cause his nocked arrow to fly aimlessly. Conuion fell from the branch to the ground, face down, and did not move. The orcs swarmed over him.

Glaring at one another, Thranduil and Manadhien simultaneously reached for another arrow, nocked and drew.

At the same moment that Thranduil released, Geledhel also loosed an arrow. It drove through Manadhien’s skirt. She screamed and doubled over, dropping her bow and letting her next arrow fly wild. Thranduil’s arrow skimmed her back as she bent over. Manadhien clutched at her thigh and yelled orders in a voice that was high-pitched and rough with pain.

Reaching for a third arrow, Thranduil’s brows shot up—she spoke the Black Speech. He had heard enough of it in Mordor to learn the meanings of those words. As he drew his bow again, he felt something heavy shove his calf hard enough to force it to move under him. He released his arrow, sending it straight at Manadhien’s back. As it left his fingers, he registered pain—sharp, biting pain in the same calf. His leg crumpled under him and seemed to be weighted down, pulling him from the branch. His hand moved automatically for another arrow but he began to slip. Looking down at his leg, he saw a black spear pierced through his calf and more spear-bearing orcs gnashing their teeth below him. He gasped his sword instead of an arrow as he tumbled backwards off the branch.

Orc claws tore at him even before he landed hard enough on the ground to steal his breath. Reflexively, he slashed at them with his sword. Screams told him his efforts succeeded to some extent, but it was not enough.

Blinding pain split the back of his head and he heard no more.

*~*~*

“A Elbereth Gilthoniel o menel palan-diriel le nallon sí di'nguruthos! A tiro ven, Fanuilos!” Legolas whispered as he and Colloth took up the position Engwe had ordered the elven archers to assume.

It was not so much the orcs that elicited that prayer, or even their numbers. He had seen more orcs than this before. What shocked him as he looked past the enemy’s rear lines was the carnage on the battle front. Blood and broken bodies littered the forest floor—a fire-blackened forest floor if he turned east. Elves and orcs mingled together in death. Their proximity—and similarities—were almost obscene. Some were propped, dying or dead, against trees or rocks. Many lay prone with gaping wounds or missing limbs. The only difference between the orcs and elves was that the orcs lay undisturbed where they fell. The elven bodies that were left behind the advancing enemy lines were not all so fortunate. Most, the orcs had taken time to ravage.

Legolas clenched his jaw and coldly chose his first few targets, waiting for Engwe’s signal and flicking his fingers across the fletching on his first arrow. It was already nocked.

Colloth laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Legolas turned a faint but appreciative smile on his guard and watched over his shoulder as more elves crept silently into place around them. The ones furthest east were led by Dollion, who had followed Legolas all the way south, responding to the King’s call for reinforcements. He did not have nearly enough warriors with him, it seemed to Legolas. “Why does Engwe not send more elves further east?” he whispered to his guard.

“For the same reason I insisted you stay near the border: in case the orcs also have reinforcements to bring up from the south. He does not want our force trapped.”

Legolas glanced behind himself. “But, if we cannot cover the mountains, a good many of these orcs will be able to escape south between us and them,” he said and the thought made his breath come harder. He wanted this enemy eliminated—unable to wreak this sort of destruction again.

“So long as they leave off their attack on the village,” Colloth replied, “let them go where ever else they will, for now.”

Legolas shook his head. He could not agree with that.

“Thranduil would not tolerate the sacrifice of half his warriors solely to pursue these orcs into their undisputed territory,” Colloth said, now speaking firmly and with a tense edge to his voice. “Engwe will let them leave and we will obey that order.”

“No part of this forest is the orcs’ ‘undisputed’ territory,” Legolas snapped, eyes narrowing.

“Legolas,” Colloth interrupted, his tone now forbidding. His grasp on Legolas’s shoulder tightened.

Legolas turned his glare from the orcs to his guard. “I am not so undisciplined that I cannot obey a captain’s orders in battle. I will do as Engwe commands. I simply will not like it.”

Colloth’s lips formed a thin line for a moment, but his hand relaxed. “None of us will like it if too many of these evil things escape,” he finally replied. Then he reached into his own quiver and withdrew a handful of arrows.

The warriors around Legolas were now all perfectly still, poised, bows at the ready. Legolas kept his gaze fixed on the first target he had chosen, waiting with them, but deeper inside the enemy forces and closer to the northern front, some sort of commotion had erupted. Hopefully the elves there were pressing an advantage they had found.

A horn blew—Engwe’s signal.

Instantly, two dozen orcs in the center of that neat rearward line pitched forward and fell, face first, to the ground. Before the surviving orcs even began to scream or turn, Legolas sent a second arrow into another orc’s back. A breath later, Colloth and the other warriors followed suit. More orcs convulsed and collapsed.

The rest crouched down behind trees or rocks, spun around and searched for their attackers. Officers began to shout orders, but to steadily decreasing ranks. A few orcs raced south, hoisting spears, ready to throw them into the trees. Just as many balked, skittering back and forth, trying to determine the best path of escape. Colloth shot two that were running straight at them, spears ready. Legolas targeted the fleeing orcs—the fewer that got away, the happier he would be.

Engwe called another signal, this one to press forward.

Legolas gladly obeyed. He followed the ranks of the warriors around him while continuing to loose arrows.

As he had feared, the orcs recognized the weakness in the elven lines and began to steadily stream southeast, flanking them.

Half the elves focused on those orcs, pursuing them in the trees. Ignoring Colloth’s demands that he not press so deep into the enemy’s territory, Legolas remained with those warriors.

The other half of Engwe’s forces continued to advance, squeezing the orcs between themselves and the elves on the northern front nearest the village, driving even more orcs to rush towards the mountains.

“Will they not turn back on us once they flank us?” Legolas shouted to Colloth over the screams of orcs.

“They might,” his guard shouted in reply. “They are cowards. Normally once they break, they do not stop running. But Engwe will not allow our lines to advance so far east that we cannot retreat quickly ourselves, if need be.”

To confirm that statement, Engwe’s horn sounded once again, this time a signal to the archers to halt their forward motion.

Legolas’s jaw clenched. A large portion of the orcs still fell to elven arrows, but far too many skirted around them and out of range to the east. Instinctively, Legolas climbed higher in his tree to increase the distance his arrows could fly. The archers around him did the same, going as high as these sickened trees could support them.

It was when Legolas had paused to find a sturdier foothold that he saw them: two elves running amongst the orcs. One carried a third elf. That one must be injured.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Legolas aimed at the orcs around them. How those poor elves had managed to evade death thus far, he could not imagine. They were completely surrounded and they were not warriors. They were dressed in blue, not the greens and browns the warriors wore to better conceal themselves amongst the branches. They must be villagers. Whoever they were, Legolas had no intention of watching them die. He pulled his bow hard, straining to reach their pursuers, but the fools were moving east, outside the protection the warriors could offer. They must be running blind in panic.

An arrow struck the calf of the elf carrying his injured friend.

The elf stumbled and fell to his knees, allowing his burden to spill to the ground. It was an elleth! Her skirts tangled around her legs.

Legolas watched in horror as a large orc scooped up the elleth and made off with her flung over its shoulder. The second elf stopped and grasped his wounded friend’s arms, yanking him to his feet.

Another arrow tore into that elf’s shoulder, knocking him away and causing them both to fall to the ground.

Legolas hurried to destroy the orcs nearest them and managed to prevent them from reaching the elves. That was when he realized the arrows that hit those elves were from a long bow. Specifically, the arrows’ yellow and black striped fletchings signaled they were from the bow of one of the King’s Guard.

“Morinco!” a voice yelled. “Haldince!” More arrows flew into the orcs near the fallen elves, driving the last of them off.

The elves turned to face the voice.

Legolas froze. He recognized that voice and those names.

Tureden came into view from the shadows, charging towards the elves on the ground, bow drawn. “Do you know me?” he yelled as he closed on Manadhien’s servants.

They each shook their heads, reached for an arrow and raised their bows.

Tureden loosed two arrows of his own, sending them into their bow hands.

Morinco and Haldince—known to Legolas, through his cousins’ reports from the village, as Mornil and Gwathron—shrieked in pain and dropped their bows to clutch their hands instead.

Legolas leaned forward, trying to determine what, if anything, he might do to help ensure Tureden would successfully capture them.

The guard stopped a few dozen paces away from them.

Legolas frowned. Why would he do that? Why not arrest them? He had them and the orcs had abandoned them. Legolas took a few steps east on his branch. Colloth’s hand closed around his arm, but Legolas pulled free of it. He had come south—and insisted upon entering this battle, an act he had no doubt would earn his father’s full wrath—solely to make sure these very servants, and their mistress, did not escape. He intended to do exactly that.

“For Elured and Elurin!” Tureden shouted. “For the king’s sons!”

Briefly—for no longer than an eye-blink—Mornil and Gwathron’s faces registered recognition. Then they contorted in pain as arrows sank into their chests and protruded from their backs.

Legolas spun around, facing Tureden in time to see him lowering his bow, a look of pure, cold satisfaction on his face. Legolas’s mouth fell open and he gaped at his guard. He could not believe…

Colloth grabbed Legolas’s collar and pulled him back hard, almost abruptly enough to cause him to lose his footing on the branch. “We are still in the middle of a battle!” he yelled. At the same time, a spear sailed through the empty space Legolas had occupied only moments before.

Legolas scowled and shifted to turn in the direction the spear had come from. He drew three arrows and, using the shooting technique he had just learned from his father, sent them in quick succession towards the three orcs that might have thrown it. They crumpled to the ground.

And orc horn blew to the south.

“There are those reinforcements Engwe was worried about,” Colloth said. He sounded concerned.

A glance at the surrounding warriors showed they were as well.

Engwe almost immediately responded with the signal to retreat.

All around, elves began to fall back north. Even Tureden ceased his pursuit of Manadhien and instead drew back towards the group of archers Legolas accompanied.

Still searching the shadows to the south, Legolas did not move. He resisted Colloth’s pull on his arm.

“No, my lord,” Colloth said. “I cannot allow you to pursue her. It would mean your life to follow her so far south alone. Defeating Sauron himself would not be worth that price in the King’s eyes.”

Legolas held his ground. All this—all these deaths, the destruction of Dolgailon’s village, and Maethorness’s village—would be for naught if they did not capture Manadhien. If she were free, she could muster more orcs and bring another assault down upon the southern realm…

“Follow orders, my lord,” Colloth demanded. “Engwe and the King are commanding this battle. Not you. They have sounded retreat.”

Legolas hesitated a moment longer and then relented. Colloth was right. His place was to report where they had last seen Manadhien to the King and let him decide how it was best to pursue her. At least she appeared to have been injured. Injured badly enough to be carried from the field. He retreated along side Colloth, but refused to budge even a step westward. Here, at least, he and the other archers could still pick off the fleeing orcs.

They withdrew steadily northward.

Soon the only targets Legolas found were orcs that were already disabled, but trying to drag themselves away on the ground. Not long after finishing them, he met the warriors that had been defending the village on the northern flank of the battle. At that point, the archers around him dispersed, seeking the warriors and officers of their patrols, regrouping and receiving orders. Some relieved the exhausted warriors keeping watch on the southern border of the village. Others began to help with the wounded.

Legolas scanned the village. There were so many wounded. He looked about, trying to decide what he should do to help and dreading the moment his father spotted him.

Where was his father? Or Dolgailon?

Instead of them, the first face Legolas recognized was Dollion. He rushed out of the forest amongst the group of warriors he had commanded and hurried straight to the center of the village to confer with Morillion and Ostarndor. Next, Engwe emerged from the trees at the rear of the retreat. He issued a few orders to the warriors with him while looking about, presumably also seeking the King and Troop Commander. Finally, Legolas saw Galithil stepping out of the Hall, surrounded by several villagers, including Seregon and Galasserch. Galuauth and Lanthir flanked him. Legolas stared at his cousin. He had not truly expected to see him here. He assumed Dolgailon would have sent him north, ahead of the battle. Galithil noticed Engwe and shouted for him.

Legolas began to pick his way through the warriors and wounded to join his cousin as well. He might as well face his father’s fury and get it over with, preferably in a public place where decorum would force Thranduil to temper his reaction at least a bit. Besides, the faster the King heard where Manadhien had escaped, the faster he could send someone after her. And perhaps the renewed possibility of capturing her would placate him somewhat.

Dollion, Morillion and Ostarndor were also converging on the Hall, Galithil and Engwe. They looked grim.

“What in the name of the Everlasting Darkness are you doing here!” Tureden’s voice shouted from somewhere behind Legolas.

Legolas turned towards it. The guard stalked towards him, on a course to intercept him. His glare had already shifted from his charge to Colloth. Colloth’s back stiffened.

“Now is not the time, lieutenant,” Legolas replied in his most authoritative voice. Experience told him it would have no effect on Tureden, but it was worth a try.

“Now is not the time?” Tureden repeated, taking up a position on Legolas’s left side, opposite Colloth, and scowling at him.

Legolas did not pause in his march towards the Hall, nor did he say another word.

“No! I am telling you! You are wrong!” Galithil was shouting at Engwe as Legolas approached.

“I beg your pardon, my lords, but, as unfortunate as that news would be, we cannot allow it to distract us. We must discuss the security of this village,” Morillion spoke over him.

“This village is lost,” Engwe replied, ignoring Galithil. “We are retreating north. Prepare the wounded to be moved.”

“After all we have sacrificed,” Seregon said, voice raised, “I protest that decision in the strongest of terms.”

“As do I,” Galithil agreed.

Legolas’s eyebrows shot up. He could not believe his cousin would publicly challenge their uncle. Engwe was certainly only conveying the king’s own orders.

“Perhaps Lord Legolas can settle this,” Dollion said, stepping between Galithil and Engwe.

Everyone spun in the direction Dollion was looking.

Legolas found himself confronted with an utterly astonished cousin, relieved uncle and five grave warriors.

“Thank the Valar!” Engwe exclaimed. “When I heard what happened to Thranduil on the northern front, I bitterly regretted allowing you to join that battle.”

“Allowing?” Dollion repeated, with a disapproving tone.

“You are responsible for him being here?” Tureden asked.

“Certainly not,” Engwe replied. “I ran across him while gathering the reserves…”

“I am responsible for myself,” Legolas cut over all of them. “And my presence here is not up for discussion at the moment.” He was focused on his uncle. “What do you mean ‘when you heard what happened to Thranduil?’ Where is the king?” A cold, uneasy feeling churned Legolas’s gut in response to the sudden guarded expressions surrounding him. He searched for and found the familial bond he shared with his parents. He could not understand Engwe and Galithil’s somber attitudes.

“Legolas,” his cousin said quietly, “Uncle Thranduil…your adar…he is badly wounded. Unconscious. He will not awaken. Salabeth and Radagast are with him.” He paused and continued in an even softer voice. “He has several poisoned wounds, but they are most concerned about a blow to his head that…well, it…there is a visible indentation…they say it is very serious.” Galithil’s brows drew together and he looked down. “They—Salabeth and Radagast—are not…very hopeful.”

Ignoring Colloth and Tureden’s sharp gasps, Legolas tried, but failed, to respond to his cousin’s words. All his blood had sunken to his feet. His head swam. He struggled to breath. His father was a powerful, skillful, experienced warrior. Invincible. This was impossible.

“He is in the Hall,” Galithil added.

Legolas managed to lift only his gaze to the doors of the village Hall. He wanted to run towards them, but he could not force his body to move.

“Where is Lord Dolgailon?” Colloth asked, somewhere in the haze that surrounded Legolas.

“Engwe said he was dead. Killed by orcs in the south, where Glilavan is…” Galithil began in an angry tone.

Legolas’s gaze turned back to his cousin and uncle. All his remaining breath rushed out of his lungs. “Is that true?” he whispered. “Are you certain?”

Engwe nodded. “I saw him fall. With my own eyes.”

But Galithil shook his head. “He may have fallen but I would feel my brother’s death, just as I felt my parents’. I do not believe he is dead,” he retorted.

“Regardless,” Dollion intervened before Engwe and Galithil could begin arguing again. “The King and Troop Commander are both incapacitated and there are decisions to be made before what ever force the orcs still have can return and catch us at unawares.”

“Indeed,” Seregon, Morillion and Ostarndor agreed in unison.

“The decision is made,” Engwe said. “We are retreating. We do not have the strength to stand against another assault.”

“To where shall we retreat?” Seregon asked. “How far will we allow them to chase us?”

“The river offers a natural defense,” Ostarndor began.

“The river!” Seregon, Galasserch and Galithil all exclaimed.

That suggestion cleared the fog in Legolas’s mind. He focused silently on the captain of the Southern Patrol, stunned he would suggest falling back so far.

“The people of this village refuse to retreat to the river,” Seregon stated flatly.

“Agreed,” Galithil said.

Legolas stared at him.

“We do not know what forces the orcs have,” Ostarndor countered. “We cannot withstand another night of fighting. Not on the scale we saw today. You will retreat or you will be forced back.”

“If we bring the western Path Guard south,” Dollion suggested. “Perhaps even some of the Northern Patrol…”

“The Northern Patrol to the southern-most reaches of this realm? To what end!” Engwe cut him off. “To see their ranks decimated as the Western and Southern Patrols’ have been?”

“I see well over half the Western and Southern Patrols’ warriors still alive,” Galithil replied sweeping an arm to point at the warriors scattered around the village.

“Because we held them in reserve and then retreated with those reserves rather than waiting for Manadhien’s fresh forces to surround us,” Engwe countered.

“If we retreat from this village and yield the mountains to the enemy, we will be lucky to stop them at the river,” Dollion argued. “They will control the southern forest. Over two thirds of this realm.”

Ostarndor’s only reply was a frown, not a denial. Legolas’s brows drew together sharply.

“The people of this village will die before we will allow that to happen,” Seregon declared. “To the last ellon and elleth.”

Several people in the crowd that had gathered around them shouted their agreement.

“I will stand with the village,” Galithil declared.

Again, Legolas’s gaze darted to his cousin.

Galithil looked back at him steadily.

No one said anything else.

Everyone was looking at him, Legolas realized. He could not imagine why.

“This is absurd,” Engwe said into the silence, his tone irate. “It is not your choice. Neither Seregon’s nor yours,” he said to Galithil.

“Nor is it yours, my lord,” Dollion said. “It should be the king’s, but in his absence….” Dollion let that statement drift off while shifting his gaze from Engwe to Legolas.

Engwe sucked in a breath to reply. Then, also glancing at Legolas, he stopped himself and pressed his mouth shut.

The captains, guards and surrounding villagers all still looked at Legolas.

For a long moment, Legolas had absolutely no idea what they expected. Then he noticed a flicker of sympathy in his cousin’s expression and a hint of concern in Colloth and Tureden’s.

Realization hit him like an arrow in the back.

They—everyone here—expected him to decide how and where to defend the southern forest? He had fought in two battles in his entire life! He was only one year into the Training Program. He was not even of age. He could not possibly…!

For a single beat, Legolas’s heart tried to burst through his ribs and out of his chest. Only the fact that his lungs held no air prevented him from blurting out that he could not make such a decision.

That was fortunate.

He looked to Engwe. He had more experience,longer experience in war than any of the king’s family that was still…standing.

Engwe, like the others surrounding him, remained silent.

Legolas took a slow, deep breath.

In the absence of the king…in the face of his imminent death…

Legolas forcefully shoved those thoughts aside and grasped instead at any that might help him make the decisions he must now make.

“Do we have any idea how many orcs Manadhien has remaining? Did anyone see any part of her reserves? The force that blew that horn and prompted our retreat?” he finally asked.

“No, my lord,” Dollion answered. “I was in the southern-most position. I heard the orc horn. Nearby. But I saw no orcs.”

“So she might not even have any,” Seregon interjected. “It might have been a ruse to trick us into retreating.”

“Would you wager the lives of these people on that?” Engwe asked.

“Yes,” Seregon began, voice raised.

“Silence,” Legolas demanded. “How many warriors do we have here, capable of fighting?”

“Ten of my warriors are uninjured,” Ostarndor replied. “Another half dozen could at least wield a bow.”

“I have only five uninjured and perhaps that many more that could fight with a bow,” Morillion added.

“Plus five village guards and most of our archers,” Seregon chimed in.

Tureden was scanning the crowd around them. Legolas followed his gaze and found only Belloth in addition to Galuauth, Lanthir and Colloth. “Five of the Guard, my lord,” he said. “I do not see any of the king’s spies.”

“Geledhel is in the Hall with the wounded,” Galithil supplied. “So are Conuion, Pendurion and Heledir. Where the king’s remaining spies are, including Tulus, we do not know.”

“I saw Tulus in the camp with Glilavan,” Engwe said. “Just before Dolgailon fell.”

Legolas’s heart pounded uncomfortably again at that news. His cousin and one of his dearest friends were captives. He frowned. Dolgailon was his cousin, but more importantly, he was this realm’s troop commander. A warrior with experience Legolas would badly need if…. He squelched that thought and refocused on the decision at hand.

“A little over two dozen warriors and that many more archers,” he summarized to himself. “And Manadhien badly enough wounded to be carried to safety.”

“How do you know that?” Engwe asked.

Legolas ignored him. If Manadhien could not command the orcs herself, two dozen warrior should be able to hold back fifty or so orcs, at least. It seemed possible to hold this village, but he needed to know how large her reserve was. And how badly wounded she was. To find that out would require some well coordinated scouting. Perhaps he could use that to an even greater advantage.

He turned to his uncle. “Tell me what you saw in this camp Dolgailon and Tulus were in. And tell me where it was.”

Legolas listened silently while Engwe related how he, the king and the guards had tried to approach Glilavan, had seen Dolgailon fall, surrounded by orcs, and had glimpsed Tulus before being forced to retreat.

“But you do not believe Dolgailon is dead?” he asked Galithil again.

“No,” his cousin replied firmly.

One more question to consider, Legolas thought. “Do any of you have any idea what happened in Maethorness’s village? Did Delethil hold it?”

All the captains shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders.

Legolas’s frown deepened. This decision would be easier if he knew whether the eastern side of the mountains had already been lost.

Finally, he turned to Dollion. “If we try to make a stand here and fail…if all the Southern and Western Patrol falls…if Maethorness’s village is already lost or falls tonight…could the Path and Palace Guards still hold the orcs at the river? Could they defend the villages north of it alone or would we be forced back as far as the stronghold?”

“If they are properly warned and positioned, yes,” Dollion responded. “We could hold the river.”

Legolas nodded. He made his decision. If this was to be the start of his reign, he would not begin it by surrendering half his realm to orcs. Not if he still had hope of avoiding that fate. And if—as he prayed—his father recovered, he could not face him having allowed half his forest to fall the enemy.

“See to it that the Guards are warned and send word to the villages between the mountains and the river on both borders to be ready for further attacks,” he ordered Dollion. Then he turned to Ostarndor, Morillion and Engwe. “Work with Seregon and Lord Galithil to try to prepare a defense of this village. We will hold it if we can. I will try to get you information regarding the number of orcs we are facing. Belloth, take the king north to the stronghold. The rest of you,” he looked over the King’s Guard, “minus Colloth, come with me. Colloth, stay with Galithil.”

A chorus of ‘yes, my lords’ arose around Legolas as he turned and strode toward the Hall. Before he could do anything else to plan this battle, he had to see…see for himself how his father fared.

Belloth came up on his left side, Tureden on his right. Galuauth and Lanthir trailed behind him.

Galithil murmured a promise to Engwe, Seregon and the captains to return quickly. Then he also followed on Legolas’s heels.

“The king may not be fit to travel, my lord,” Belloth said into his ear, using the most respectful tone Legolas had ever heard this surly guard apply to him. “And even if he is, he would not appreciate being carried to the stronghold. When he is injured, he prefers to recover in whatever village he was defending until he can ride home on his own.”

Legolas loosed a bitter laugh as he mounted the stairs of the Hall. If only his father were in any condition to express his preferences! “Well, since the village he was defending is about to be attacked again,” Legolas replied, “and since I do not care to see the king killed in it if it is overrun, you will do as I order and move him, regardless of his wishes. If he regains consciousness, I promise you that I will take responsibility for that decision.”

“Very well, my lord,” Belloth said.

Legolas reached the top of the stairs and grasped the carved, wooden handle of door of the Hall. He hesitated a moment, gathering himself, grateful for his cousin’s presence at his back. Then he pulled.

The smell of blood and death assaulted him the moment the door opened. Then the moaning hit him. Wrenching groans. The floor of the Hall was covered with rows of bodies, some unmoving, some twisting in pain. The healer’s apprentices hurried here and there, while villagers carried water, cleaned minor wounds and did whatever else they might to make the wounded and dying comfortable.

Once the first villagers noticed him, a rustling whisper passed through the Hall. Then, all conversations fell silent. Again, everyone present stared at him.

At the moment, that attention meant nothing to him. Legolas adopted as neutral a mask as he could muster and began to make his way to where he saw Radagast and Salabeth bent over a figure on the far side of the Hall. They looked up at him, expressions full of pity. He could not bear to see it. Not now. He focused instead on his father.

The sight of him drove Legolas to close his eyes.

Thranduil’s mail and tunic lay on the floor beside him. The worst of his wounds had already been cleaned, stitched and bandaged. He was covered by a blanket pulled up to his bare chest and his head was wrapped with a compress. A cold cloth, no doubt, soaked with some sort of herb that Legolas should be able to identify by smell, but could not. His father’s injuries did not seem terribly disturbing. It was the sight of him so still that was…dismaying, frightening, alarming.

A hand grasped his shoulder.

Legolas opened his eyes and looked into Radagast’s.

“This is very serious, child,” the wizard whispered. “My herbs will draw the poison from him, but he needs a surgeon.”

“I do not have the knowledge to treat such a wound,” Salabeth added.

Legolas nodded. “I have already asked Belloth to take him to the stronghold,” he replied. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was both pleased and amazed by how steady his voice sounded. “Perhaps Nestoreth will will have the necessary skill.”

Salabeth tried to appear encouraging. “I saw her manage injuries as bad as this one in Mordor,” she said, managing a hopeful tone.

Radagast patted his shoulder. Galithil took a step closer to him.

Legolas could only nod again, knowing he would not sound so calm a second time. He turned his attention from them and focused on his father, kneeling next to him and groping for his hand through the blanket. He squeezed it, but received no response. “Please do not do this, adar,” Legolas whispered so low no one else—not even Galithil—could possibly hear him. “You have fought too many battles and prevailed. Fight this one. Please.”

His father remained perfectly still and silent.

“I am so sorry, Legolas,” Galithil croaked, emotion making his voice raw. It was right in Legolas’s ear. “If I had killed her when I had the chance…”

Legolas turned sharply, nearly nose to nose with his cousin. “Manadhien? You had a chance to kill her? How?”

“Galuauth and I had her. After she tried to capture me. Drag me off with her. I had a choice to kill her or arrest her. I should have…but could not…I thought it would be better to take her to justice…I was so wrong. None of this would have happened…”

Legolas shook his head vigorously. “No, Galithil. Do not be a fool. Nothing would be different. She might not have commanded the orcs, but her servants still would have…”

“Your adar was injured chasing after her, something he would not have done if I…”

“He might have been injured at some other time in the battle. At any other time. It was a battle, Galithil.” Legolas grasped his cousin’s arm. “This is not your fault. If I had been in your place, I would have made the same choice.”

“You do not know that…”

Legolas glanced at Tureden, idling by the door of the Hall with Colloth, Galuauth and Lanthir. “Yes, I am certain of it. You are not a murderer. She is. And from what I can see, you defended this village well. That is the important thing.”

That made Galithil look back up at him. “I did what I could. Everyone in this village did the same.” He paused and looked at his cousin cautiously. “Legolas, not that your presence is not fortunate, but: what are you doing here? Hallion did not give you permission to lead warriors to this battle.”

Legolas loosed a hallow laugh. “No, he did not. I made that choice myself. I was dreading adar’s reaction to it.” His voice broke. “Now I hope to see it.”

Galithil closed his eyes. “I never thought I would wish this, but I hope you do too, gwador nin,” he whispered.

Legolas tightened his hand around his cousin’s arm. “We cannot do this now. We both have duties to attend to.” Despite his words, Legolas’s voice shook.

Galithil nodded. When he looked back at Legolas, his gaze was steady and strong.

Legolas squeezed his father’s hand one more time through the blanket. Then he and Galithil stood.

“Take care with him, Belloth,” Legolas said, gesturing for the guard to take charge of Thranduil.

Salabeth signaled for an apprentice to come help him.

“What will happen to the village, my lord?” Salabeth asked as Belloth and the apprentice lifted Thranduil onto a litter. “Will you evacuate it? Should I prepare to move them all?”

The enormity of that task…the impossibility of it… who would carry all these elves to safety?

The warriors had to hold this village. These peoples’ lives depended on it.

“Lord Galithil and I intend to continue to defend the village,” Legolas replied. “The captains are preparing a new strategy and we will stand with them.”

Salabeth looked relieved at that.

Many of the elves that had fallen silent at his arrival began murmuring again, hopefully.

Legolas nodded to Salabeth, took one last glance at his father and turned to leave the Hall.

As he approached the door, Tureden grasped his arm and pulled him to the side. “May I suggest, my lord, given the fragility of the king’s condition, that you cannot afford to fight in whatever battle this village will face,” he whispered. “I recommend that you return to the stronghold with him.”

“No,” Legolas replied. “We,” he let his gaze fall on Galuauth and Lanthir before settling again on Tureden, “are going to see if we can find and free Dolgailon. In the process, I hope we can determine what forces the orcs intend to send against the village and get that information back to Morillion and Ostarndor before battle again reaches the village.”

Tureden’s jaw fell open.

“Legolas! You cannot be serious!” Galithil exclaimed.

“You and the captains need to know what you are facing to formulate an adequate battle plan,” Legolas explained. “Moreover, if the king dies, I need Dolgailon. I do not have sufficient knowledge of warfare to defend this realm. Even if the king survives, I will not knowingly leave my cousin in the hands of orcs without even trying to rescue him.” He moved to leave the Hall.

Galithil blocked his path. “Legolas, that is my brother you are speaking of. I would do anything for him. But I agree with Tureden. You cannot risk yourself…”

“I am going, Galithil. Wasting time arguing about the difficulties involved will not make matters easier…”

Galithil shook his head and drew a breath to argue, just the same.

Legolas frowned. “Let me be clear,” he intervened. “I am not arguing about this.”

Galithil scowled at him a moment, his jaw clenched shut. Then he blew out the breath he had drawn and took a step back. “I am not questioning you, my lord,” he said quietly.

Legolas’s gaze snapped to his cousin.

“This is insanity,” Tureden whispered, mostly to himself, preventing Legolas from thinking too much about his cousin’s form of address.

He shrugged. “It may be. But I am going after him. It is your duty to do what is needed to support my decisions.”

Tureden’s brows drew together severely, but, to Legolas’s surprise, he did not contest that statement.

“I can help you,” Radagast said, coming up along side them. “I can lead you to that camp.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow at him.

Radagast nodded eagerly. “I was with the king. I saw Dolgailon and I know exactly where the orc camp is. And how to safely approach it. I want to help those elves.”

“In that case, I would appreciate your help immensely,” Legolas replied. And he started from the Hall.

*~*~*

talan/telain—flet/flets; the houses in the trees woodelves dwell in

adar — father

elleth/ellyth — female elf/elves

ellon/ellyn — male elf/elves

fear -- elven spirit

gwador nin—my brother (brother in the sense of sworn brothers, not blood brothers)

A Elbereth Gilthoniel, o menel palan-diriel le nallon sí di'nguruthos! A tiro ven, Fanuilos! — O Elbereth Starkindler, from heaven gazing afar to thee I cry now beneath the shadow of death! O look towards us, Everwhite! (Very similar to Sam’s prayer in Cirith Ungol. I only changed nin (me) to ven (us) for Legolas).