Home | Literature Index | Movies & Broadway Index | Television Index | Music Index | Miscellaneous Index | Submit Your Own
Through the swirling dust, Legolas saw another Orcish
bowman dart out from behind a rock. The dust was the
most common memory of the soldiers who fought in Mordor,
or as they called it "The Mor".
Legolas was determined to get this one. Most of the
orcs were crazy, but this one was smart. While most
loosed their arrows wildly, this one never exposed himself
for very long. He would lean out, sight on one of the
young rangers accompanying the E-boys, fire, then duck
out of sight.
The swirling dust stung his eyes as he waited patiently
for the orc to reappear. It was funny, Legolas thought,
that he didn't notice the tousands of arrows flying
around him. The only ones that bothered him were the
ones that came close enough for him to hear a buzz.
Further down the narrow footpath, Frodo crouched, catching
his breath. "Damn!" He wished that he had brought along
his wineskin, since he was terribly thirsty now. Unfortunately,
Gandalf had told them that this would be a simple prisoner
snatch. Grab a few wights, in and out in less than an
hour. On raids like that, a wineskin wasn't necessary;
just useless weiht. Better to carry ammo: lots of arrows.
Boromir was standing next to him, launching a torrent
of arrows at the swarming orcs. For the first time since
they had roped in over the Black Gate, Frodo felt like
he was going to make it out of this mess. Then Boromir
dropped in a heap beside him. The shaft of an orcish
crossbow bolt protruded from just below the rim off
Boromir's helmet. Just like that, Boromir was gone.
"Holy shit, he's dead!" Sam sreamed.
"Dead?" Frodo thought. It was all so unreal. This was
the first time he'd seen anyone die. It wasn't like
in the stories Uncle Bilbo told, with noble last words
to encourage his comrades. No, Boromir just fell. Despite
the afternoon heat, Frodo suddenly felt cold. He wished
that he hadn't left his the mithril back plate on the
cot back in Rivendell.
"You'll never need it; unless you plan on running away!"
Merry had laughed at him when they were gearing up.
So Frodo had left it behind. Along with the wineskin.
He'd left Merry behind, with Bombadil, the medic, after
he took a bolt through the wrist. Somewhere back along
these twisting footpaths.
Aragorn was mad. Those damn E-boys! His rangers were
young, and need to fight in disciplined formations.
Not the E-boys. They were good at what they did; hell,
they were the best. But too undisciplined. Now, when
everyone needed to work together, they were charging
off on their own. He looked. Gimli was still with him,
despite the nasty-looking shoulder wound.
"That's three!" Gimli roared, dropping a charging orc
with a well-thrown hand axe. Good old Gimli; still in
the fight, but obviously hurting. Aragorn new he had
to get his men under some cover.
Then he heard it. A piercing shriek of pain. Aragorn
glanced up. One of the eagles was spinning, out of control.
A long trail of dislodged plumage spiral up to where
it had been hit, blasted out of the air by an orcish
ballista. As he watched fall, it disappeared behind
a pile of large rocks. He still heard it hit the ground
with a feathery thump.
"Gwaihir's hit!! They got him!!!" One of his rangers
yelled.
Aragorn moved quickly. "Eomer, Pippin, follow me. Gimli,
keep their heads down until we get to the bird, then
bring the rest of the squad." They flung themselves
in a mad dash between the pelting arrows. Aragorn grimaced.
He hoped Gandalf, up in the C2 bird, could guide him
to the stricken eagle.