[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim drew his horse back as North reared suddenly in fear, as Rôsgollo charged forward into the melee towards his brother. The boy took in the scene in a second: Gaeredhel lay fallen to one side, Rôsgollo leaping off his horse to his side, but nearby Angóre was kneeling on the ground, is horse nowhere to be found and with a stunned expression on his face although he was already readying himself. Although he knew the elf was probably far more capable than he at handling himself, Faerim doubted the javelins that Angóre carried would be as easy to use from the ground as opposed to on horseback; he also knew that with three skittish horses in tow, he was going to be about as useful as- well, as they would expect him to be. And he knew he could prove himself to be far more than they expected.

Killing two birds with one stone, Faerim drew his sword and chopped swiftly through the rope that held the first horse to North, then at the one that held this one to the one behind it - he had no time to do more than that, and the other two bolted almost immediately. Taking the first, Carthor's stallion, by the reins, he rode over to Angóre, yelling to the elf as he came towards him. "Angóre, quick!"

The elf looked up, surprised, but caught the reins as Faerim threw them at him. Not wasting a second, the elf mounted smoothly, while Faerim rode on, bringing North around in a semi-circle towards the orcs, building himself up to the conflict as he raised his sword, his knuckles white on the stallion's reins. As he galloped towards it, the orc who had been running at Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo froze and looked across at him. Giving a makeshift battle cry, Faerim drew himself up suddenly and swept his sword around in a arc of bright steel, and such was his momentum that the orc's expression of surprise remained on it's face as it's head flew from it's shoulders. Grimacing in distaste as the black blood smattered onto his sleeves and gloves, Faerim slowed slightly as he re-adjusted his grip, then made for a second orc, hoping simply to do the same thing.

What the boy did not have the experience to know was that in a small scale battle, simply hammering out the same tactic on different foes rarely works more than once. This time his intended victim was ready and, as Faerim swept his sword down towards it's head, the creature ducked smartly, raising it's own blade to clash against the stroke that would have decapitated it. The jarring connection caused Faerim to cry out in shock and pain and his fingers uncurled as a reflex - causing his sword to fall, embedded in the ground. Flexing his fingers painfully, Faerim regained his wits as North headed straight for the woods, ducking not a second too soon as a low-flying branch threatened to tear his head from his shoulders. Gaining control of his terrified steed once more, Faerim turned him with some difficulty and, his sharp mind working quickly, realised that he needed to play the same ace card as he had in the falling city of Fornost. Praying that it would work, he unslung his bow and quiver and nocked a bow quickly. He barely had time to think before he shot, as a charging orc rushed him, it's bloody, nail-endowed club held high as it yelled fiersomely: Faerim shot with a cry of surprise and, more out of fluke than anything else, the arrow connected with the orc's shoulder. It fell back with a snarl, turning protectively over it's wounded shoulder, then resumed it's course of action with a vengeance. But this time Faerim was ready, and had time to sight at his opponent: the orc fell, a bow in it's neck, less than four feet from North.

That was the fifth orc taken care off, but four still remained, and their constant battering was like an assault on the senses as well as a physical assault. Despite all his training, North was obviously terrified by the haphazard melee in which the elves and Faerim had been so outnumbered, and his eyes rolled crazily and his black coat flecked with spittle and shining with sweat, shifting his feet and tossing his head. As the orc's arm spasmed by North's hooves, the horse took off at a canter once more, understandably spooked. Gritting his teeth and holding on desperately with his knees, Faerim turned to sight at his next victim and loosed another arrow, then another, taking down a sixth orc. Three remained, and Angóre, now mounted on Carthor's stallion, saw to a seventh victim. Cutting their losses, the remaining pair turned tail and fled through the trees, almost vanishing in an instant. Faerim shot one arrow, then another, and another after their backs, but it was Angóre's javelin that rewarded them with a dying cry of anguish. His lip curling both in satisfaction with the kill and irritation for the last orc who had got away, Angóre urged his mount on and sped after the last one - presumably hoping to kill it before it got word back to the orc camp.

Faerim slowed the skittish North to a walk then, with difficulty, to a halt, trying to regain his breath and soothe his horse. Dismounting painfully, he tentatively brought his hands up to the horse's nose and, although he shied and whinnied at first, North eventually calmed down enough for Faerim to rest on hand on his nose, stroking it gently as he 'shh'-ed the horse like a small child after a nightmare. Hooking the stallion's reins over one hand, Faerim curled a lip in disgust at the orc's blood on his fingers and rubbed his forefinger and thumb together curiously: the liquid was thick and sticky, like tar in texture and appearance. Glancing at the blood's previous owner, Faerim shuddered slightly and had to swallow down the violent urge to retch. Wiping his gloved hand on his longcoat to remove the blood, he tied North up to a tree and made for the spot where his sword lay, still shuddering slightly, embedded several inches into the ground. Pulling it out with as much strength as he could muster, Faerim bent and wiped it across the ground in a rough attempt to clean it, before he looked at the orc who had caused him to drop it. It lay face down, the steel-tipped javelin that had killed it rising from the small of its back, almost comical in it's absurdness. Curiousity about his brutal attackers once more overtaking Faerim, he reached out a foot and rolled the creature over, the javelin propping it onto its side. Looking at the orc's face, Faerim repressed the urge to physically recoil: the stubby, dirt blackened features were curled in an expression of anger, pain and, more disturbingly, fear, and despite their ugliness, they seemed almost human for an instant. Then the moment passed: Faerim had been told before than men sometimes felt remorse for their actions on a battlefield when confronted with the faces of the dead, wondering about the victim's background, family, life... But looking at the features of the dead orc, Faerim doubted it ever could have cared about any of those things.

Tearing his gaze from the orc, the boy turned and walked slowly away, heading for Rôsgollo and Gaeredhel. As he reached them, he heard hooves and turned, half heartedly raising his sword, but it was Angóre, not one of the enemy, who dismounted. Giving the elf a quick smile, he turned back to the other two, concerned.