Rhavanielle could make out much of the distant combat. The sounds like the distant ringing of bells and roaring of the sea tickled her ears faintly. A small group of some dozen horsemen were reeling back from a black chevron of bodies who pursued slowly on foot. Too far to see arrows, she could still see horsemen dropping from the saddle, their mounts scurrying in terror.
“It goes ill for our friends the horsemen!” Rhavanielle said to Sfeithi.
Gorm shouted impatiently from below “Well! What's happening?!” Sfeithi clambered carefully back down. Easy to climb, thought he. Harder to descend.
The elf could clearly see that some sort of ambush had been sprung. Hunters had become hunted and though the orcs were all on foot, the advantage of the Rohirrim was considerably less on the soft ground of the grasslands of the inland delta of the Enfwash. “They're all headed this way...”
Gorm shouted up in disbelief “This way?! How many? Speak, lass!”
“This way...more or less,” Rhavanielle replied in muted irritation. “The enemy has shot down many of the horsemen with arrows in an ambush. The survivors are making their way hence. Six...no...seven- I see two men on one beast.”
“We should hide ourselves! And quickly,” declared Sfeithi.
“Where, precisely should we hide?” asked Rhavanielle needlessly. Their tree stood along a stream that ran by the road. There were rushes on the banks of the stream. And other trees here and there. But the gently undulating grasslands all about plainly offered no real shelter. Their only hope seemed to be the chance that, having dealt with the horsemen, the orcs would return to the marshes on whatever errand they had been about. But as the Thegn had told them back in Stoke, the errand of Mordor's soldiery in this borderland was likely theft and murder. As they outnumbered the survivors of the cavalry patrol, it would be characteristic of them to pursue and murder the survivors to prevent them bringing more reinforcements.
Very soon, the dwarves could clearly see the onrushing horsemen, the chests and mouths of their mounts flecked with foam. The shields of all of them had any number of arrows protruding from them. Gorm thought to himself that these horsemen were quite a contrast to the proud patrol that has accosted them as they entered upon the realm of the Horse Lords.
Rhavanielle held her hands up, palms out as the seven men came up the bank and onto the flag stones of the ancient highway. “This way, friends. We will help you even the odds on those devils!” she shouted.
None of the riders seemed to be in command of anything least of all their wits, but after taking a few breaths and a deep draught of water, one of the men, a burly youngster with a golden beard and flushed pink skin whirled round to take the measure of the pursuit. “I am Tayte of the Sutcrofts. Who be you, woman?” He scowled fiercely at the dwarves, but his labored breathing and the blood flowing from the arrow in his left thigh ameliorated his intended fierceness as far as Sfeithi and Gorm were concerned.
“I am Rhavanielle called Maelennin, of the Taur nu Fuin! Guests of the Mark, bearers of the good word of Saruman of Orthanc! And these are my companions, Sfeithi and Gorm. Two hardy warriors of Durin's folk!”
It was clear that Tayte was not entirely sure how he should react to these odd travellers. But immediately, the elven woman nodded toward the line of spears advancing in a wide crescent. At the left, a number of them were already blocking the road with archers and spear carriers. The orc's shield wall was nearly within bowshot. Tayte turned round, resolved to die fighting with his men. “If you would help us, then we will be glad of it, though with the road now cut off, our horses exhausted...At least we can all give a good account of ourselves and die together with courage.” Tayte tried to sound brave but his hope had clearly given out. The Rohirrim were brave soldiers on foot as any, but with their mobility gone, they could only form a shield wall and hope the orcs ran out of patience or arrows. In close quarters, the men felt they might still win, but even now, black feathered arrows began to fall amongst them.
Tayte put his horn to his lips and blew two shrill blasts at which his remaining little band formed into a little knot, their shields presented to the enemy. Sfeithi and Gorm readied their blades and hoped the tall men of Rohan would withstand the arrow storm.
Rhavanielle, however did something very peculiar. She stood up tall, looking a bit absurd with her blue dress all hem-frayed and dirty and her mail coat over top of it. She held her staff aloft and shouted aloud in a voice that caused the orcs to cease their shouting and stand transfixed.
"Tolo, alagos vorn! Elio i-neth lîn vi mbaur dîn!"
The faces of their enemies could now be clearly seen. As the desperate band took shelter behind the scanty barricade of Rohirric shields, the swart faced, crooked legged goblins recovered from the shock of Rhavanielle's electric words, leveled their spears and, in a wide crescent began to charge at a slow trot. Peeking through the gap in two shields, Sfeithi clutched his sword haft and cried defiantly in Khuzdul. The Rohirrim recovered their nerve, glad for the courage of the three travelers chance had sent them. A lusty cheer went up from them all as they quickly beheld the grim visages of the orcs.
The next moment, the azure sky was seemingly blotted out by a vast shadow. A swiftly growing tumult of angry croaking drowned out the war cry of the orcs, who found themselves suddenly enveloped in a storm of furious crows. The great flocks who had been feasting on the carrion of the ambush had come!
Rhavanielle sighed in relief, but the others all let out a mocking roar as the orcs wailed and shrieked in terror. The double ranks dissolved as they clutched at their faces, their backs, their arms. They began to flee in every direction, most cruelly blinded by the wrathful carrion birds.
“Do not follow!” Rhavanielle called out imperiously. The others were not eager to test the reason for her command and remained gawping from behind the shields. A feeling of fear crept over the mortal men and dwarves alike for as they watched, the mass of crows crawled over the orcs who were soon brought to the earth flailing and mewling. The avian carpet crawled in a horrifyingly suggestive manner...lower and lower. Within the time it had taken for the fleeing Rohirrim to reach the willow tree, the crows took flight, first in a dense swarm, then breaking into the usual loose groups.
As for the orcs. They were gone. All that remained were heaps of harness and their spears and other cruel weapons and kit.
Rhavanielle strode onto the road amidst the fearsome wreckage and spoke again.
“Men of Rochand. Gather up your dead where they fell. You will find them unmolested. Bury them as is your custom and carve the likeness of the crow upon a stone set atop their barrows.”
Tayte answered, his blue eyes wide in fear and wonder at the power invoked on his behalf. “It shall be done as you say, alfr. I find myself now with more horses than men to ride upon them. I would bid thee take three who I know would be glad to bear you upon thine own road.”
The elf's stern countenance faded and she was suddenly the pretty freckled maid again. “With gratitude we shall so do.” Rhavanielle chose the oldest horse. One which bore scars of some old wound. The dwarves picked two palfreys who had been laden with gear. Their stature was such that the dwarves could manage to get on and off without too much embarrassment.
And so the trio passed at last into the land of Gondor. A great stone stele was set at the side of the road bearing the symbol of the white tree and the device of the heptagram.
Sfeithi turned to Gorm and said “So that's why it's called a murder...”
Gorm and Rhavanielle were heard to groan.
