The black orc arrow flew through the night with incredible speed and struck Legolas squarely in the back just below his shoulder blades.  The force of the arrow propelled him forward and his arms instinctively flew out before him in an attempt to cushion his fall.  Instead, he dropped first to his knees and then fell prone, his fair face smashing into the dirt and leaf-strewn ground. His delicately carved bow lay useless upon the ground beside his lifeless hand.  His long, slender fingers still gripped an arrow, ready for use, but never nocked.  The circling orcs and goblins moved in quickly, snuffling and snarling amongst themselves.   When they had determined that the Elf was no longer moving, they turned toward the human.

         “LEGOLAS!” screamed the young ranger.  He had seen the arrow strike his friend, and now tried desperately to reach him, hacking his way through the sea of orcs.  His great sword swung to the left and the right, cutting a swath through the black creatures and clearing a path to his friend’s still form.  “Legolas!” he called out once again, straining to be heard over the hideous shrieks of the orc horde, but the Elf prince did not hear him nor did he move.

          The two warriors had been tracking this band of orcs for several weeks.  They had first spied them gathering in the foothills of the Misty Mountains not far from the Old Forest Road and the borders of Mirkwood Forest, Legolas’ home.  From the western borders of Mirkwood, Strider and Legolas had watched the band moving at a determined pace on the opposite banks of the river, traveling south.  Once the foul beasts reached the Gladden Fields, they had turned steadily southeast, eventually crossing the Anduin River to reach the Mirkwood side of its banks.  Orcs were not usually so well ordered, nor did they cooperate willingly for any great length of time, but this particular band seemed to have some common overriding purpose.  They were on the move to a definite destination and Aragorn was determined to discover what it was and who they were serving.  Based on their present course, he could only surmise that the creatures were indeed headed for the black tower on Mirkwood’s southern border. He and Legolas, however, had been unaware that they, too, were being tracked and watched, and in the late night hours just past the moon’s full rising, the orcs had attacked.

         Legolas had shouted the alarm only moments before the black wave poured into their camp.  At his warning cry, Aragorn had swiftly arisen, sword ready, but the band had caught them unprepared.  The Elven horses had panicked and eventually broke free of their tethers, shrieking with confusion and fright as the orcs swarmed past them.  Their sturdy front legs pawed at the air as they reared up on their hind legs, and soon they were kicking and slashing at the foul creatures that had invaded their slumber.  Then suddenly, as if sharing an unspoken agreement, both steeds, wild-eyed with terror, spun about and fled deeper into the forest.

         Once the horses had fled, the abandoned riders had been systematically driven from the relative safety of the trees and out onto the open plains by the encircling orc horde.  The seething tide of fell creatures converged upon the Elf and ranger and Legolas quickly found himself surrounded and separated from Aragorn.  In these tight quarters, his bow was soon rendered useless.  Although the bow and an arrow were tightly clutched in his left hand, he reached up behind his blond head with his right hand to seize one of his long Elven knives.  Before he could retrieve it from its sheath, the arrow struck.

          Despite Aragorn’s killing blows, no matter how many orcs he slew, more appeared to replace them.   The arrival of dawn’s welcoming light was many hours in coming and Aragorn knew that the orcs would not yield any ground until the sun’s rays appeared and forced them to retreat to their hidden burrows.  He and the Elf were now quite effectively outnumbered and overwhelmed.

          Forcing these dark thoughts from his mind, the young ranger viciously struck out at yet another evil creature and sent it crashing back into its companions, but not before receiving a stinging slash along the inside of his forearm.  Aragorn winced at the orc blade’s bite.  He felt his fingers start to numb as the blood began to seep through his torn sleeve; nevertheless, he held on to his sword, bringing his left hand over his right to grasp its hilt with both hands.   The bodies of orcs and goblins began to pile up around him as the ranger struggled to get through them and to the motionless body of his friend, but he might as well be thrashing through the mud and mire of the Dead Marshes for all the progress he was making.  With a last mighty two-handed swing he sent three orcs flying backward into the trees. Their angry screeches could be heard even as he at last reached Legolas’ side.  He dropped heavily to his knees and bent over the still form of the Elf.

         Strider anxiously glanced over his shoulder.  His dark hair fell into his eyes in sweaty strands, but he shoved them away with an irritated swipe of his hand.  Expecting another orc to strike as he attended to his friend, he was surprised and confused to see that the orcs seemed to be hesitating.    Several yards away from him the foul beasts were rasping nervously to one another in words of the Black Speech, and glancing to and fro with uneasy snarls.  Whatever the cause of their agitation, Aragorn thanked the Valar for the brief respite so that he could see to Legolas unhindered.

          Even in the dim light of the moon he could see that the foul arrow had pierced the ornately tooled leather quiver strapped to Legolas’ slender back.  Gently sliding his hand under the quiver, Aragorn ran his fingers up the contour of the prince’s back trying to find the arrow shaft and where it had penetrated the Elf’s body.   He could not find the bolt, only sensing the smooth suede of Legolas’ outer tunic.  There did not appear to be any damp wetness on the fabric, and when he pulled his hand free, it came away absent of blood, much to his relief.  At that moment, Legolas stirred beneath his touch and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, spitting out pieces of leaves and dirt as he arose.

          “Aragorn, stop fussing!” he choked.  Kneeling now, he swatted at the front of his tunic, angrily brushing away the dirt and grass.  “It just knocked the wind out of me.  Leave off!”  He batted the ranger’s hand away from his forearm, refusing Strider’s futile attempt to assist him in rising.

         Aragorn shrugged, ignoring his friend’s disgruntled remark, and moving around behind the woodland being, he placed a booted foot into the small of the Elf’s back. Before Legolas could protest, Strider grasped the orc arrow in both hands, shoved forward with his boot and yanked backward on the shaft, dislodging it from the Elf’s quiver.  The arrow came away with a reluctant “thwonk” but the force of its removal once again sent Legolas catapulting forward onto his face.  This time the Elf sprang up instantly onto his feet in one swift feline movement, demonstrating the grace and elegance that Elves were known to possess.

         He turned an irritated growl at the young human.  “Was that really necessary?”

          Fresh clots of dirt and grass clung to the front of the prince’s tunic and dead leaves were now tangled in his long, golden braids.  A smudge of dirt decorated the Elf’s sculpted chin.   If their situation were not so dire, Aragorn would have laughed outright.  He knew how Legolas hated being dirty, and the very sight of him at this moment was really…..his thoughts broke off as he turned his head from left to right, quickly scanning the area.

          “Yes,” he replied, “Orcs will be upon us in…..” but his voice trailed away.  There were no orcs coming to attack them.  Instead, they were retreating into the trees with crazed shrieks and howls. He glanced back at his friend with a perplexed frown.  “What spooked them?”

          Legolas searched the dimly lit landscape for anything that might have routed the orcs, but his keen eyesight could discern nothing unusual.  Suddenly his head whipped around and upward toward the night sky.  “Into the trees!” he hissed a warning.  “NOW!”  He snatched at the sleeve of Aragorn’s black overcoat and jerked the ranger into motion.

          Strider winced as Legolas’ hand gripped his slashed forearm, but he followed without hesitation.  He had learned long ago to trust the Elf’s acute senses.  Both warriors scrambled through the underbrush and dove under the cover of a deadfall that had a leafy overhang and was further sheltered by graceful willows and birch trees.  Neither human nor Elf made a sound as they curled themselves into the enclosure and looked up through the canopy of leaves at the dark sky above.   A tangible chill fell over the forest air as a black shadow slid across the sky, blotting out the moon and the stars, and causing a deeper darkness to blanket the land as it moved ever forward, silent and deadly.  Legolas shivered uncontrollably and closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the foul morgul beast.  His pale brow furrowed as if he was experiencing actual physical pain and he sucked in a short, ragged breath.

          Strider hugged his wounded and throbbing arm closer to his chest, but his thoughts were not for himself, but his woodland friend.  “Legolas, what is it?  Are you injured?” he whispered.  The Elf did not respond aloud, merely shook his head to indicate that he was unharmed.  Aragorn was not convinced, but there appeared nothing he could do at the moment.  He strained his head and neck outward from under the fallen logs to look up at the flying monster and its dark rider.

          A bone-chilling screech rent the still air, and both companions shrank back against the dead tree and branches of their hiding place.  Aragorn felt the hairs along the back of his neck raise and a shiver raced down his spine.  Cold sweat began to bead on his forehead and upper lip.  He could sense the evil emanating from the flying beast like a tangible wavering of the air about them.  The Nazgul appeared to float across the sky on the slight breezes above them.  It rode upon a great black bat, but the beast was unbridled and appeared to be merely allowing the wraith to ride upon its back rather than being driven by its hand. Turning, the monster glided in ever tighter circles as its yellow, slatted eyes scanned the lands below, searching.

          Legolas moaned softly, his slender hands rising up to clasp his temples.  He tossed his head from side to side, his face mirroring his obvious anguish and pain.  “No, no…..” he keened, “get out!”  He thrashed about as if wrestling with some unseen yet tangible attacker. 

          Strider threw another anxious glance at his distraught friend.  Was it calling to him? he wondered.  Indeed this was some evil servant of the Dark Lord.  First ordered bands of orcs moving so near to Mirkwood, and now this foul beast, so close to Dol Guldur. What could it mean other than the Eye of Sauron was getting much stronger?  Aragorn watched the black fiend with growing disquiet until after a time it rose upward once more into the clouds and slowly took wing.  Once it had passed over them, the ranger felt the tension in his shoulders seep away.

          “Nazgul,” Aragorn spat out the word.  He glanced at Legolas, who still appeared to be in great distress.  “I haven’t seen a Ringwraith since…..” At the pained expression on Legolas’ face, he let his words trail off.  “Come on,” he said softly, rising to his feet and dragging the Elf up by an elbow.  “We need to get away from here.”  Legolas only nodded, allowing the tall ranger to lead him out from beneath their tangled hiding place.

          “I hope the horses haven’t run off too far,” Aragorn muttered as he peered through the moonlit tree boughs, hoping to catch a glimpse of the animals, and praying that they hadn’t been killed by the orcs.  As he walked back toward their abandoned campsite, he gave two short whistles and a few moments later, was rewarded with several welcoming equine snorts.

          The two stallions emerged from the trees, seemingly none the worse for wear.  Strider reached out and caught his horse’s dangling tether.  He pulled the animal closer and stroked its neck with a reassuring hand, murmuring softly to him.  He lifted his uninjured hand up and scratched behind the steed’s soft ear.  Hodoer happily whickered in return and nudged his velvety nose into Aragorn’s chest.  The return of the horses seemed to bring Legolas out of his trauma and he warmly greeted his own grey mount.  He slipped his arms around Astalder’s arched neck, and buried his face into the horse’s mane, leaning into the animal for comfort.  The horse sensed the Elf’s need and swung his great head around to nuzzle at Legolas’ pointed ear.  The Elf laughed at the tickling sensation and drew back from the horse’s neck.  Magically producing a sweet treat from his tunic pocket, the prince allowed the animal’s tongue to caress the palm of his opened hand.   The sugar disappeared with one swift nibble.

          “Let’s pack up.  Even with the darkness, we can still make some distance yet.”  The ranger looked up at the black skies.  “I think that creature was heading toward Dol Guldur.  That can’t be a good sign.”  The moon slid in and out of the clouds as he watched, but it still emitted enough light for them to make out a trail.  He gathered up the broken tether hanging from his steed’s halter and turned into the woods heading toward their abandoned camp, the horse in tow.   “I think we’ve tracked this orc band to their destination. I don’t like the feel of this.”  He glanced over at his friend.  “I wish Gandalf was here.  His knowledge of that tower would be of great help to us, but I don’t even know where we can find him.”

          Legolas nodded his agreement and moved to follow his friend into the woods, but Astalder butted his head into the side of the Elf’s chest, pushing him aside and impeding his forward progress.   The horse nuzzled and snuffled through the Elf’s tunic, making known his demands for more sugar.  This in turn, elicited a laugh from the woodland being. “Nay, melamin,” he whispered in Elvish as he stroked the soft grey nose.  “One is enough for now.”  He chuckled again as the horse snorted his discontent.

          “You spoil that beast,” Aragorn called over his shoulder.

          Legolas looked up from the horse to Aragorn’s retreating back and smirked impishly.  “Are you jealous?”

          A nasty “humpf” and a muttered Dwarven curse filtered out through the forest.  Legolas laughed even heartier as he led Astalder forward through the trees and hastened to catch up with his friend.  As he came up alongside Strider, he grinned.  “What was that about a Dwarf’s unclean mother?”

          Strider grinned sheepishly.  “You heard clearly enough,” he replied.

       Legolas’ grin faded into a concerned frown as he pointed a graceful finger toward Strider’s torn and bloodied sleeve.  “You need to tend to that, my friend.”

          Aragorn had not even been aware that Legolas knew he had been injured in the melee, but before he could reply, both men stopped abruptly at the edge of the small clearing that had been their camp.  The orcs had completely ransacked everything they could find.  Parcels and leather carrying bags were strewn haphazardly about, their contents lying amidst the dirt and dead leaves.  Their bed rolls were ripped and torn and now lay in shredded ruins.  The campfire had been kicked aside and reduced to charcoal rubble and burned out logs.  Their cooking utensils were lying crushed and bent beside them.

          “Well, so much for salvaging our provisions,” Aragorn sighed as his gaze took in the destruction.

          Legolas bent down and began rummaging through their disordered stores.  The darkness made it difficult to make out much, but he was able to find an undamaged water skin and the saddle pouch with Aragorn’s herbs and salves.  “Here,” he called out to the ranger, rising triumphantly with the tattered pack in his hand.  He walked over to where his friend was kneeling and examining the demolished cookware and crouched down beside him.  “Let me take a look at that cut.”

          “It’s nothing really,” Aragorn protested, but Legolas would have none of it.  Reluctantly, the ranger halted his scavenging and sat down upon the ground.  He began to pull aside his torn sleeve to reveal the cut for the Elf’s inspection.  The wound appeared to be shallow and had already stopped bleeding, but the gash ran from the inside of his elbow to his wrist.

          “It’s too dark to see whether or not there’s any infection,” the Elf noted.   He picked up the water skin and gently poured some of the contents over Aragorn’s arm prior to cleaning away the dried blood.  The cut began to seep and Legolas let the blood flow to aid in flushing out the wound.  He washed it thoroughly with the remainder of the water, then drew out a length of clean cloth and slowly began wrapping it around the ranger’s forearm.

          “Does it pain you?”

          Strider shook his head, but flinched as the Elf continued to wrap the linen around his arm.  “It’s just stiff,” he murmured.  “I’m fine.”

          As Legolas tied off the ends of the bandage, he surveyed his handiwork.  “It will be dawn in a few hours.  I can better care for it then,” the Elf pronounced.  Fear of infection was a very real issue with any type of wound from an orc blade.  Legolas looked intently into his friend’s eyes, studying his face for any telltale signs of the poison’s presence.

          Seeing only Aragorn’s steady gaze, he nodded with satisfaction and rose to his feet.  “Well, that will hold it until I can see what real damage there is.”  He offered his arm down to Strider and the ranger clasped the proffered hand and used it to pull himself up to his feet.  The Elf arched an elegant eyebrow at the ranger.  “Do you plan to follow them?”

          Aragorn nodded.   “Let’s see what these orcs are up to.”