Alfýkin: The Last of the Elves

Orcs

Nearly a hundred years of wandering, searching, and finding nothing, had led Illeandir to where he stood now; Ered Nimrais. The wind upon the low mountain top whipped his hair in long, stinging, brown tendrils across his face. Upon the Ered Nimrais he could see the whole of Western Gondor laid out before him like a map. The Pinnath Galin mountains lay to the south along the sea. To the west was nothing but rocky terrain and small villages hardly large enough to support life, a poor existence for such a mighty race. To the east was Minas Tirith, more than four-hundred miles away, beyond sight. Inside the White City lived an old friend he had kept waiting for nearly one-hundred-thirty years.

Thundering in the distance, they have come, seen him on the mountain top! Illeandir pressed himself against the warm, gritty dirt, scraping his hand on a rock and drawing a thin line of blood. Below, on the mountain side, a cloud of dust swirled angrily, concealing dark figures too far for humans to see clearly. But Illeandir saw them clearly, with eyes sharper than any human and ears more sensitive than a cat's, he knew exactly what was chasing him; orcs. Foul, bloodthirsty manifestations, freaks of nature, everything unwelcome in the world. They had been chasing him for three days without stop, night and day.

Slowly Illeandir pushed himself up into a kneeling position cautiously reaching for his longbow, though his quiver was half empty from previous encounters. Arrows rattled off the rocks twenty feet below him. In an instant Illeandir was on his feet and dropping down the other side of the mountain to a ledge thirty feet below. Arrows thumped against the dirt where he had lain moments ago.

In mere minutes he had descended a quarter of the way down. What took him minutes would take the orcs much longer, yet they gained. They knew shortcuts that even he, a traveler much of his long life, did not know.

It took nearly an hour to descend, half of what it took to climb. Beyond lay open fields of tall grass swaying in the wind. The roofs of a small village broke the endless sea of green. A sudden longing for company gripped him, but soon passed. Though Illeandir wished for someone to be with him at times he knew it was not possible. No human could travel as he did, they would be dead within a month.

Veering away from the village, Illeandir made his tracks more visible hoping the orcs would follow him and leave the village alone. Self-preservation told him to lead them into the village and let the people suffer while he escaped but turning back now would be disastrous and, despite deep loathing for many humans, he would not, could not, let them suffer.

Nearly a mile from the village a high pitched buzzing filled Illeandir's ears. Too late he dove to the ground for protection. An arrow pierced his right shoulder rendering it useless. He bit his tongue against the burning pain when the arrow head grated against bone. Five. Illeandir counted to himself. Five arrows to the shoulders in the past fifty years.

Three massive orcs rose from the grass, one holding a crudely made bow. He shouted something to his companions who began scouring the grass before them, hacking at the slender shoots with iron swords. They would see him in moments. He couldn't move far with the arrow in his arm, even if he could the grass would move and give away his position instantly.

Slowly, deliberately he reached up and snapped the arrow shaft off. A thin trickle of blood dampened his sleeve. The orcs didn't hear anything and continued to slash the grass. As they approached Illeandir slid his sword from its scabbard with a soft hiss. The orcs paused, rasping in harsh tones the largest motioned for the other two to follow him. Illeandir froze, breath silent, eyes flicking back and forth from one orc to the next. Their armor, made from bits and pieces of metal and animal fur tied together by leather, was ragged and ill-fitting. Their weapons were crudely made, bearing numerous chips, dents, and scratches.