Defenders of Middle Earth: A Middle Earth Story(Book 3)

Chapter 15: Never Safe

As the cloaked figure stepped closer, Gerithor felt an inexplicable chill go down his spine. Something about the manner of the figure was very, very wrong. Then Gerithor noticed. It was the walk. Every other step, the figure seemed to almost limp. But rather than from an injury, it seemed to be that the stranger was purposely trying to walk humanlike when it was clearly unnatural for him to do so.

"Who are you?" Gerithor asked, his hand straying back to the hilt of his sword. The stranger laughed a harsh, deep laugh, almost demonic in tone.

"If I told you, it wouldn't make any difference," He said. Suddenly he stopped walking, and drew himself up to his full height. It seemed now that he had grown nearly a foot taller, and his shoulders, previously hunched, were unnaturally broad.

"Why are you here?" Gerithor insisted. Though he was afraid he didn't let it show, and years of practice served him well in this aspect. He projected confidence that he didn't felt, and stood taller to match the stranger's menacing stance.

"My master sent me," The stranger replied. The words dripped with a combination of menace and... hate. Almost as if the stranger was disgusted to say the words.

"Who is your master?? And why did he send you?" At this point, Gerithor had decided that he needed to buy time. Perhaps if he lingered long enough, another one of the rangers would come upon him and be able to help.

"You do not know my master... But my master's master... You know him well." The figure reached toward his hood with a gauntleted hand, and pulled it back with one slow motion. Gerithor's heart stopped for a moment in fear when he saw what lie beneath.

Dirty brown rags covered most of the stranger's face. The lower jaw wasn't covered, however, and it revealed dark skin and a mouth filled with jagged, sharp teeth. There were also holes where the eyes were, and sickly, glowing white spheres stared emptily at the ranger. But what was worst was the symbol that was drawn onto the rags... A dead charred tree, its branches splayed like grasping hands. Though the ranger did not know its meaning, above the tree was a red Eye, and Gerithor knew what it stood for.

"Your master must think that his reach has extended far indeed if he sent you here, to a haven of Men," Gerithor growled. Whether this beast was an orc or not, it was clear what its intentions were. Gerithor drew his sword, the blade ringing as it exited its sheath.

"He did not send me," the beast said, pointing at the Eye on his head covering. His finger traveled down to the dead tree, and his mouth turned up in a combination of a snarl and a grin. "She did."

As Gerithor looked on the orc drew a long, curved sword from his belt, and with a growl took a step forward.

"She knows of your quest. And you will never live to see it completed."

The orc raised his hand, and two more menacing orcs similar in appearance to the first emerged from a nearby alley. Gerithor tensed and raised his sword, knowing that a fight was imminent.

The three orcs surrounded him and began to circle around him, like wolves looking for a weakness in the defense of a buck.

Suddenly one of them lunged forward, and Gerithor moved quickly to counter. The speed of the orc's attack had taken the ranger by surprise however, and he stumbled backward. The orc took advantage of the momentary loss of balance and advanced, jabbing and slicing with his sword with the skill of a master bladesman.

Gerithor had never seen an orc fight with much skill at all, let alone with measured, calculated attacks like this one. The orc saw the surprise on the ranger's face, that much was clear. But where an ordinary orc would sneer and grow overconfident, this orc maintained a stoic expression and continued to attack with measured force.