Sword and Arrow

Prologue

The young Ranger was surrounded.

He was backed against a tree, facing as many as twenty orcs. His sword was drawn, not that it would do much good. He was traveling north for the first time, to meet the rest of the Dunedain. And now I'm attacked barely five leagues from Fornost. He nervously shifted his footing. This was the first actual fight he'd been in - Elladan and Elrohir had never let him actually fight before, not even on regular patrols.

Do most people die in their first fight? he wondered. Then: Do most people get attacked right after being told that they come from an ancient royal line?

The orcs surrounding him snarled as they paced closer. They're trying to see the fastest way they can kill me. He lifted his sword higher - no need to tell them how scared he was. Then they came at him.

He swung his sword, trying to keep his head. Trying to remember what his brothers had taught him. One, two, three. That's good. Except for the fact that there's about ten more. He took down another one, nearly giving a second an opening. I'm going to die, aren't I? I should've taken this damned quiver off first. An odd thought to be ringing in one's head when one is about to meet an untimely end.

Something rustled in the surrounding trees as he was locked hilt-to-hilt with an orc, trying to push it back. He violently prayed that there were not more orcs, reinforcements, waiting in the bushes to attack as soon as he had finished these off.

Then a figure burst out of the undergrowth. He wielded two knives, a long and a short, like the Ranger wore on his belt and proceeded the wreak havoc on the orcs. Emboldened by the stranger, the young Ranger began fighting harder, lashing out with steel and fists. These orcs didn't wear proper armor - only a few even wore leather breastplates or helmets.

The Ranger glanced at the other man a few times, trying to get a good look at him. Even as they fought side-by-side, he couldn't see the newcomer's face under his hood.

"Get behind me!" he called. The Ranger obeyed, standing back-to-back with the stranger with ten orcs surrounding them. When all ten of them rushed at the two, they were cut to pieces. The newcomer let out a breath, then lowered his knives. The Ranger warily kept his sword up, pointed straight up at his neck - though he was much shorter than the Ranger - as the newcomer pushed his hood back, revealing a face that wasn't too much younger than the  Ranger's twenty-three years, with the same dark hair and grey eyes that he had. 

The Ranger tilted his head to the side, looking at him - her - with shocked eyes. A woman? All the way over here, wearing a ranger's knives and cloak?

"Name yourself," the Ranger ordered, trying to keep an air of confidence. He raised his sword, holding it up by his shoulders.

The woman - to be honest, she was barely a girl - grinned. "The name's Beruthiel," she said. "The Rangers just call me Wildcat. We were expecting you earlier, my lord. They sent me to look for you when you didn't arrive. Good thing I came, too." She poked an orc with the point of her longer knife. Its head fell off.

"Do... we know each other?" the Ranger asked carefully. His sword - a length of elf-forged steel - still stood vertical between the two.

"No." With that, the woman - Beruthiel, that was her name - walked off, and the Ranger followed her without stopping to ask himself why he was doing so. "But I know who you are, my lord. You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn, aren't you?" She turned around, looking at him expectantly.

"Yes," he said drawing the word out and hurrying after her as she kept walking. "But why are you searching for me?"

"Lord Elrond sent word by messenger bird that you were coming north," she explained. "We were to let any man of your description into Arnor. We expected you five days ago, but when you didn't come, Halbarad sent out people to search."

"Wha- what?" he asked, wishing she would slow down. "Who's Halbarad?"

She closed her eyes for a second. Right, he's never met the Dunedain before. "He's your cousin," she finally said. "The chieftain in your absence." Beruthiel began pulling aside shrubs.

"And what are you doing?" Aragorn asked her, finally gathering the courage to ask about her odd behavior. This seemed like a woman he did not want to cross.

She ignored him, pulling aside a large tree branch and revealing a grey horse tied to the tree, patiently waiting as he grazed on the grass growing after the spring rains. "Aha!" She led the horse out of the thicket and pulled herself into the saddle. "Mount up," she said, gesturing behind her.

Aragorn finally sheathed the sword he was holding up and climbed up. "Ready?" Without waiting for an answer, she snapped the reins, sending Aragorn flying back. He would've fallen off if he hadn't grabbed her shoulder. As twigs tore at his messier-than-usual hair, he could've sworn he heard her laughing.

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so it begins.