Not Again?!

Chapter 12

Now he was almost caught up to Elladan and Elrohir, and he hoped he would make it in time. The twins' horse followed close behind, not needing a lead to keep up and stay with him.

Glorfindel's head flew up abruptly from studying the ground for tracks when he heard the low resounding blast of a horn. It wasn't the clear ringing of an elven horn, but something else – the foul noise that would issue forth from an orc trumpet. One of the orc groups was calling for aid. Elladan and Elrohir must have come upon them, and they would be overwhelmed in minutes by the second group that rushed to help.

Glorfindel leaned low over his stallion and urged it forward. Pale hooves flew over the ground, barely skimming the leaves, and the horse huffed as it gave the speed its rider asked. As they galloped toward the ensuing battle, Hinnor and Gael were left behind, Glorfindel's horse far outmatching their pace. Nearing every closer, Glorfindel could hear the clashing of swords and thrumming of released bow strings with his keen elvish hearing. He dropped the reins – his horse could guide itself – and pulled the long sword from the scabbard at his waist, pulling it up and readying himself to fight. In a last flurry of speed, his horse burst through the trees and into a large clearing. The sight that met Glorfindel's eyes then seemed to freeze the blood in his veins.

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Elladan had just disposed of the three orcs beside him when he felt the shock that suddenly reverberated throughout his bond with his twin. He extended his sword in an afterthought to lop off the remaining orc's head as he turned to frantically see what had happened to Elrohir. His twin was standing upright, his grey eyes wide in surprise, the side of his tunic ripped open and a bloody wound showing through, thick liquid dribbling down his side. Elladan let out a hissed gasp as his brother's fingers slowly loosened on his sword and the slender elven blade clanged to the ground. He was terribly wounded, Elladan knew, and there were still two orcs to kill, leering as they stalked closer to the wounded twin. One still had a dripping red blade; the sword that had sliced delicate elven flesh open.

Elrohir suddenly jerked, still standing, and his eyes flickered. A short crossbow bolt protruded from his back, deadly and sharp. The archers! Elladan had completely forgotten about them - how could he?! He turned furious grey eyes to the orcs standing near the trees, but knew he had to dispose of the remaining sword-orcs first. In a wild burst of speed, Elladan flew over the trampled ground toward his brother and the two orcs. His vision seemed to blur around him and it seemed like he had somehow killed the orcs with swords, their bodies littering the ground like fallen leaves.

Anger roared in Elladan's veins, and all he could see was the two filthy yrch across the clearing. One of them had shot his twin! His arm moved violently of its own volition and his sword left his hand, flying wildly across the yard to slam up to the hilt into the orc that was still reloading. The slender hilt poked out between two beady eyes as the orc collapsed backwards, crossbow dropping from lifeless fingers. Elladan spared a quick glance to Elrohir - he was still standing, staring into nothingness, pain overcoming his senses. He would be fine - he had to be! But there would be no safety until the last orc was dead.

Elladan felt something welling up in his mind. It was a numbing dead black - not the kind that would pull him into unconsciousness, but something that promised power and strength, if only he would succumb. It whispered earnestly that Elrohir would be saved, if only he let it take over . . . and Elladan finally released the last of his control, receding into his mind and letting the black cloud swarm over him.

Everything became crystal clear suddenly. His elven vision let him see miles away, examine the tiniest leaf on a tree far from him, see the smallest ridges on an ant's back - but this . . . this was different. Angles were sharper, tree trunks curved delicately, leaves fluttered in slow motion with the faint wind. The smallest drop of blood dripping from a dead orc's nose was as clear to him as if he had been right next to it. A primal urge overcame him suddenly and he felt himself leap forward in utter fury toward the remaining orc archer.