Much to their disappointment, Tarlanc awakened the sisters at dawn and insisted that they rise for the day's journey. Though the old man greeted them with a cheerful "good morning," the lack of sleep weighed heavily upon him. His dark gray eyes were bloodshot and seemed to have sunken even more into his skull. When he smiled, delicate skin as thin as parchment stretched over his angular cheekbones. He had the look of one who had seen many years and many sorrows, and upon this day it seemed that they all were written upon his face. The twins suspected that the old man was still feeling melancholy after telling the sorrowful tale of Tabahanza, and though he did not mention it, the recollection was weighing heavily upon him.

After tending to the morning's necessities and eating the usual meager breakfast fare, the two sleepy girls sat atop Mithril and waited for Tarlanc to mount Sparrow. Even though the gaunt old man appeared weary and worn, his tall, thin frame resembling a cadaver, when he took the reins and swung into the saddle, he was amazingly spry. "You might not know it, lasses, but in five days' time, we will be within the borders of Rohan!" he called out as he touched his heels to Sparrow's sides.

Using the Great West Road as their guide, they set a northwestwardly course through the forest, although they distanced themselves far from the main thoroughfare. Traveling too closely to the road would be perilous, but Tarlanc did not want to venture very deeply into the forest lest he risk confronting the Wild Men. All he knew of those people was the rumors which he had heard since childhood. These tales told of a fierce group of squat men who hid in the trees and shot poisoned darts at intruders. Some stories even told that these fearsome creatures would eat the bodies of living men and relish their screams of agony as they tore off great, bloody chunks of their flesh. Whether the stories were true or not, Tarlanc had no desire to discover their veracity.

The party of three had been riding for about an hour when they came to the mouth of a narrow defile surrounded on either side by low, wooded hills. In its middle there flowed a stream which had once been quite wide, but, because of the drought, had shrunk to but a fraction of its breadth and depth. Spilling out of the dale, the stream cut across the trail and continued on its course over the plain to the Anduin. Though the sun sparkled brightly upon the peaceful water and a gentle breeze sighed through the trees, the sides of the dell shaded away into a somber gray quietude.

Gazing up at the great, white billowing clouds which rolled slowly over the blue skies, an expression of peace came over Tarlanc's face. "You know, lasses," he remarked, turning in the saddle to look back at them, "many times in my long life, I have wished that I could set down on parchment the scenes of great beauty which I have beheld before me. Unfortunately," he chuckled, "every time I ever tried to write a poem, it was so poor that I consigned it into the flames. Anything that wretched should never be imposed upon some victim's ears. Doggerel, lasses, nothing but doggerel!"

Both girls giggled at Tarlanc's criticism of his literary talents. "Oh, surely it was not that bad," Elfhild exclaimed, peering over her sister's shoulder to give the old man a sympathetic look. "You are only being humble!"

"If you had ever read any of my horrid verse, you would think to yourselves, 'Nothing could be worse!'" Chuckling to himself, he urged his horse down the slope into the quiet water. Haun bounded ahead of them across the course, and after gaining the far bank, shook himself fiercely, sending droplets of water flying in showers. Excitedly he put his nose to the ground, trailing the scent of some animal, a fox or a deer, perhaps, which had also come seeking the life-giving water that day.

Sparrow halted in mid-stream and dipped his mouth into the water. As Tarlanc urged him forward, the chestnut gelding trailed his muzzle through the cooling depths, sucking in great gulps of the refreshing elixir. Tossing silvery droplets skyward, he splashed across the brink and up the other side. Elffled had reined gray Mithril at the top of the southeastern bank, and the sisters watched Tarlanc's back as he rode up the slope. As the sun played over the water, a smile came over Elffled's face as she watched the peaceful scene. She felt a warmth in her heart, grateful to the old man who had grown to be a true and faithful friend to them when they had needed him the most.

Suddenly, Haun abandoned the animal trail and lifted his head high, winding the air. The hackles bristling on his back, he growled out a warning grave and deadly.

Twisting around in the saddle, Tarlanc raised his hand, signaling them to halt. "Lasses, hold!" he cried, his voice a tense order. "Mayhap there be a danger ahead!"

From the corner of her eye, Elffled saw sunlight glinting upon metal up the slope across the stream. There was the blurred streak of motion as a black feathered shaft hurtled down upon them, a herald of blood and death. Before she could ever cry out a warning, she heard the deadly hiss of the arrow. She let out a horrified shriek as she saw the missile of doom plunge into Sparrow's neck and bore its bloody trail through the flesh to emerge from the other side. Seeking gruesome prey, more arrows came streaking after the first, drinking blood and plunging into flesh.

Almost as though they were idle observers to some nightmare, the twins stared in spellbound horror as the chestnut reared high into the air, one anguished whinny after another ripping from his throat. The sisters screamed, the sound of their terrified shrieks blending with the cries of the horse in one dreadful cacophony. The pain maddened gelding beat at the sky with his forelegs, gouts of blood flying from his wounds like bizarre garlands of scarlet roses flung at a wedding. His eyes rolling back in his head with terror, he sent one frantic shriek after another as the second arrow caught him in the gut. Tarlanc's horrified eyes locked upon the feathered barb extending from the gelding's abdomen like a skewer. "Damn!" he muttered. Rearing high, Sparrow's body angled precariously backward until his balance faltered, and he toppled over on his haunches.

Tarlanc's mind refused to accept what was happening. Age had dulled the acuteness of his reflexes, and he did not respond so quickly as he once had. Finally reacting, Tarlanc leapt from Sparrow's back before the dying horse toppled over and crushed him. The old man hit the ground heavily, groaning as he landed on his right shoulder. Sparrow, his legs thrashing aimlessly high over his head, lay upon his back and whinnied piteously as the blood gushed from his wounds.

Crawling on his hands and knees to avoid the flailing hooves, Tarlanc drew his dagger from his belt and struggled to his knees. Casting a look back at the sisters, he shouted, "Ride, lads! Ride for your lives! We are finished here!"

Before the sisters could respond, the next arrow had hit Mithril, ripping off most of her left ear. Elfhild and Elffled screamed as the bright red blood sprayed from the wound, gushing out like a crimson font. A poor shot, nonetheless the brutal barb terrified and enraged the mare, driving away all semblance of her good training. Her nostrils flaring, her eyes wide and rolling white, her only instinct was to escape.

Flinging her head and sending more blood spattering over the sisters, she took the bit between her teeth and clamped down on the metal. Elffled struggled to control her, but the mare ignored her and spun around. For a brief few moments, her right side was exposed to the archers on the slope. In those few seconds, a sharp-eyed archer unleashed another arrow, this one far more skillfully aimed. The feathered barb buried itself deeply in the mare's side, barely missing the back of Elfhild's calf. The wound broke loose a floodgate of pure agony in the valiant little mare, and she screamed out her rage and pain.

Terrified, the twins held onto the saddle while the mare plunged forward through the trees. Her strides lengthened, and the mare had gained a few yards when two more arrows followed in quick succession. One whistled harmlessly by her and the other caught her in the large muscle of a hind leg, severing the great artery. The mare's pace slowed to a trot as another barb struck her in the haunches. Her gait faltered to a stumbling walk as her breathing came harsh and heavy, her neck and sides lathered with sweat and streaked with blood. Though the archer did not know it, the next missile was wasted, for the mare was dying on her feet, the ruptured artery leaking blood as she staggered. This barb bore into her flesh and muscle right above her tailbone, and the mare stumbled and went down on her forelegs, pitching the girls over her head.

With a roar of triumph, three monstrous shapes charged down the hill, screaming and baying like demons from the hordes of hell. Slowing down near the mouth of the ravine, one held back. He watched as his fellows sped by him, while he put an arrow to the string and drew it back to his cheek.

Though he was dazed and giving to his right side, Tarlanc had managed to draw his dagger and stumble to his feet. Haun stood protectively in front of him, deep roars rumbling from his throat.

"No, Haun, you damn fool!" Tarlanc cried, but it was too late.

His hackles bristling, his fangs barred, Haun gathered his muscles and lunged for the uruk in the lead. Before he could reach the brute and close his great jaws around his arm, an arrow hissed through the air and struck the mastiff in the back. Driving straight down and passing through a lung, the shaft pressed close to his spine, paralyzing him and sending his hindquarters crumpling under him. Bloody froth dripping from his mouth, the valiant mastiff struggled to drag his ruined hindquarters forward. Two more black feathered barbs mercifully ended his agonized struggles. With the memory of a defiant growl lingering in his throat, the great beast collapsed to the ground, his legs jerking spasmodically.

All of these nightmarish scenes transpired in only a few moments, brief and short-lived when recorded upon the marks of the hourglass. They passed in bitter quicksilver flashes across the consciousness. Though fleeting and transient as man accounts time, they would scourge their way deep in the valleys of the soul as phantasmagoria. Never would the sisters be free, for the ugly and rude aberrations would continually rear their serpentine heads in sharp, painful visions. There in the mind, the storehouse of all human emotion, they would linger in deep abscessing wounds, brooding and festering. At times, the tormented consciousness would push them under the depths, while at other times, it would summon them up on swirling waves of memory. There they would shock and terrify, constantly refreshing the psyche with scenes of bizarre horror... but they would not be forgotten.

Bruised, battered and scraped, the sisters struggled to pick themselves up from where they had been thrown. The body of the dead mare was before them, her eyes already glazing over in the stare of death. As she had galloped in terror, her life's blood spilling, she left a trail of crimson, which wove its way from where she had fallen back across the tormented ground to the stream. Mercifully, Mithril had taken them too far away from the slope for them to see the scene of horror which was playing out like some act in a gruesome drama.

The archer who had so recently butchered the brave dog and horses had taken a position a short distance up the slope. A faint smile upon his gruesome features, he stood with his bow ready, his eyes fixed on the tableau below him. "This has been so easy," he thought, grinning to himself. "The old man and boys just fell into our hands. Now if Sharapul and his boy ever get around to it, we'll have their swag and be out of here quicker than you can say, 'highway robbery.'" He chuckled at his own joke. It was a shame that those other two dolts were always too busy with each other's pricks to appreciate his humor.

Tarlanc had seen the bowman, and for a moment wondered why he did not strike him down. Then he realized that the three of them were in no haste to kill him, obviously keeping him alive long enough to have some sport with him. Taking a defensive position, Tarlanc drew his dagger and held it extended before him. He stood his ground and slowly circled as two of the uruks ringed around him, hooting and calling obscenities and making vile signs with their hands and fingers.

The smallest one, the one of delicate build who resembled more a man than the monster which he was, wiggled his hips suggestively and slowly danced closer until he was almost within the old man's reach. Fluttering his eyelashes as flirtatiously as any feminine coquette, the bizarrely attractive orc thrust his pelvis forward as he caressed his crotch. Enraged at this loathsome display, Tarlanc suddenly lunged forward, slashing out with his knife. With a little giggle, the dainty one nimbly avoided his thrust and pranced out of his reach. His eyes still riveted upon his strange attacker, Tarlanc was unprepared when the most powerfully built of the uruks lunged for him.

Grabbing him by the wrist, the orc snapped the old man's arm back, flinging the dagger from his grasp. The uruk's yellow eyes bore into Tarlanc's as the brute bared his long, yellow fangs, his carrion-tainted breath expelling itself in the old man's face. Holding him in a fierce grip, the monster laughed as he slowly crushed the bones of Tarlanc's wrist. The old miller screamed in agony as he felt his bones snapping as though they had been nothing more than a bundle of dry twigs. A vicious kick in the groin doubled Tarlanc over, and a powerful fist under his jaw sent him toppling to the ground.

Cocking his head to the side, a reflective look upon his face, the small, petite orc put his finger to the side of his mouth. "Why, Sharapul, I do believe you have ruined the sweet old fellow!"

"Âmbalfîm, the bastard is too old to need his ballocks anyway!" Sharapul laughed wickedly as he loomed over Tarlanc.

Torû left his post up the slope and walked down to where Sharapul and Âmbalfîm stood over Tarlanc. "Come on, fellows, you've had your fun! Let's go after those lads. I'm hoping we can sell them for slaves. Just leave the old man alone; he won't be in any condition to do anything for a while," he grumbled peevishly.

"You're right, Torû... as always," Sharapul gibed sarcastically. He was angered at what he took as a usurpation of his power as leader. Secretly afraid of Torû, who was a much better fighter, he was unwilling to engage in a quarrel with him. Instead, Sharapul turned blazing eyes to Âmbalfîm. "I have no time for this, pretty boy! You slit his throat and then search him! You can have what's in his pockets. We will come back later and search the horses' packs. Torû and I have to be after those youths before they get away!"

The demure orc's mouth gaped open as his eyebrows rose questioningly. "I don't like this business!" he chimed out in a high-pitched, effete voice.

"What's wrong, Âmbalfîm?" Sharapul glared at him. "You have killed before! How's this one any different?"

"Maybe you don't understand, Sharapul." Âmbalfîm tossed his head to the side, sending his raven tresses flying out to cascade like a glistening river of ink against his back. The small beads which had been braided amidst his locks clashed against each other, tinkling delicately. A deep frown of disapproval upon his face, he thrust his fist upon his hip. "I never liked killing! I only killed in battle, and this is outright murder! I thought we were just going to rough them up a bit, have some fun with them, take their valuables, and then let them go!"

"Âmbalfîm, sometimes you think like a damn elf! Maybe you have reverted back to the old line. If you have, you little prick, you're a disgrace to the race of orcs!" Sharapul stormed, wondering if he had made a mistake to offer Âmbalfîm the money in the old man's pockets.

Groaning, Tarlanc raised his head. His jaw surely must be broken, for it was numb, and his teeth did not meet evenly. Dizzy, his head throbbing, he blinked his eyes in an attempt to chase away the dancing spots and blazing lightning bolts that streaked across his vision. The pain in his groin was unbearable, and though he tried not to cry aloud, he was certain that the groans which he heard from somewhere off in the distance were his own. Vaguely, through the haze of agony, he remembered Ahãma's prophesy of long ago. "Beware the woman who dwells in a man's body," she had told him, and at the time he could make little sense out of the prediction. Now, though, after seeing the slender, effete uruk, he understood with perfect clarity the dire meaning of the fortuneteller's warning.

"Kill the old bastard!" Sharapul bellowed angrily, his face turning red under his dark coloring. "I said kill him, and I meant kill him! Don't waste any more time!"

"No, Sharapul! You kill him yourself!" Âmbalfîm hissed. Then he turned on his heel and stalked away.

"Mates, I'm staying out of this, but I think you're making a big mistake." Torû scratched his jaw and walked away to stand by the creek bank and look in the direction that the twins' mare had taken them.

Bending down, Sharapul grabbed the old man's long white hair and jerked his head back. No recognition was written in Tarlanc's dark gray eyes as he looked up dully at the orc. The old miller barely comprehended what was about to happen. A merciful haze had descended over his mind. He smiled gently as the dagger sliced from left to right across his throat, severing his jugular and letting his crimson blood spew over his neck and chest.

As the dagger did its deadly work, the three uruks heard a long, piercing scream from across the stream. His eyes gleaming with the heat of his bloodlust, Sharapul's head jerked up at the sound.

"Come on, lads! After them! They're getting away!"

Torû screamed out a wild battle cry as he and Âmbalfîm tore off at a lope. Jumping the stream in a single bound, they were up the bank and after the sisters like hounds on the trail of deer. Strong muscled and swift creatures, they soon swung into an easy stride which they could maintain over many miles and many hours.

After cleaning his dagger on a filthy rag, Sharapul stabbed the weapon back into the sheath at his belt. He looked down at his victim, who gazed up at him through the glassy-eyed stare of death. Ramming his fist under Tarlanc's jaw, the uruk pushed his head back and forth, laughing as the dead man's mouth flopped open and shut, the broken jaw bone wiggling in his hand. Running his finger through the gaping, bloody trough in his neck, the uruk snickered.

"Why so quiet, old man? I made you a pretty red mouth, a lot prettier than the other one you have! Not doing much talking now, are you?" He bent down and stared into his face. "The flies will be after you soon, and you'll end up a nest for maggots! You won't like that, will you?" Tiring of this amusement, he straightened his back and set to work rifling through Tarlanc's clothing. Breaking the string that held the old man's purse to his belt, Sharapul first tested the weight in his hand, and, pulling the pouch open, he grinned evilly when he saw the contents. "Quite a few coins in here, old man. Nice shiny silver and gold, just what I like to see!"

The uruk fumbled at the knapsack on his back and pushed the pouch inside. Impatiently, he gripped the neck of Tarlanc's tunic with both hands and ripped it down the middle. Dragging it off the body, he turned it inside out and searched the lining. His fingers quivered in delight when they detected a leather packet concealed within an inner pocket. Tearing it open, he found an object wrapped in linen.

"What's this, old man?" Sharapul leaned close to Tarlanc's face. "It must be dear to your heart to keep it so well hidden. What do you value so highly? I'll see soon enough!" Unwrapping the object, he discovered the miniature of Galwen. "What!" he bellowed. "Some damned ugly bitch! Not even the frame has any value! You cheated me, you old bastard!" In a rage, Sharapul rose to his feet, tore the portrait into fragments, threw them to the ground, and twisted his boot heel on the pieces, grinding them into the dirt.

After he had finished searching the rest of Tarlanc's body, Sharapul unlaced his breeches, hauled out his huge ruddy member, and urinated in Tarlanc's face. He sprayed the stinking yellow liquid all over the old man's body, shook his prong a few times to flush out the last few drops, and then stuffed it back within his breeches. Baring his teeth in satisfaction, he threw back his head and howled in triumph.