Ear-Heru crept up to the piles of ash behind the orc hold. He looked at the piles of slag and orc rubbish in the pit nigh to the gates. He was in the far east of Mordor, near the end of the Ered Lithui. He felt a sense of watchfulness growing on his mind. He never knew what people meant by the Eye of Sauron. He knew now. He felt as if he was watched, his every move, his every breath, recorded and scrutinized. No confirmation he was alone would convince him otherwise.

He drew an arrow out of his quiver and set it on the bowstring. He looked at the mithril arrowheads. He could hear the voice of the Lady of the Galadhrim in his head. “Take these,” she said, “for they are precious. They shall not fail you in your need.” He hoped she was right.

The gates suddenly came open. A small orc, a tracker it seemed to him, walked out sulking. It was carrying a large dead uruk. He drew back on the arrow. The orc was on the edge of the pit. He let the arrow fly. The arrow pierced his chest. It let out a howl, or more of a growl. Orc voices came from the doorway. 7 or 8 large, brutish orcs came out. One, the largest, had a large crossbow in his hand. He had a red eye burnt into his shirtless and armorless chest. He screamed, “Find it! I smell manflesh.”

Ear Heru popped up and let an arrow loose before the orcs could move or speak a word. The arrow, guided by chance, plunged into the Red Eye on his torso. The leader fell dead. Some of the more cowardly orcs had a mind to flee to the tower, for fear of the wrath of the elf friend. But not the bigger ones. The three who stayed rushed to him. He drew his blade. Quick as a wizard angers, Gronrist the stone cleaver passed through the leader’s body. Then, out of the gate came a new terror for even the orcs to endure, robed in black with a pale blade drawn.

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