Jesper sat astride his mount uneasily, his normally confident demeanor overcome by the stress of the coming battle.  He was leading a group of twenty-odd Rangers, detailed away from the main force to provide support.  He and his men had been busy for the last few days, running messages between the cities and the forces arrayed against the coming onslaught of orcs.  Now, however, they were in a wooded area to the north of Bree, charged with the task of searching the countryside for any advance scouts from the orcish army in an attempt to prevent them from learning the location and disposition of the gathered forces.

                Much of his unease stemmed from the ominous clouds that boiled overhead.  Despite the prevailing wind from the west, these clouds had swiftly crept out of the east until they reached the eastern edge of the Shire.  The clouds were so black and dense that lamps were required to see indoors, and the outdoors had the look of dusk even when the sun was at its apex.  Man and creature alike had been unnerved by their presence.  Even the stoutest warriors would occasionally glance at the sky and mutter under their breath.

                Jesper knew that the success of the proposed battle plan was uncertain at best.  Jesper had been a factor in the planning of the defense, and he hoped he hadn’t erred in his judgment.  Given the hundreds of orcs involved, Jesper had suggested that perhaps the goal of the invading army was not simply to raid the outlying towns and villages then retreat back to the Misty Mountains.  With those numbers, he had noted, they could challenge Bree itself, or possibly even Fornost.

                He had also pointed out that if they struck only the smaller settlements, there simply wouldn’t be enough plunder to satisfy so many orcs.  It was commonly understood among the Dunedain leadership that orcs, despite their poor hygiene and quick tempers, were nonetheless crafty and intelligent.  They wouldn’t travel so far to squabble over a few trophies and limited slaves.  They must have something larger in mind.

                After some discussion the Commandant of Fornost, leader of the small council gathered to talk about the pending invasion, had agreed.  But which target would they choose?  Judging by their westward approach, they planned to hit Bree, the Shire, or Fornost.  The Shire had no material wealth that the orcs would appreciate.  Fornost held a wealth of weapons and coin, but was a well-defended fortress.  Bree was a trading center, somewhat less affluent than Fornost, but weakly guarded.

                It had been knowledge of orcish nature that had decided them.  The orcs would never simply pass Bree, an easy target, to raid Fornost.  This would allow the citizens, and much of their wealth, to escape before their return.  Much more likely would be first taking Bree then marching on Fornost afterward.  Holding Bree would also have the effect of commanding the intersection of the two largest roads in the area.  This would, in turn, prevent reinforcement of any besieged forces in Fornost.

                Having decided that the orcs’ target was indeed Bree, the Dunedain had placed their forces accordingly.  A hundred mounted warriors were encamped an hour’s ride to the west of Bree.  Two hundred men, archers and foot soldiers, had been assigned to shore up the town’s palisade and man it in defense of the town.  Some four hundred additional troops, mainly swordsmen, were hidden in the woods to the southwest of Bree.  With luck, the orcs would be engaged in the siege of Bree when the Dunedain struck them from two directions at once.

                The town itself was largely deserted.  All of the women and children had been sent north to Fornost.  Those who had been reluctant to leave were more easily convinced after the arrival of the evil clouds rolling above the town.  Able-bodied men of Bree, armed with bows and light weapons, joined the town’s guard as the reserve force to aid the Dunedain manning the walls.  Otherwise, only those citizens needed by the defenders remained.  These included the town’s armorer, blacksmith, baker, and some young men detailed to run supplies to the walls when needed.  A few others, trained in either magical or mundane healing arts, were prepared to render aid as needed.  The town would be defended as well as its thick wooden wall allowed.

                The town’s single tower was manned by Rangers, selected based on their skill with bows and their ability to see long distances.  Also in the tower were a pair of signalmen and an officer of the Dunedain.  These men would use flags to signal the location and movement of the enemy, allowing the field commanders to make adjustments during the battle.

                All the preparations time allowed had been completed, and now the defenders were forced to wait.  The last scout to return had stated that they were only a few hours distant and marching hard.  They would arrive at nightfall.

                Jesper spurred his horse to a slow walk, and his men fanned out through the trees on either side.  They would not be participating in the battle itself, but they still were to play a vital role.  If the defense of Bree failed, they would be required to provide support for the retreat to Fornost.  They would have to keep the orcs from advancing through the forests to flank the withdrawing foot soldiers.  If the defense was a success, Jesper and the other Rangers would instead be needed to harass and contain the defeated orcs.  Even if most of the orcs were destroyed there would certainly be enough remaining to cause great problems if left to roam the countryside.

                Without warning, a Ranger a few dozen paces to Jesper’s right gasped and clutched at his sword arm.  Glancing in his direction, Jesper noted that a black-feathered arrow had pierced his upper arm.  Immediately Jesper and the other Rangers began scanning the trees for their assailant.  The Ranger to Jesper’s immediate right, a young sharp-eyed man named Joras, fluidly nocked an arrow to his bow and let it fly.  Jesper watched the missile’s flight until it disappeared into a thick patch of scrub ahead of them.  Soundlessly, a thick dark form toppled forward to the earth.

                Jesper’s men charged forward, approaching the tangled bushes from three sides.  More arrows whistled from the concealment, but none found their marks.  Approaching the thicket, Jesper saw movement to his left as an orc rose to its feet, pulling back on the string of a short bow.  Jesper ducked low against his horse and the arrow passed over his back.  He wheeled his steed around as the orc drew another arrow from the quiver at its belt.  Jesper’s blade lashed out as his mount sped by the orc, as his sword bit into the orc’s torso, killing it.

                Jesper spun his mount around and saw that his men had defeated the remainder of the orcs.  There had only been a half dozen, most likely advance sentries for the approaching army.  He called out for his men to gather.  The man shot in the arm was the only man injured, and his wound was not life-threatening.  Jesper, knowing that the man would be useless in combat, sent that rider back to Bree to have the wound tended.

                Spreading out again, the Rangers rode onward, looking for more orcs.  They remained fairly close to Bree however, in order to hear horns blown in the city.  The city would blow the horns only if the defense had failed and a retreat was necessary, in which case Jesper and his Rangers would hasten to the city to cover the withdrawal.

****

                Quindin checked his mount’s saddle, ensuring that it was neither too tight nor overly loose.  He checked his long dagger to be certain it was loose in its sheath.  He made sure both of his swords were sharp, though he had taken a whetstone to the blades just hours ago.  His usual two-handed sword was strapped to his back, but knowing it would be useless while mounted he also wore a longsword at his side.  He even checked the clasp on his cloak.  Waiting for a battle was always a tedious and nerve-wracking experience.

                He was among the mounted men positioned on the East Road to the west of Bree.  They were barely within sight of Bree’s tower, waiting for their signal to ride.  A score of the hundred or so riders were Rangers, those few who could be spared from messenger and outrider duties.  Quindin knew he was there because his skill with a blade would be more useful in battle than his relatively limited skill as a woodsman.  The remainder of the force was comprised of the mounted portion of Fornost’s garrison.

                A few men had ridden a short distance to the east to watch the tower.  A messenger had ridden to them only minutes before, telling them that the orcs would be approaching the city shortly.  Once the orcs had surrounded the town and begun their attack, it would be time for Quindin and the rest of the riders to strike them from the rear.

                Now and then a straggler from Bree would pass them, going west.  These were primarily hobbits, Bree citizens that had thought better of their plans to help defend the town.  Quindin didn’t blame them at all:  hobbits were small in stature, and their lives were often centered around simple tasks like gardening, eating, and sitting around fireplaces sharing pipeweed from the Shire.  He seriously doubted that they would be much help in a battle anyway.

                One of the Fornost garrison walked up to Quindin, his helmet tucked under one arm.  “Nervous?” the man asked.

                Quindin chuckled.  “Why would I be nervous?  Fighting isn’t new to me, Telly.”

                “This kind is.  When’s the last time you fought from horseback?  A year or more?”  Tellison was a veteran sergeant in Fornost’s cavalry, and much more experienced in mounted combat.  “You’ve checked that saddle at least four times now.”

                “Maybe a little anxious, I guess.  I’m afraid I’ll get orc blood on my new boots.”

                Tellison guffawed.  “I knew something was bothering you!”

                Quindin eyed the cavalryman’s plate-and-chain armor.  “That stuff sure is shiny.  I’ll be sure to ride next to you.  All the orcs will pick the easier target and I’ll be that much safer.”

                “I’d still prefer this over using my skin as armor.  But maybe you Rangers have the right idea.  You look and smell like you haven’t bathed in a month!  If we lose the battle you can just switch sides and pretend to be an orc.  But I’ve never heard of even an orc being that ugly.”

                “So says the man whose mother wouldn’t let him own a mirr....”  Quindin’s retort was interrupted by shouts from the men down the road.  Squinting through the twilight at Bree’s tower, he could barely discern a bright red flag dancing in the light breeze.

                “I’m going to check my saddle,” Tellison muttered as he walked briskly back to his mount.

                Quindin checked his own mount’s saddle yet again.

****

                “What have you gotten me into this time, Jerolas?” a deep voice growled.

                “I thought you liked this kind of thing, Finglorn.  There should be plenty of orcs for you to kill.”

                “It’s hard to swing a sword when you are on top of a wall and the orcs aren’t.  And if the orcs make it to the top of the wall, then we’ll be in so much trouble that I won’t be able to enjoy killing them!”  Finglorn pointed a finger at the elf beside him.  “I think you just want to kill them all yourself!  You’re still just mad because I had to save you from that forest troll last month.  I swear I’m going to learn how to use a bow so you can’t try to pull this trick again!”

                The elf laughed in response.  “You!  With a bow?  You’d find a way to shoot yourself in the foot!  Then I’d have to waste all my energy mending your wound.”

                “It’s just not fair sometimes.  I take all the risks and you get to finish most of our battles with magic.”

                “Well, before you pledge yourself to some backwoods sorcerer as his apprentice, let’s make a deal.  After the battle is over we can go outside and chase down the remaining orcs.  And I promise I won’t use magic once, at least until you bite off more than you can chew.”

                “You promise?”

                “I just did, didn’t I?”

                “All right then.  I’ve always wanted to watch a big battle anyway.  It should be pretty safe up here, and I’ll have a great view.  Too bad that tower’s full though.  I would be able to see all the fun from up there.”

                The elf looked out from the wall, scanning the surroundings.  The road from the east was deserted, although that was hardly unusual, especially at the end of the day like this.  The handful of houses visible outside the wall showed flickering light in the windows and wisps of smoke rose from the chimneys, but he knew those were empty as well.  The inhabitants had been evacuated along with most of Bree’s population, and runners had periodically moved from house to house fueling the fireplaces to give the appearance that they had no warning of the orcs’ approach.  The successful defense of Bree depended on the orcs being caught by surprise.

                Jerolas sat on the narrow walkway attached to the wooden palisade ringing the town.  Closing his eyes, he made mental preparations for the casting of several of his most powerful spells.  Such preparation would enable him to cast the spells with a minimum of concentration later.

                Finglorn sat beside the elf, his bulky armored frame a contrast to his companion’s slender robed form.  Working quietly to avoid distracting Jerolas, he rhythmically ran a whetstone over the sharp edges of his blade.

                A few minutes later, a horseman came galloping from the east.  Without stopping, the rider rounded the base of the hill upon with Bree was built and raced to the southern gate, which was already being opened for him.  The horse and its passenger disappeared from view, but Finglorn could still hear the sound of the horse’s shoed hooves clapping on the cobbled streets.  Finglorn used his ears to track the rider to the eastern edge of town where the town’s solitary tower stood.  The sound of the horse’s progress stopped.

                Finglorn turned to watch the tower’s highest level.  Momentarily, a splash of red could be seen rising into the fading light.  Finglorn knew that this flag meant the enemy was approaching.  He stoically watched the flag rippling in the gentle wind.  The setting sun, dropping beneath the western edge of the dark clouds overhead, briefly provided warmth and light as its rays lit the town. 

                The sun dipped below the treeline of the Old Forest far to the west a few minutes later, and the light failed entirely.  In this moment, the flag which Finglorn watched seemed to be the color of wet blood as it caught the last rays.  To his eyes it appeared to be a gaping wound in the sky.  Other than the flickering light stabbing into the night from the houses in and around Bree,  the darkness was complete.  Moon and stars could not at all penetrate the thick black clouds that even the sun struggled to breach.

                Even the flag faded from view, and the world became silent.  No night birds sang, no dogs howled, and it seemed even the insects had been quieted by the bloody portent presented by the flag.  After several heartbeats’ time, a man further along the wall coughed nervously in what was obviously an attempt to dispel the unease brought on by the event.

                Finglorn couldn’t help but wonder whether the blood foretold by the flag would be his own.  Suppressing a shiver that attempted to charge down his spine, he regained his composure and put his whetstone back into its pouch on his belt.  Sharpening a sword in this darkness would be just as likely to cost him a finger as not.

                Finglorn decided that if he managed to live through this battle he would seek out the troll-brained officer who had decided upon that particular color for the signal.  When he found him, he fully intended to shove his boot so far up the officer’s hindquarters that the man would be tasting leather for a week.