Feather

 

There would be none to record this deed, Feather thought as he drew his sword.

"They are close," Rabbit Bane said, her voice a skwee of hawk speech as she glided overhead, her sharp eyes taking in the wind-blasted mountain top and clumps of twisted trees.

Strider had been right, Feather thought. The orcs were coming west from Mordor as sure as Sauron's heart was black.

The rangers were too scattered, as always, to stop them all. Still, very few orcs reported back to their master in the dark tower. He smiled at the exaggerated tale they must have told to justify their losses. Maybe he had grown to a dozen knights in shining armor, or a thousand archers raining death on the unsuspecting orcs.

In reality, only a dozen rangers, spread too thin as always, patrolling alone along the eastern bank of the Gwathir were the "armies" holding the orcs at bay.

But he knew the day was coming when even the grim hunters of the West, silently guarding the peace and shunned by polite society, could not stop enough of them.

"They are here," Rabbit Bane skweed. "May your sword be light."

Feather breathed deeply, centering himself, calming his mind for the task at hand. He remembered his oath, sworn in the pouring rain under a massive oak so many years ago. A lifetime ago.

Eight orcs appeared at the edge of the twisted trees. Feather saluted them, bringing his sword upright to touch his lips. None recorded the deed, but the trees watched and remembered.





Inspired by characters in The Lord of The Rings saga by JRR Tolkien.
Art and story (c)2022 Mickey Kulp
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