Duarion crept forwards, examining the high ruins about him. He was glad for the darkness of the night. There were a few stars, but the moon was out of sight, leaving him almost invisible from his hiding place.
Pulling his grey cloak a little tighter, Duarion scurried across to a patch of deeper shade by the ancient wall ahead. Once, this had been part of the great North-South road connecting Arnor and Gondor. Now, the vale of Andrath was a den of thieves and brigands.
"Keep a watch," came a voice from nearby. "I'm sure I heard something sneaking hereabouts. Nothing gets through."
"Oh come on, boss. None of those Bree-folk are brave enough to come down here in the middle of the night."
There was a sharp sound, as if the man had been struck. "Nothing gets through," the first man repeated.
Taking advantage of their distraction, Duarion erupted from shadows, drawing his twin knives. Each was razor sharp and glinted like the teeth of a dragon. The first brigand fell before he knew what was happening. The second hurriedly blocked with a large axe. Duarion fell into a rehearsed rhythm of quick stabs, staying close so the brigand could not swing his own weapon effectively. The brigand fell, clutching his chest.
Duarion stood there, taking deep breaths. He had to stay focused - remember why he was there. Someone in this camp must have had news from travelers coming up from the south. Perhaps they would know what happened to his brother.
The thought of his departed brother pained Duarion greatly. Now there was truly nobody left who he could call family, save perhaps one...
Campfires were suddenly lit all around him. Duarion was caught in the centre of a ring of fire. A burly figure, half-orc, half-man, walked up to him.
"Drop your weapons. You cannot escape."
Duarion stared at him from under his hood, staying on the balls of his feet with knives raised. He could not allow himself to be taken by this lawless bunch. Lady Saeldith needed him to return. He considered his options, then simply said, "Watch me."
