The most recent winter, only seven or six months ago
The snow sprinkled down from the clouds above, the trees creaked in the gentle wind, and the marching of armoured footsteps disrupted the peace of the wild lands. Men sang and cheered as they went, torches lighting a path through the pine wood as morning was rising.
“To fight! To fight! To end the lands of our blight!
To war! To war! We shall not cower no more!
To death! To death! For perhaps our final breath!
For life! For life! For my children, parents and wife!”
The proud voices of the Eorlingas marching for battle not only roused their spirits, but also awoke Hund, who had been resting by a tree. Needles were in his hair and he fumbled for his bow, wading through the snow like it was a stream, only to join the river of armoured men as they carried on their procession.
Langhund was an outlaw, for helping an old friend of his, and making promises to men that were in power, and it was not long until he was spotted by the others, getting dragged out to the front with an arm around his throat. If it was not for Yrminas, the long legged scout, his head would have been severed and thrown to the wolves that prowled the woods. He joined the line again, under the watchful eye of the man.
The company moved through the woods and as the shadows grew around them, so did the nerves that played with their stomachs, squeezing their throats and tightening their lungs. When they arrived to where they intended, holes were dug and rough barricades created in the snow, though Langhund and a few others crept off, to the top of a mountainside within the woodlands, to get a good view of the battlefield-to-be.
The hours ticked by, until dusk eventually came, the shorter days of winter bringing it much sooner than many men wished. In the distance, horns were blowing and through the woods like a black wave came the horde of orcs. Their cries were heard on the wind, the stamping of their feet turned the white snow brown with filth as they stepped along, leaving a scar on the beautiful canvas.
The battle had begun. The orcs charged down, warg riders bounding along as the fierce Rohirrim met them head on, though they had no horses on this day, for the snow was too deep. Swords were slicing left and right, spears being thrown and bodies disappearing into the thick layering of snow that covered the battlefield. More bodies clashed; stains of red and black on the ground.
Hund stood up, his arrows notched and his bow drawn, letting off shot by shot to where it was needed, most of them meeting their targets but they were shots most could make. When a wind picked up however, it was getting difficult.
Along with the wind came the centre of the storm. The leader of the Orcs, sitting upon a warg larger than the rest with a wicked curved blade in his filthy hand, and a dented frosted iron helmet drawn over his face yet his breath was hot in the cool; the vile laughter of him drifting on the wind as he watched men get hacked by those around him. Armoured feet dug into the warg, and it trotted down with a group of four other warg riders; the bodyguard of the leader.
Langhund raised another arrow and stood up taller than he had yet, the arrow resting on his knuckles against the bow, pulling the string back inch by inch. His muscles burned when he got it back as far as he wished it to be. His hair blustered around him, tickling his neck and forehead. Sweat was trickling into his eyes from the heavy furs he wore to protect him from the cold. His fingers were bleeding from the constant pulling on the string. He breathed out at the same time as he let the arrow fly.
Through the air it soared, a distance that only a longbow could make, yet this shot had the precision of a shortbow from a close distance! With uttermost accuracy, the arrow found it’s way into the gap between shoulder guard and cheek guard, and buried itself into the leader's neck. His body fell limp almost instantly, and he dragged the reins of his warg into another, bringing them both down into the snow. The orcs froze as their leader twitched and gasped, his legs kicking until they stiffened.
The men of Wildermore rejoiced, and with a newfound warmth in their chest, as if they just drank a gallon of ale on a cold evening, pushed forward hacking and slicing. Langhund ran down from his advantage spot, and joined in the fight with his sword drawn. The men chased them back into the woods, injured and cold.
“Who did this?!”, the Captain of Forlaw shouted, as he came up to the corpse of the warg and leader.
“It was me who shot the arrow; Langhund Wildehyse, of Grimslade!” The Half Blood strode out from the company, a cut along his forehead and his blade still drawn. “Tis my arrow, for none of Forlaw’s army are like this--I have borrowed some of them in the past.”
“You?! Well.. I suppose it is a good thing then, that I accepted you unto the company.”, the Captain nodded and marched off again.
Hund looked over the corpse that he brought down, sitting on the side of the dead warg as he twisted the orcs head from one side to the other, looking at it up close with a smirk playing at his lips. He pulled the arrow from it’s throat, and snapped the head from the shaft, putting the feathery end into the orc's mouth before he strode off.
A few days later, in Forlaw, Langhund stood in front of the Reeve, explaining his actions and what he did to help turn the tide of battle. With much consideration, the Reeve pardoned Hund from his outlawed state, and gifted him gold and a new bow for his aid before sending him away from Forlaw before he could do anymore damage; to orc or maiden. Though his greatest prize was the arrowhead he retrieved, wrapping a leather cord around it to become his greatest pendant.
“Through bitter winds and the wildest of snows,
My greatest of feats happened in Wildermore.
My sword slashed swift, and fierce were my arrows,
And the blood of their chief will fame me evermore.”
- Langhund Wildehyse
