Pârangol and Belkhala sat down after a long travel, resting around a campfire. Pârangol was just about to sit down when he heard something. Not a sound of wargs or wolves, but the sound of men. Over the time they had walked over the lands together, the warrior got to know the noises of moving men very well.
Pârangol acted in a matter of a second telling Belkhala, in a hushing voice, to hide as he himself watched around, silently trying to listen to the trespassers' movements. It was quiet. They probably had seen the fire and now got silent. Pârangol stood there confident of his decision, drawing his weapons in a wide arc, moving into a fighting stance.
The first sign of movement...''Run!'' Pârangol said when he saw the group that came outnumbering through the undergrowth. The Warrior sometimes stopped to check if they were still followed by the men who to his surprise, caught up. Pârangol stopped, knowing what he had to do. ''Flee!'' he shouted to Belkhala as he stood in a stance, ready to impale the first foe that would be upon him. The group was quickly upon the elf, while the princess followed her guardian’s orders and ran through the night, until she was out of sight.
His blade was as a lightning. Through flesh and cloth he cut as if they were wind. Like the cold finds its way beneath the thin layers of a beggar’s garb, so found his sword the holes in the men’s defense. From the corner of his eye, discovering that an archer took him into aim, he swung his spear as a javelin and impaled the man as the arrow made its flight. A hot shot of pain let him groan. The arrow had made its way through the shoulder-guard and bit now into his flesh. Thinking of his end, Pârangol watched the men leaving. They were probably afraid to further attack him after so many had fallen victim to his blade. Pârangol took up his spear and started to track down Belkhala as fast as he could.
