Zac pivots without hesitation, his blade meeting that of a particularly massive orc. The clash reverberates through his arm, but his mithril sword does not yield. In the creature's eyes, he sees a cunning malice lacking in its kin, a leader, perhaps, or a veteran of many battles.
Their blades ring together three times in quick succession, sparks dancing in the darkness. The orc growls, baring yellowed fangs in a hateful snarl. Its strength is considerable, but Zac does not fight with brute force. He reads his opponent's rhythm, anticipates each strike, then suddenly breaks the tempo.
A feint, a step forward instead of back, and his blade finds an imperceptible opening. The mithril pierces beneath the orc's ribs, striking its heart with precision not of an ordinary warrior but of an instrument of justice. The creature collapses, its last words a garbled gurgle lost in the surrounding noise.
Panic, that poison Zac knows so well, spreads through the camp. The orcs, believing themselves overwhelmed by a far greater foe, lose all cohesion. Some attempt to flee, others seek to rally, but in the darkness and confusion friend and foe become indistinguishable.
"Lat kulkodar!" shouts one orc, accusing a comrade of cowardice.
"Lat gazatu!" replies another, calling his kin a traitor.
Blades rise, but no longer aimed at the Rangers. The orcs strike each other in confusion, their axes and daggers more often finding the flesh of their brethren than that of their elusive attackers. Long-suppressed rivalries explode in the chaos, tribal enmities resurface, and the camp turns into an arena of fratricidal violence.
Zac watches this spectacle with clinical detachment. He has seen this same fear, confusion, and self-destruction in the depths of Mordor. Such is the nature of corruption, it always ends devouring itself.
An orc rushes at Zac, not to attack but to flee. Its eyes are wide with terror, its posture that of a hunted beast. Zac raises his blade once more. This is no longer combat but rout, and there is no honor in striking down an enemy who has abandoned the fight.
Barandir and Zac make their way through the flaming camp, their blades finding their marks. After minutes of calculated carnage, as the camp descends into fratricidal civil war, a low whistle, mimicking the call of an owl, sounds. It is the signal to retreat.
As swiftly as they appeared, the Rangers withdraw, vanishing into the night and leaving behind a blaze of hatred and self-inflicted death, their mission accomplished without a single loss. Zac follows Barandir through the shadows, his footsteps as silent as those of his temporary companions.
At a safe distance, the Rangers regroup. Satisfied nods are exchanged, hands briefly rest on shoulders in mutual recognition. No loud celebration, no boasting, just the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.
"You fight like no man I've ever met," Barandir tells Zac, his voice barely audible in the night.
"I've had strange masters," Zac replies simply, sheathing his mithril blade whose gleam fades reluctantly.
"Your eyes…" Barandir begins, then stops, seeming to search for words. "During the fight, they shone brighter, like stars in a winter sky."
Zac does not answer immediately. How to explain that it is not a thirst for blood that intensifies this light, but harmony restored, a fleeting sense of perfect accord with the underlying Song of all things?
"Darkness brings out the light," he finally answers, knowing that the response is both true and incomplete.
Barandir studies him a long moment, then nods as if having made an inner decision. "Our paths will stay joined a while longer, if you wish. We're bound for Bree, where you promised to meet Mithrandir again."
"It would be an honor," Zac replies with a slight bow.
Together they leave the chaos they have sown, twenty shadows melting into the night of Eriador. Behind them, the orc camp's flames rise like a beacon of destruction, a temporary warning to other foul creatures that might tempt fate too close to the lands sworn to protection by the Rangers.
The night is still young, and the moon remains hidden behind thick clouds. But to the east, almost imperceptible, a pale light already heralds the dawn to come. Another day in this ancient land where past, present, and future sometimes merge into a single continuous melody, of which Zac is no longer merely a listener, but an active player.