All night seems purpetual at this point, and the cold had set in to the bone, the warmth of his cloak was all that kept the chill from reaching passed his exposed fleash as Earendur watched the flame of the camps below him and in front of him. Behind him in the valley behind him were the men they had spent the better part of the day moving, their wagons pulled together for relitive safety and warmth. The soldiers themselves were armed and shivering below him, the line of elven worriers to either side of him were streached across the bank in both directions, all kneeling low to stop from being seen.
Not more then an hour pryor there had been a scout on this bluff, looking below on their fires, making a decision on weather to strike this night. Once he had gone Earendur had gathered the men and elves, driving them onto the bluff, the soldiers making the lower line behind the archers with just enough room for the smaller forms to get through. Earendur was silent, making sure that everyone was in place and that he had the distance down before he moved, the motion not lost on the line as one they moved, heading down the hill.
A hundred paces later they once more dropped to their knees and waited, men were mounting horses below them as the rear guard breeched the top of the hill and knelt in wait. Their was no moon again tonight, only thick forboding clouds that forwarned of coming snows, winter would hit middleearth with a vengence soon, and the war would take on a whole new meaning. Seeing the moounted men start towards them Earendur turned to his second, motioning to him to aim for their mounts, no horses would mean one disadvantage and motioned down the line as the command was carried and the elves strung out their bows, aiming for the horses' exposed necks.
For a minute there was a whisper of silents, bows strung tight, muscle tense and ready to release, and a sensation of almost hesitation, the calm before the storm. At that point the world focused, down to pinpoint sensation, the bow strained and smooth against his hand. the arrow tought against the string, ready to fly like a punging falcon on its prey, the movments of the animal below, his target, the warm body that would soon feel his sting. Then with the sound of a wind through leaves a release, and fourty arrows loosed into the air, sailing almost silent and smooth on the evening air, dropping with deadly procision.
Horses dropped with screams of agony, men's cries echoing with them as they becamed trapped under their writhing mounts. Already another arrow had replaced the first and sent sailing before a thrid was knotched. By then the world below them was in confusion, yells for shields and order to the scrambling men were yelled. Again he let fly with his people and watched men fall below their unslought. Soon enough someone would point out where the fire was coming from and the true fight would begin.