The first light of dawn breaks early, but it finds me awake, just as it always has done. Some elderly rangers may claim that their age has weakened their bodies and that they so require more hours of rest, but those are excuses. In Dunlending society men do not rest, no matter their age, and neither shall I subscribe to any such nonsense. I may not be able to start writing before the day of dawn brightens the pages, but I have no need for eyes to make ready. The ink is prepared and my pens lays in my hand. Last time I wrote, on the orders of the esteemed Council, about Pedhaer and how I came to meet him. I shall continue that, but this is three weeks later. He had healed in that time and while the rest of our band had gone back to the village with what we had salvaged from the caravan, he had stayed behind in our frontward camp. Now, fully healed, he wanted to join us on our patrols. That is where I shall start the telling.

Pedhaer had been largely silent during the past weeks. He spoke little, but listened a lot. He was being subtle about it, I suppose, for most of the Dunlendings failed to notice it. A pair of eldery men from the Hebog noticed this, as did one from the Draigmen. The latter took him apart as often as he could and began instructing him in their tongue, while the former gave him a thousand and one small chores to do. Chores he took to with exceptional eagerness, even if it only showed in his hands. Dunlendings know how to watch the hands, however, and they saw his skill. Using what meagre supplies we had, he fixed our equipment, banded twines and twigs together, fixed tents and busied himself with whatever minor tasks he could perform without straining himself. The Hebog also took note that, in his spare time, he attempted to repair his damaged crossbow. They tried to talk him into explaining its mechanisms to them, but he played the fool. It fooled them, but not Ogothar, his Draigmen teacher, who was greatly amused by it all, understanding the young man's loyalty to his Dwarven family.

I had been worried, at first, but as the days went past and he still did not recognise me, those feelings eased. Even more so since he asked very little questions and none about how it came to pass that I spoke his tongue. In turn I asked him little about his past. He seemed as reluctant to talk about his past as I was about mine. Instead I busied myself teaching him some basic herblore while I treated him, only to discover that his ability was near equal to my own. He knew some effects that I had not known about, but to my amusement he confused herbs easily. Only years later would I learn that this was because he had only seen drawings of these plants, back when he had studied with the Elves.

As such it was that when I finally declared him healed, a young, but not disrespected Pedhaer, immediately volunteered for patrol duty, something the Turchmen in general and Doman in specific cheered for. The tall man had taken a shine to the young firebrand, as he had called him, and was looking forward to seeing him in action. I tried to caution against it, but was quickly overruled by the sheer enthusiasm that Doman had inspired in his fellows. It was his right, they argued. A blood price had to be extracted.

So the men prepared. They covered themselves in earth to mask their scent, so that Wargs would not spot them, They painted on their signs of the Crebain, for Strength and Luck and the Feudkeepers shaved their heads clean and drew the symbols of their old grudges on their bodies. They would go into battle without armour, should they find one. None offered to do this for Pedhaer, for while he had earned a sliver of respect, he was an outsider still.

Then they set off, the group a two dozen strong, hunting for nearby Goblins. Pedhaer was carrying his axe along, his crossbow still left behind in disrepair, and a small, Dwarven shield that he had traded his armour for. I expected their patrol to be slow going and boring, for Pedhaer was likely to make a ruckus going through the forest, as only a Dwarf can make.

It was to great surprise that when they returned, more than a day later, that the men looked at the youngling with a strange sort of respect. It wasn't until the wounded were treated and the men had washed off blood, gore, paint and dirt alike, that I heard the full story.

The young man had been far more silent than any had given us credit for, even if it still fell short to what the Dunlendings expected of their own at that age, but he had slowed them little. It wasn't until they reached the shadows of the Misty Mountains that they had been forced to call for a halt, for they had spotted prey. There were four orcs accompanied by a dozen Goblins, but what had concerned them was the tall, pale Orc in the centre of the group. I felt my heartbeat quicken for I knew all too well what kind of vile creature that was, and where it came from. The Durub from Gundabad were no prey. They were hunters of their own.

The Dunlendings, however, knew not this creature, but were wise enough to recognise the fearsome foe for what it was and planned for it accordingly.

Most of my kin think the Dunlending brutal and savage, that they only charge headfirst into the fray and think only of glory. Yet there is more to them than that. They employ tactics and cunnin as well as the best of us, knowing that the ambush is a mighty tool and one they use all too well. A trap was set and sprung.

A dozen arrows rained from the trees and struck down the Goblin sentries. An alarm was raised and the dark creatures roused themselves. More fell to the merciless arrow rain, but before they could form up the Feudkeepers struck from behind, Pedhaer in their midst. The Goblins charged them and were immediately cut down from behind as the others kept firing their bows and by the time the battle truly began only the Orcs were left standing, archers at their back, Feudkeepers to their front.

The Durub was no fool and knew that the invisible archers would have to cease fire as soon as they closed with the humans and so they threw themselves into the melee with abandon, even as outnumbered as they were.

I shuddered when I heard this, for a Durub is a mighty foe and its heavy weapon can cleave through men and armour alike.

It was here that Pedhaer proved himself to all around him, for he rushed and met the Durub directly. Doman recalled how he had no time to shout a warning, for they had Orcs of their own to kill. To his surprise Pedhaer did not die when the blade came down, but somehow bounced it aside with his shield, without it breaking. In great detail he told of us of the duel with the Durub, as Pedhaer danced around the pale Orc, only deflecting or dodging his blows while the Feudkeepers mercilessly slaughtered the other Orcs, using their numerical superiority to drive their spears into them. The Durub, at one point, tried to interfere but discovered quickly that a Dwarven axe easily cuts through Orc armour. Even if poor Pedhaer had miscalculated and could only narrowly duck behind his shield as the Durub hit him. Once more the shield held, but Pedhaer was now unarmed, his axe laying on the ground, but the Durub was bleeding from a deep cut to his thigh where the axe had bitten deeply into its flesh.

The Durub, eyes alight with a hunger for vengeance, advanced on Pedhaer, planning on cleaving him from head to toe, but once again Pedhaer narrowly skipped to the side, the heavy blade finding naught but air. The edge of the young man's shield, however, found the Durub's helmeted head. In the short time it took the Durub to stagger back from the impact, four spears struck his armour and drove him to the ground, but were unable to penetrate the metal. Not that it availed the Orc any, for Pedhaer was quick to reclaim his axe and drive it into the Durub's skull, ending its life.

It was a glorious kill, even if the Durub had been heavily distracted and outnumbered, but it did made me worry. Why was a Durub this much to the south? They had no business here and it concerned me, even moreso with the rumours coming from Isengard. What was going on in the world at large while I was here? I would need to ask questions.

But that would wait. For now we had half a dozen lightly wounded and though Pedhaer hid it well, he had fractured his wrist. I would tell him off for trying to block a Durub's blows with a shield later, but for now I was wondering how well the Dwarves had trained him that it was his wrist that was fractured as opposed to his entire arm. Or how he had dodged the other blows. Dwarves were not known for their agility in combat.

In any case, I no longer had any cause to worry over Pedhaer fitting into the group. His eagerness to learn with Ogothar, his Dwarven learned skills at fixing anything that needed fixing and his combat prowess had earned him enough respect to sit at the campfire at night. It was strange how quickly the Dunlending bonded to a lone man if he shed blood with them. I had killed a large Warg, Pedhaer had killed a Durub. If this were to ever become a tradition, the next of our kin who wanted to enter the Dunland tribes would have to kill a Cave Troll.

Now there's a thought that puts a smile on my face, but I see the sun setting once more and hunger claws at my stomach. I think I shall find myself a good meal, before joining the youngsters on the training ground. Reminiscing about those times lights a fire in my weary bones and they shall not rest before I have reminded at least a handful of youngsters of the taste of dirt and humility.