“Thorkell!” shrieked Eowyn.

And she hurled the spade with all her might—almost throwing herself with it—hitting the nearest Orc squarely on the back of its head and sending it sprawling over its victim’s chest.

“Here,” she screamed, leaning down from the branch and beckoning the others, “over here! Come on! Come over here!”

The brutes exchanged glances. One of them smiled: “Woman.” It began to rise.

Another grabbed its arm. “Mine.”

“Here,” shouted Eowyn, “come here!”

“No! MINE!” The first Orc lashed out, its claws ripping the other’s face.

Panicking, the second Orc raised its hands to its sightless eyes; then, with a howl of pain and fury, it launched itself at the first, knocking it to the ground and, sitting astride its belly, it pounded its head—left fist, right fist, left fist, right fist…

Meanwhile, the band’s single Uruk Hai, ignoring both the brawl and its spade-struck comrade, padded towards Eowyn in an obvious state of arousal.

The fourth Orc turned its attention back to Thorkell bogsveigir.

…

The unconscious Orc was lying upon him like a sated lover—its foul mouth pressed against his cheek—and an unseen pair of hands was opening his breeches, and Eowyn’s voice was quavering with fear—and Thorkell panicked.

With a superhuman strength born entirely of terror, the Beorning rose up on his left arm—lifting a good ten stones of unconscious Orc with him—seized the spade, which had fallen down beside him (missing his own face by inches), and swung it at the brute kneeling between his legs.

He missed—Fuck the gods!—but the creature was slow-witted even for an Orc and, spurred on by a sudden scream from Eowyn, the man immediately struck again, this time smashing the spade’s sharp edge into the brute’s throat.

…

“Woman…” The Uruk Hai approached the tree, displaying its big erection like a weapon. “You can not escape.”

Almost choking on the fear that had risen, like bile, into her mouth, Eowyn retreated towards the tree trunk, crawling backwards—

The Uruk Hai followed—

Eowyn’s foot slipped, and she lurched sideways, crying out as she landed astride the branch, her groin hitting it hard, her fingernails tearing as she grabbed hold of the bark—

Then she screamed in terror as the Uruk Hai seized her ankle.

…

Throwing off the first Orc, Thorkell bogsveigir surged to his feet like a Berserker, finished off his would-be rapist with a single stamp to the neck and—ignoring the blinded Orc, which was still pounding the remains of its companion—went after the Uruk Hai.

…

Grasping the branch with one bloodied hand, Eowyn tried to draw her sword. The Uruk Hai waited until her shaking fingers had closed around its hilt, then yanked her leg.

…

It is playing with her, thought Thorkell, as he raised the spade—Eowyn was still, somehow, clinging to the tree—her fear is what is giving it that rise—and he slammed the blade into the brute’s neck, cutting through to the bone—Bastard!—changed his grip and swung the spade back, smashing it into the side of its head—Fucker!—shifted his hands once more—the Uruk had already sunk to its knees—and clubbed it to the ground.

Then he hit it again.

And again.

And he kept on hitting until long after it had stopped moving.

He stared down at its lifeless body—

“Thorkell…?”

At last, her voice—sounding strangely small and uncertain—pierced the fog inside his head. He dropped his spade and—overestimating his remaining strength now that his battle rage had subsided—he reached up into the tree, took her in his arms, and lifted her down.

His legs buckled beneath him.

Suddenly, he was lying on his back, staring up at the sky, with Eowyn cradled against his chest.

He held her tight.