Unaware of this danger, the Goblins plunged heedless into the shallow muddy waters of the Mirrow, perhaps thinking that the obstacle of mud could be overcome by a burst of sheer speed. Several made it almost half-way before becoming hopelessly mired; regardless, the near side of the river was soon chocked with the frenzied mob. Caught and sinking, panic and terror set in, and the mud was black with seething bodies trying to clamour over each other, driving their fellows down into the mud, or being drowned beneath a tangle of frenetic, grasping limbs and bodies.
The ensuing battle was an anticlimactic affair, foregone in a way that was at once businesslike and grim, and was executed utterly without glamour or redeeming honour. It began with lines of Elf soldiers riding tantalizingly back and forth before the Goblin army. The unruly, undisciplined mob responded as expected, ineffectually loosing every arrow that remained to them, followed by every spear, dart and lance; and then they stood waiting in silence, not moving or speaking, appearing almost calm, perhaps because there was naught else they could do.
Proceeding at a carefully unhurried pace, many of the Thane’s soldiers dismounted, collected every spent missile that had belonged to the Goblins, and joined the forming battle-formations.
The Elves moved within one hundred feet of the Goblin ranks, but refrained from closing and engaging in close-in fighting. With careful deliberation, they formed a wall of archers, took aim, and began sending thick volleys of arrows into the Goblin ranks, using first the Goblin arrows, then their own. Accuracy was irrelevant. They simply fired their arrows where the Goblin hordes were thickest.