During the ambush, Amaron had been in the back, taking care of anyone who came through. He had slowed down a few orcs with some well placed arrows before switching to his sword when he realised that not all of the orcs had fallen for the ambush. That's when everything had just become a blur of sound and movement, a big blur of swords, clubs, arrows and curses. Amaron fought for all he was worth. At some point he had had some difficulties with a particularly nasty orc. The orc had pounded him, leaving him weakened. He did all he could do, hacking and slashing, weakening the orc, but he'd failed to kill him outright. Amaron did not know where the arrow had come from, but he sure was thankful for the help. 

Amaron killed off a last orc who was down for the count but still breathing, pulled his sword out of the carcass and wiped it clean on the grass. A proper cleaning would have to wait, but there was no way he'd disrespect his arms by leaving them covered in orcgoo. He heard Revan's command to return to Bree and saw everyone respond to the call. This was the perfect opportunity to dress his wounds. He'd become quite skilled at this over the years, and decided to patch himself up before offering assistance to the others. He retreated into the brush to remove his outer clothes and quickly checked himself. He'd sustained a few massive bruises and suspected some bruised ribs, but nothing appeared to be broken. His undergarments had softened the blows. He smiled to himself, once again amused by the happy side effect of his attire. He quickly and efficiently bandaged his cuts, put his clothes back on and emerged from the bush just in time to see the whole caravan starting up towards Bree. Amaron whistled for his horse. The animal responded instantly, as always, and Amaron joined the others who were waiting to return to Bree.