“Open the gates!”

At dusk, the wandering Rangers returned from their patrols, one after another donning their war-gear and climbing the walls, joining the garrison as part of the defense.

Compared to the soldiers sent from Wayfort for reinforcements, these Rangers were clearly more composed, for they were long accustomed to battle, to roaming the wilderness, to tracking, and to living days where skirmishes broke out every few.

“If I had known earlier, I would have trained as a Ranger too.”

Some soldiers couldn’t help but think this to themselves.

But battle… battle meant life and death. It was never a simple matter.

When you’re truly on the field, your mindset changes… doesn’t it?

“The situation is grave. The orc army is already drawing near. Likely, before the sun sets, we’ll see them.”

“Aye, very grave indeed.”

In the camp, a soldier looked at the steak in his hand and said, “This piece of meat is somewhat overcooked, tough to chew.”

“Have you considered making a stew?” another messenger suggested, trying to help.

“I fear there’s no time.”

“That’s unfortunate… let me think. What if you chop it finely, add some herbs, and put it between bread?”

“I’ve heard of that. Our lord called it something… a meat sandwich, I think.”

“Sandwich?”

“It’s a kind of flatbread preparation, though not quite the same.”

“Sounds rather good, actually. I’d like to try it myself.”

“Then let’s attempt it. While we still have some time, we’d best make good use of it.”

“Right!”

Saying this, the two found a wooden board, placed the meat upon it, and drew out their daggers, trying to figure out the proper angle to cut.

But unfortunately…

“Form ranks!”

A loud call halted their actions. The two soldiers hurried toward the voice, stuffing hasty bites of bread into their mouths as they ran.

Too busy experimenting with their meal, they had delayed their eating.

“You two…”

An instructor looked at the crumbs around their mouths and fell silent.

“Wipe your faces clean.”

“Yes!”

They did as commanded.

These lads…

The instructor shook his head helplessly.

May fortune and courage be with you all.

On the wall, silence returned. The soldiers’ nerves tightened. Their senses sharpened, stretched to their limits, perceiving everything they could, missing not a single detail.

—

Boom… boom…

From afar, the earth trembled.

A terrifying shriek pierced the air. Clearly shaken, the soldiers’ spirits faltered, and many caught their breath, even the Rangers were not immune.

“Hold fast!”

Sensing the effect on his men, Gandalf and Halbarad walked along the wall, moving back and forth. Wherever they passed, the soldiers’ morale surged, like a flame in winter’s depth, driving back the cold.

But even the brightest flame could not illuminate the entire night. Once the two had passed, fear crept back quickly, crawling into hearts.

“This is far worse than the barrow-wights.”

A Ranger captain, wearing the badge of an outstanding graduate on his shoulder, stared at the three dark, abyssal figures in the distance. His breathing quickened.

“Steady your minds!”

Gandalf called out again and again along the wall, moving everywhere, his words infused with power and the light of Narya igniting hope in men’s hearts.

The cold wind howled, but the flames stood firm, unextinguished, though they trembled and wavered.

“Wizard, your power cannot overcome us!”

A grating laugh came from afar. The orc army had halted at a distance just beyond the range of their siege weapons.

As they stopped, a dozen steel-armored trolls lumbered forward to the vanguard, taking position as heavy assault units.

“ROAAAR!”

Seeing the beasts in place, some orcs could not contain themselves, howling and growing restless.

Only when a Nazgûl cast a glance back did they quiet down again.

Gandalf narrowed his eyes.

Was it just his imagination? This army from Khazad-dûm… didn’t seem entirely disciplined.

The army had already reached the fortress walls, yet from the north there was still no sign of Garrett.

“Balin.”

“Hm? What?”

Hearing Gandalf call his name, Balin finally snapped back to his senses, wiping the cold sweat from his brow.

He withdrew his gaze and asked, “What is it? Do you want me to leap over there right now and give those three wraiths a taste of dwarven steel?”

“If only you could.”

With no mood left for jest, Gandalf said, “In a moment, you must remain calm. I trust you can manage that.”

“Aye. Don’t worry, I certainly can.”

Whoo.

Balin let out a long breath, restoring himself to his usual composure.

“Good.”

Saying this, Gandalf led him up to the gatehouse, sat down, and simply stared at the Nazgûl.

“I cannot shake the feeling that something is amiss. Until Garrett returns, we must hold this place.”

Fifteen thousand orcs wasn’t truly remarkable. If it were only orcs, their side could even leave the fortress and fight them in open battle without relying on the walls.

The real problem lay in those massive trolls at the front, and the Nazgûl.

The Nazgûl once again unleashed their aura of terror. But Gandalf gave no reply. He simply sat upon the wall, gazing down at the army below with calm detachment.

He even had time to sip a small cup of wine.

Exuding nothing but composure, tranquil in the face of danger.

At his side, Balin also managed a smile, gazing meaningfully at the enemy army below.

Though even he wasn’t sure why he was doing it.

“What exactly are we doing?” Balin asked quietly, keeping the smile on his face.

Without turning his head, Gandalf answered, “Garrett once told me some interesting tales. I think some of the strategies within them might be worth attempting.”

“So what we’re doing is…?”

“Buying time.”

—

Boom!

The war drums thundered, but the orcs still did not advance.

The three Nazgûl halted on their fell beasts at the front of the army, glancing at each other, making no move for the moment.

“Only the wizard is here. That one is absent.”

“Our spies report no trace of him.”

Sometimes, the most fearsome enemy is not the strong one before you, but the one whose whereabouts remain unknown.

Why couldn’t he simply remain quietly in his own domain?

Even the Nazgûl were troubled by this.

At the front of the army, two of them conferred in shadow, while the third sat silently upon his mount, unmoving, like nothing more than a suit of armor.

“What is your advice?”

At last, after long debate without decision, the other two turned to him with the question.

“Attack directly.”

His answer was as simple as it was blunt.

The relationship among the three Nazgûl seemed somewhat complex: this quieter one appeared of lesser standing. Yet once he voiced his opinion, the other two immediately chose to follow it.

His rank might not be highest, but when he spoke, their attitude was unanimous:

If no better plan existed, then his words were best heeded.

Shhhk.

From his side the Morgul-blade was drawn, its piercing screech resounding:

“Kill them all!”

The battle erupted with brutal suddenness. At the command, great stones were hurled skyward, crashing against the fortress walls.

Boom!

Round after round of bombardment, though the walls were sturdy, jagged gaps began to appear. These breaches tore only the outermost layer, however; within still lay solid stone.

“Loose!”

From atop the walls, archers drew in unison, sending wave after wave of arrows. Showers of shafts rained down, and orcs fell in heaps. Even the great trolls at the front, wherever not covered by armor, bristled with arrows.

“ROAAAR!”

The beasts bellowed, trying to mask their agony with rage, yet in the next instant, a flaming arrow shot into one’s gaping maw, setting the creature ablaze from within.

“Fire at will!”

When the enemy pressed within a certain distance, Halbarad gave the command.

“Use fire-arrows on the trolls!”

At his order, several hundred archers with enchanted fire arrows turned their aim toward the advancing war-trolls. Torrents of flame burst forth.

This time, even if the monsters felt no pain from arrows piercing their hide, they still had to endure the trial of fire to continue forward.

The foremost trolls collapsed with earth-shaking crashes, thrashing and rolling as they tried to extinguish the bright flames consuming their bodies.

With the charge broken, the prepared siege engines could not even approach the walls. The Nazgûl acted again.

With a terrible shriek, a green-glowing arrow shot forth. Halbarad dodged to the side, only to meet a second arrow directly.

Clearly, whoever had loosed them had already predicted his movement.

The arrow shattered. An unnatural, crushing force exploded from the arrowhead, hurling Halbarad away like a broken doll. As he tumbled toward the edge of the battlements, about to be flung over the wall, a staff swung out at the last instant and caught him.

“Cough, cough…”

Blood gushed from his chest. His life was ebbing, the world spinning, his head falling helplessly to one side.

Mortal lives were always so fragile. One misstep, one unforeseen strike, and the distance between them and death became dangerous small.

“Hold the line!”

As Halbarad collapsed, another seasoned officer instantly stepped forward to take command.

“How badly are you hurt?”

Gandalf knelt quickly, checking his wound.

“I’ll manage, don’t mind me.”

Glug, glug…

Even as he spoke, Halbarad pulled out two potions and drained them both, healing and regeneration draughts.

Moments later, after finishing them both, he rose to his feet. His body was fully restored; only the battered, twisted mail testified that he had indeed suffered a grievous blow.

“I can still fight.”

Whoosh.

Suddenly, a black phantom swept to the foot of the wall. Eerily, it scrambled up the smooth, sheer stone as though flying, climbing all the way to the battlements.

“Ahhh!”

From the left came screams. Several soldiers collapsed, faces pale with terror. Each bore at least one wound, within which fragments of a Morgul-blade remained.

Those fragments crawled of their own accord toward the victims’ hearts, while poison and dark sorcery worked together, tormenting them without cease. In their eyes, reality vanished, replaced by the deepest nightmares of their own minds.

Without treatment, they would be trapped in unending terror and agony until death.

And death was not always the end. The unlucky could be dragged into the Shadow Realm by this torment, transformed into ghastly wraiths, the dreaded barrow-wights.

“Stand back!”

Halbarad roared, drawing his ancient blade. He charged at the Nazgûl with all his strength.

Clang!

The Ranger’s sword clashed with the Morgul-blade. Man and Ringwraith locked together, neither gaining the upper hand.

Meanwhile, the wounded were dragged back, milk and healing potions forced down their throats. Even so, some weaker-willed men did not awaken from their nightmares, lying unconscious though their bodies were mended.

The duel raged atop the wall. Yet it was plain to see, Halbarad, having only just recovered, was flagging at moments, his strength faltering.

In single combat, a mortal could scarcely ever defeat a Nazgûl. The wraith could afford countless mistakes, but if its opponent took even one cut, his fate was dire.

Those struck had only two choices: summon impossible courage to slay their foe before the nightmares and agony fully took hold… or else be executed within the dream, or worse, be left to die slowly, cruelly, under the wraith’s gaze.

“Fall back!”

Gandalf raised his staff, its light blazing. The Nazgûl dueling Halbarad was forced to retreat into shadow, withdrawing from the radiance.

“Now it’s two against one.”

Driving it back, Gandalf drew Glamdring. As Narya shone upon his finger, fire coiled around the blade, heating it red-hot.

Whatever it struck would not easily recover from the wound.

Whoo.

A blast of foul wind swept past. Terrifying laughter echoed above. Soldiers looked up in dread, and saw that the other two Nazgûl had already scaled the wall, their figures looming high.

Three dreadful shapes, like mountains, pressed down upon every heart. A sense of helplessness, like facing avalanches and floods, crawled along spines, bent backs under crushing weight.

Boom!

At the same time, the gate below shuddered.

Six war-trolls, harnessed to enormous siege rams wreathed in evil fire, smashed against the fortress gate.

At the first impact, cracks split the gate, threatening collapse.

Boom!

The second strike, splinters flew, the wood bent inward.

Perhaps with the next blow, the gate would fall.

The last light of the sky faded away.

“Your sun has set.”

The Nazgûl slowly drew their weapons, proclaiming doom.

Shadows fell across the land.

—

Meanwhile, out on the wilds of Rhovanion, a lone rider galloped at full speed along the wine roads, crossing the ford, thundering onto the path to Dale, scarcely pausing as he raced toward the city.

By the time the sun had set, the city finally came into view.

Hrrh.

The horse panted heavily, clouds of hot breath streaming from its nostrils.

An Elf swiftly dismounted, glancing about as if searching for something.

“I have never seen an Elf like you before. You carry a worldly air about you.”

A voice came from behind.

“To walk among the world is no dishonor. In the lives of mortals too, there are marvels of wisdom.”

The Elf answered almost reflexively, only then turning to face the speaker.

“You are?”

“Legolas, of the Woodland Realm.”

“And you? From whence do you come, and what is your name?” Legolas asked curiously.

Most Elves in Middle-earth preferred to dwell secluded in some hidden realm, rarely mingling with the outside world. Over time, this gave them an aura of stillness and otherworldly grace, something that could never be easily concealed, no matter how long they wandered abroad. Even Legolas, after years of travel, still bore that ethereal air.

But this Elf, he was different. At first glance, one was struck by his noble and graceful bearing; yet upon closer observation, there lingered something else, something closer to the world of Men: an openness, a touch of earthiness, born only of long dealings with the wider world.

“Ah, kinsman of the Woodland Realm. Well met.”

The Elf gave the customary gesture of courtesy among their kind, then answered, “Orothir, of Dorwinion, keeper of vineyards and wine estates.”

“Dorwinion… yes, I know of your people. The last time Elves of Dorwinion came to visit our halls was nigh on a thousand years past. How fare your lands?”

“Much as they always have.”

Orothir replied, then added, “Old tales may wait for another time. I have come on urgent business, which I must speak of with the lord who rules here.”

“Do you know Garrett? I have heard he is master of this place.”

Legolas blinked in surprise.

“Of course. He is my friend, and besides, there are few here who do not know him.”

“That is well. Where is he now? Could you lead me to him?”

“And what is he to you?”

The question carried a note of caution, but Orothir took no offense.

“As with you, he is my friend. He once left a horse in my care, a most peculiar beast. It would not eat, and its temperament was so strange that it vexed my grooms for days.”

“…Very well, I believe you.”

Hearing this, Legolas was satisfied with his identity. Garrett would never entrust his mount to someone he did not truly trust.

“Garrett is not here. Nor is the steward who acts in his place. They have marched with their forces to the western slopes of the Misty Mountains, to join a great battle.”

“I am bound for that same place.”

Since Orothir was both a friend of Garrett’s and kin with whom his people had ancient ties, Legolas did not conceal the truth.

But when he heard this, Orothir grew troubled.

“Then… the city is left without defenders, with no commander at all?”

“There is also the Lonely Mountain,” Legolas said. “The dwarven army remains. Their king and Garrett are close allies. Should aught threaten, they will not stand idle. Do you wish to meet him?”

“If it is as you say, then aye, I shall seek audience with him.”

Orothir did not hesitate. The Elves of Dorwinion bore neither feud nor prejudice against Dwarves; he had no qualm about speaking with them.

“Good. Then let us ride at once. Take my horse.”

Seeing that Orothir’s steed was exhausted, Legolas led his own mount forward and motioned for him to climb up.

Thus the two Elves, from distant realms, rode swiftly together toward Erebor.

“May I ask, what is it you came here to speak of?”

During the brief journey, Legolas turned and asked the Elf who had traveled so far.

“Shadow.”

Orothir’s voice was grave.

“The shadow from the East draws near.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep