“Roooaar!”

The Olog-hai let out a thunderous bellow, but no matter how loud his cry, it could not change the fact that death was already upon him.

Black blood spurted from his neck, and flames engulfed his massive form, frightening the surrounding Uruks into retreat.

The great armored trolls fell one after another, the siege towers were all dismantled.

This army no longer posed any threat to Dale.

The outcome was decided.

At the edge of the battlefield, seeing all of his army’s most powerful weapons destroyed by just one man, the Uruk commander suddenly snapped out of his stupor, his breath catching.

His eyes cleared as if waking from a dark dream.

“It’s that lord!”

As if emerging from a nightmare, he shouted, yet the surrounding Uruks acted as if they hadn’t heard him, continuing their futile assault.

“Curse you all, are you mad?”

“I am your chieftain, and I command you now, RETREAT!”

No one listened.

“Are you all deaf?!”

He seized one Uruk by the shoulders and stared into his eyes.

Those eyes were blood-red, utterly devoid of reason. The other Uruks nearby, even the Easterlings, bore the same vacant, maddened expression.

“Something’s wrong… none of you are yourselves.”

“What’s happened to all of you?”

“…Why am I even here?”

He began to think clearly for the first time in days.

The last thing he remembered was being in Minas Morgul. As a newly promoted Uruk chieftain in recent years, the Witch-king had seemed to value him, even allowing him into the Tower of Sorcery.

He had always thought himself cunning, working with Garrett at the front while also serving the Witch-king directly from the rear.

But the day he was summoned by the Witch-king, he realized perhaps he had been far too arrogant.

“You think yourself clever?”

Many days ago, in the Tower of Sorcery, the Witch-king had seized his skull in one gauntleted hand. From within the dark helm came a voice:

“You, and all the treacherous scum under your command who betray your master, deserve only death.”

The memory ended there.

When next he awoke, he was here on this battlefield.

A chill gripped his heart, cold sweat pouring down his scarred hide.

“I never betrayed the master!”

He screamed, but no one believed him, no one even heard him.

Hoooom.

From the south came the clear call of elven horns. Turning his head, he saw a host of Wood-elves clad in gleaming mail advancing, some still bearing bloodstains from their previous battle.

The warriors of the Woodland Realm had arrived.

At the same time, Dale’s own war-horns sounded, followed by the Dwarves charging forth in tight formation.

Elves, Dwarves, and Men once again fought side by side, this time with absolute, overwhelming superiority.

“Is this slaughter even necessary?”

Forget the three armies, even that one lord wreaking havoc at the front could have crushed everyone present single-handedly, given enough time.

Confusion clouded his mind. Instinctively, the Uruk chieftain began retreating, trying to shepherd his few remaining clear-minded Easterling allies behind him.

“No… something is wrong here.”

He pushed aside his so-called comrades, retreating step by step until he escaped the main battlefield.

Ahead lay the surging river; behind him, the conflict roared like the very fires of Mount Doom.

Led by Garrett, the coalition swept across the field, annihilating everything that dared resist.

Whssst.

An arrow flew from somewhere in the chaos, piercing the Uruk chieftain’s foot as he fled.

Seeing his former comrades captured, cut down, slaughtered without mercy, he no longer cared about dignity, wounded, he hurled himself into the swift waters.

Splash!

The river surged around him, and the din of battle receded behind.

Struggling against the current, teeth clenched, his face twisted, he fought to stay afloat.

A survival instinct unlike any he had ever known erupted from deep within.

“I will not die here… I will… I will survive this…”

—

The sun climbed higher over the fortress by the river, and the crises across the settlements of Dale were swiftly resolved.

“A nearly flawless victory.”

“My friend, did I arrive in time to be of service?”

Thranduil dismounted from his great elk, greeting Garrett with characteristic elven composure.

“Perfect timing.”

These Elves really were all cut from the same cloth.

“Let’s just say you made it right on time.”

Thorin, wearing his habitually stern expression, met Thranduil’s gaze. After a long pause, he finally managed:

“Well fought.”

Oh?

Thranduil couldn’t help raising an eyebrow in surprise.

For this particular Dwarf to offer such words, it was truly remarkable.

The warriors poured out of the city, clearing the wreckage of the battlefield and tending to prisoners.

Inside the city, a figure moved furtively toward the stables but was quickly spotted.

“Orothir!”

Garrett called out and waved.

Orothir’s form instantly went rigid. He tried to act as if nothing had happened and continued walking.

“I see you! Where are you going?”

Garrett called again, effectively cutting off his escape.

This time he had no choice but to turn around.

“It’s been a long time.”

“Indeed it has.”

“I heard it was you who delivered the warning of the enemy’s approach in advance. For that, I owe you my thanks.”

“It was nothing, think no more of it.”

Orothir waved his hand dismissively.

On the other side, Thranduil approached as well.

“Kinsman from distant lands… hmm?”

He had intended to greet this supposed Dorwinion Elf and vineyard master, but when his eyes fell upon the other’s face, he paused noticeably.

Orothir shook his head at him.

“You two are acquainted?”

Garrett wasn’t blind, he caught the subtle exchange between them.

“We have met before, many times, in ages past.”

“Ah? And when Elves say ‘ages past,’ that typically means at least a thousand years, does it not?”

“Indeed. The last time we encountered one another was over a millennium ago.”

Thranduil glanced meaningfully at Orothir, then at Garrett, considered for a moment, and said, “They are long-standing trade partners of our realm. Their vineyards produce wines of consistent, reliable quality.”

“Alright, let’s leave it at that.”

Seeing that neither wished to explain further, Garrett didn’t press the matter.

When he had walked some distance away, the two Elves resumed their conversation in lower tones.

“I represent no one, no faction. I come here only on my own behalf,” Orothir said first. “Dorwinion remains as it ever was, neutral, uninvolved. I must ask that you not speak of my presence here.”

“You have my word,” Thranduil answered without hesitation.

Relieved by the Woodland King’s promise, Orothir continued, “Speaking personally, however, I would very much like to cultivate friendship with this formidable ally.”

“A pity that he is mortal. However mighty, there is always an end. Even the Dúnedain live but a few centuries.”

“Great kingdoms rise one after another, seeking dominion over all, and one by one they fade to dust. Only we, who seem small and yielding, endure, unchanging through the ages.”

Non-contention: that was Dorwinion’s path to survival.

If someone sought to conquer them, they bent like reeds, submitted as vassals, and carried on with life much as before. In time, those conquering realms crumbled away, but Dorwinion remained.

“Mortal?”

Thranduil’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles as he asked, “Do you truly believe that assessment?”

Orothir remained silent.

“If you truly believed it, you would not have ridden here yourself.”

“Consider that well.”

Leaving those words hanging in the air, Thranduil departed, leading his host of Elves back toward the depths of Mirkwood.

At the stables, Orothir watched until the last elven warrior vanished from sight. Only then did he step forward to retrieve his horse, now well-rested and ready for the road.

“You have served faithfully,” he murmured softly, stroking the animal’s neck.

—

Within Mordor, beneath the shadow of Barad-dûr.

In the vast obsidian hall, three suits of armor, personally forged by Sauron himself, suddenly stirred with unnatural life. Something unseen and terrible had filled them, transforming them into vessels of darkness incarnate.

The Nazgûl had regained their forms.

“The task is accomplished.”

“All who did not serve the Master, and all who betrayed him, have been eliminated.”

“What needed to be discovered has been revealed; the seeds we were commanded to plant have taken root.”

Just as the three wraiths prepared to withdraw to their places of waiting, another Ringwraith materialized, blocking their path.

“The Master has fresh orders. Make ready.”

The three exchanged glances through their empty helms, then followed him deeper into the tower.

More work awaited in the growing darkness.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep