“At least there is one piece of good news. Gollum probably has not fallen into Mordor’s hands yet.”

Of course, Gandalf was not someone who could not tell what was important and what was not.

It was precisely because he had confirmed this piece of intelligence that he had not been overly anxious, staying in Gondor for quite some time.

After leaving Gondor, he met up with Aragorn once again.

The two of them began searching in all the places Gollum had been seen before. Their tracks spread across the lands east of the Misty Mountains, from the Vales of Anduin to Mirkwood, from the realms of the Beornings to the Brown Lands, and even to the Dead Marshes.

But they found no conclusive clues.

“It seems your search has not been going very well.”

In the year 3002 of the Third Age, at a temporary camp near the Brown Lands in eastern Rohan, Garrett met these two busy fellows.

Gandalf replied, “Not very well indeed. Gollum’s movements are strange. It seems he has entered Mordor, yet at times, new traces that appear to be his show up outside of it.”

“Suspicious, is it not?”

Aragorn nodded and added, “What is even stranger is how frequent his hunting marks are, animals, orcs, even Uruks. I cannot understand it. If Gollum is as frail as people say, how could he possibly kill creatures stronger than himself?”

“He must have some helper, or some special means,” Garrett said thoughtfully. “Have you examined the remains carefully?”

“No, I mean, there were no remains,” Aragorn replied, looking at Garrett. “In fact, my knowledge of his hunting comes only from faint traces and observing the orcs’ movements.”

“I risked sneaking near Mordor to overhear them talking. Too many orcs have gone missing. A one-legged Uruk leader even suspected there was a traitor among them. He flew into a rage and declared martial law in the camp.”

“Let us leave that aside for now,” Gandalf interjected, turning to Garrett. “Let us talk about you. What are you doing here?”

Not just Gandalf, Aragorn also looked surprised.

“Why have you suddenly come to the eastern border of Rohan? Did something happen here?”

Garrett raised an eyebrow. “Can I not simply come out for a walk?”

“Just a walk?”

Gandalf fixed him with a look that clearly said: Do not try to fool me.

“Very well, I knew I could not hide it from you. There is something going on.”

Garrett stopped teasing him and explained, “According to reports from border scouts, a considerable number of orcs have been gathering upstream of the Falls of Rauros, moving toward Rohan. And just a few days ago, scouts from the North March spotted a large orc host in the hills of Emyn Muil. The people of Rohan do not know this yet. It was not anything urgent, so I came by to take a look, and to deliver the news.”

“That is indeed important information,” Gandalf said with a nod of approval.

While they were talking, Aragorn suddenly stood up.

“They are returning.”

Rumble…

A group of Riders charged toward the makeshift camp, slowing as they drew near.

When they saw the three clearly, the leader dismounted, removed his helmet, and stepped forward.

“Greetings, my lords. The Lord of the North, the Grey Wizard, and…”

The captain greeted them one by one, but hesitated when it came to Aragorn.

After all, Aragorn was far too modest in his bearing. Aside from Théoden and those who had fought beside him long ago, almost no one recognized him.

Garrett took the initiative to introduce him. “This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. He once fought alongside your king. He is a friend of your people.”

“I see. Greetings to you, Lord Aragorn,” said the captain, believing Garrett’s words without question.

That was the benefit of reputation. People trusted whatever you said.

After the greetings, the captain asked Garrett directly, “Is there something important enough to bring you here in person?”

Garrett then shared the intelligence he had obtained.

“Emyn Muil Hills?”

At the mention of that name, the captain’s face froze.

“You are saying there is an orc army there?”

“Indeed. The scouts from the South March brought this report. It is highly credible.”

Seeing the change in the captain’s expression, Garrett immediately asked, “What is wrong?”

The captain replied, “Just earlier, a band of orcs trying to invade Eastfold was routed and fled. Our marshal led a small force in pursuit, and the direction they took was exactly toward those hills.”

“Who is your marshal? How many men did he take?”

“Lord Éomund. He took only a few dozen Riders.”

“Too reckless!” Gandalf scolded sharply, frustrated by such rashness.

“Well, it seems we have something new to do,” Garrett said.

As the highest-ranking Man present, he swung himself onto his horse, raised his arm, and shouted, “Move out! Follow me. We ride to aid your marshal!”

The soldiers froze for a moment, glancing at their direct commander, the captain.

And then they saw that he had already mounted his horse and was following right behind Garrett.

“Let us go!”

At the captain’s command, the soldiers immediately made ready and set off eastward, following close behind the group. Gandalf and Aragorn, of course, joined them as well. Neither of them was one to simply wait around.

—

“Hah! A bunch of fools. They have taken the bait.”

In the hills of Emyn Muil, several orc scouts on watch sneered as they spotted a small group of Rohirrim chasing down a few fleeing orcs in the distance.

“I recognize that one. That is their marshal!”

“Go tell the chieftain! Killing him would be a great achievement!”

The orcs being hunted fell one after another under the Riders’ hooves, their screams echoing through the hills. The hidden scouts, however, only watched coldly, unmoved.

They waited, until the main orc army arrived.

“Kill them all!”

The orc chieftain raised his curved blade and bellowed, leading the horde forward in a roaring charge.

“Not good. Retreat!”

The Marshal of the Mark, Lord of Aldburg, Éomund, saw the trap too late. He turned his horse sharply, but it was already too late.

While they were focused on cutting down the orcs before them, the enemy’s net had quietly closed in.

Éomund lifted his head, looking left and right, cold sweat running down his face.

He had only a few dozen Riders with him, but the enemy numbered in the thousands, surrounding them on all sides. Against such overwhelming odds, no tactic could possibly work.

Break through? Impossible.

It seemed there would be no return today.

“I am deeply sorry,” Éomund said, taking a deep breath. “This disaster is entirely my fault, my own recklessness. It has been an honor to fight beside you all. But it seems this will be our final battle.”

He raised his sword high and shouted, “Let our enemies see what it means to face death without fear, what it means to have courage!”

“Brave warriors, ride with me!”

“Ride toward the enemy, ride toward destruction!”

“Charge!”

Dozens of Riders shouted together, their voices thundering with the spirit of a thousand.

“Kill them!”

The orc chieftain sneered contemptuously and motioned his army forward.

Dozens of Riders galloped straight toward the oncoming horde of thousands. The orcs’ grotesque, mocking faces loomed ever closer as they shifted formation to counter the charge.

It seemed the end had come.

Éomund’s gaze remained firm.

In that final moment, his thoughts turned to his children, his son Éomer, his daughter Éowyn. They were still so young.

But at least there was Théoden. Théoden would surely care for them.

Rumble…

A deep thunder of hooves shook the earth behind him, snapping Éomund out of his thoughts. He looked up instinctively, and saw a blur of motion rushing past him.

A lone Rider surged ahead, faster than any of them, his massive sword gleaming with an otherworldly light as it cleaved through the orc lines with a thunderous crash, tearing open a breach in the enemy ranks.

“Join formation! Charge!”

The captain’s command rang out as a new wave of Riders stormed onto the field, merging with Éomund’s outnumbered unit and driving forward as one.

The greatly reinforced cavalry, now more than ten times its former strength, plunged straight through the gap, cutting clean through the orc army and splitting it in two.

“It seems I made it just in time.”

Garrett rested his greatsword on his shoulder and stood tall in the middle of the battlefield. The orcs around him recoiled as if struck by lightning, stumbling backward in panic, nearly breaking into a rout.

“My lord…”

Éomund choked on his words, overwhelmed with emotion and relief.

“Reckless!”

A firm yet resonant voice came from behind. He turned and saw Gandalf, astride a swift horse, who could rival any of Rohan’s finest steeds. His sword Glamdring flashed as he scolded Éomund mid-battle before charging into the fray himself, cutting down orcs left and right.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep