Swish.

A longsword swept down, and another warg burst into flames, howling in agony as it collapsed.

Garrett rode his swift mount, relentlessly pursuing the scattered orcs, buying precious time for the dwarves.

“Bring down his horse first!”

The orc war-chief shouted. Several archers drew their bows from a distance and loosed a volley at Garrett’s steed.

But even if they could strike a target at full gallop, which was doubtful, the worst they could achieve was removing a fraction of its health. Practically negligible. Judging by the multiple stacks of hay in Garrett’s inventory, he could simply stand motionless and let the orcs exhaust their arrows, they still wouldn’t be able to kill the horse.

As for Garrett himself, his health bar barely flickered, a nod of respect of the arrows, perhaps. Unless they achieved overwhelming numbers, ordinary arrows could no longer pose any real threat to him.

Hooves thundered across the plain. With each strike, he felled a warg, hunting his prey.

Suddenly, in the chaos, a clear and familiar horn rang out in the distance.

Rumble.

A formation of elven cavalry, clad in silver-grey mail, surged forward. Before even engaging the orcs, they had already adopted perfect battle formation.

What followed was a completely one-sided slaughter. The orc lieutenant attempted to rally his forces, shouting commands, but his voice was soon drowned out by the death cries of his own warriors.

“Retreat!”

He roared, and was the first to flee.

They had never stood a chance in this battle with that fearsome human involved. Their only hope had been to delay him, eliminate the dwarves, and escape.

Now what? In addition to that terror, an entire squadron of elven cavalry had appeared. What was even the point?

Soon, the orcs on this plain were either fleeing or dead, vanished without trace.

Garrett looked around, but didn’t see Gandalf or the dwarves. It seemed they had already taken a hidden path toward Rivendell.

Once the elves confirmed no orc stragglers remained, they reformed their ranks, sheathed their weapons, and approached Garrett.

“You once again?”

Elrond approached on horseback and began speaking to Garrett.

“You’ve grown considerably stronger since our last encounter. I’ve heard many tales concerning you of late.”

“I’m honored,” Garrett nodded, greeting the Lord of Rivendell respectfully.

“I was wondering why orcs are once again prowling near these lands.”

Elrond studied Garrett thoughtfully.

“No, this time it wasn’t because of me. As for the reason… well, it’s a bit complicated. They should be arriving at Rivendell soon.”

“They?”

—

Elsewhere, at the entrance to Rivendell, an elf descended the steps and greeted Gandalf.

“Mithrandir.”

“Ah, Lindir!”

“I heard you crossed the Bruinen,” Lindir said in the Elvish tongue.

Gandalf walked over, his expression solemn. “I must speak with Lord Elrond.”

“Lord Elrond is not present.”

“He’s not? Then where has he gone?”

Just as Gandalf posed the question, horns sounded at the valley’s entrance. A unit of cavalry entered in perfect formation, crossing the narrow bridge.

“Stand ready!”

The dwarves clustered protectively around Bilbo, drawing weapons and glaring suspiciously at the approaching elven riders.

“Is that… Garrett at the rear?”

Bilbo squeezed through the dwarves for a better look.

“Gandalf,” Elrond greeted him formally.

“Lord Elrond.”

“Mellon,” Gandalf replied, using the Elvish word for friend.

Elrond removed his helm, handed his weapon to Lindir, exchanged brief words with Gandalf, then voiced his concern, “Orcs coming near this place repeatedly in such short succession is very strange. Previously, they were drawn here by a formidable warrior. But what’s the reason this time?”

“It’s likely because of us.”

As they spoke, Garrett, who had been at the column’s rear, dismounted and handed his reins to an elf, then walked over to greet Gandalf and Elrond.

“So you are acquainted,” Elrond observed, glancing between Gandalf and Garrett.

“That’s what I was about to mention,” Gandalf replied, completely unsurprised, as if this were perfectly natural. He nodded and stepped aside to reveal the dwarves behind him.

“Welcome, Thorin, son of Thráin,” Elrond said courteously.

“I don’t believe we have been introduced.”

Thorin made his entrance.

“You have your grandfather’s bearing. I knew Thrór when he ruled under the Mountain.”

“Indeed? Strange, I never heard him speak of you.”

Elrond took a deep breath and, in Elvish, gave orders, “Kindle the hearths, bring forth the finest wine, let us properly welcome our guests.”

This lord knew better than to engage in verbal sparring with dwarves.

“What is he saying about us?”

Hearing the unfamiliar tongue again, Glóin couldn’t contain his irritation.

“Peace, Glóin, he’s inviting us to feast,” Gandalf said wearily.

The dwarves looked at each other and huddled together for a quick discussion.

“Oh, in that case, lead the way.”

Unlike their behavior at Garrett’s stronghold, the dwarves showed little courtesy toward their elven hosts.

—

A short while later, the dwarves stared at the verdant spread before them, their expressions deeply troubled.

“By my beard, is this what they usually eat?”

“This is far worse than Garrett’s provisions, there’s not even a morsel of meat, just leaves… and they’re uncooked!”

“My pony wouldn’t eat this fodder.”

One dwarf tossed aside a leaf in disgust.

“Could Garrett do the cooking? If he prepared it, eating vegetables wouldn’t be so bad…”

Gathered around the table, the dwarves grumbled about elven cuisine.

Kíli tossed a flirtatious glance at one of the elves.

“I’m not fond of elves generally, but that one over there looks pretty good.”

“That’s not a maiden.”

“Pfffft! HAHAHAHAHA!”

The dwarves burst into laughter while Kíli looked annoyed at all the noise.

—

Elsewhere, Garrett sat with Gandalf, Elrond, and Thorin at the high table.

Elrond was examining the swords of Gandalf and Thorin individually, identifying their origins.

“Orcrist. Forged by my kinfolk of old. May it serve you well.”

Though Thorin had shown him discourtesy earlier, the elven lord clearly harbored no resentment. Even seeing the blade in dwarven hands, he still offered his sincere blessing, hoping it would again prove worthy of its craft.

“I recall Garrett also bears a sword forged in the Elder Days. Perhaps you might examine his as well?” Gandalf suddenly suggested.

He was still deeply impressed by the sword that had slain countless orcs and wargs.

“Oh, that? Lord Elrond already examined it the last time I was here,” Garrett replied.

Even so, he took out the sword.

Elrond nodded and accepted the sword once more, this time, however, he inspected it far more carefully.

“I can confirm this blade’s workmanship equals the others. And, I know not if it’s merely my perception, but it seems sharper now, and…”

He lifted the sword carefully, observing it closely. Faint traces of mystical radiance shimmered subtly along the fuller.

“It bears some kind of enchantment… it’s warm to the touch. It feels quite different. As if it has been tempered by warfare, the steel appears brighter, and the edge… this sharpness seems strangely familiar.”

As he looked the gleaming blade, bright as starlight, he was momentarily dazed.

This sword… why does it seem so…

Both Glamdring in Gandalf’s hand and Orcrist in Thorin’s bore runic inscriptions, allowing him to recognize them instantly.

But Garrett’s weapon had no markings whatsoever. When he first examined it, the blade was dull and grey. He had simply assumed it was a well-wrought but anonymous sword crafted by some skilled smith. Yet now, after its baptism in blood and battle, with its radiance beginning to emerge anew, he was no longer certain.

Watching Elrond’s intense focus as he studied Garrett’s blade, Bilbo quietly drew his own short sword beneath the table, wondering if it too might be a famed blade.

Balin noticed and remarked, “No need to wonder, lad. If you ask me, that’s hardly a proper sword, more like a letter opener.”

Hearing this, Bilbo lowered his head, lost in thought.

At the high table, Elrond remained silent for a long time before shaking his head and returning the sword to Garrett.

“I have heard of your recent deeds. Perhaps this blade being in your possession is precisely where it belongs.”

The light meal came to an end quickly.

Apart from the excellent wine, the dwarves had but one observation about the food: Garrett’s dried provisions were superior.

Naturally, Garrett knew the elves did consume meat. During his previous visit, they had served him meat dishes. But though the elves of Rivendell were gentle and forgiving, even they couldn’t overlook Thorin’s open rudeness to their lord. To say nothing would appear weak. So this vegetarian feast was a subtle and courteous form of retaliation for the dwarves’ discourtesy.

—

Night fell.

Under starlight, Elrond was interpreting moon-letters on a map for Thorin and Gandalf.

Bilbo stood near a balustrade, lost in the view.

Garrett was by the stables, explaining to an elven groom that his horse required no feeding, while also inquiring about Erestor’s whereabouts.

Erestor was the elf who had graciously hosted Garrett previously. Garrett had invited him to visit his stronghold, but given elven perception of time, he likely thought Garrett had only recently departed, feeling no urgency to reciprocate the visit.

Now that he had returned, it was only proper to bring gifts.

Everyone in Rivendell pursued their evening activities.

—

Meanwhile, in the Lone-lands, atop Weathertop, the orc survivor who had escaped crept forward nervously and reported to a pale-skinned, massive orc.

“The dwarves… my lord, we lost them. The elf-scum ambushed us.”

“Don’t make excuses.”

Azog slowly turned, his towering frame allowing him to look down at the trembling subordinate.

“I want the dwarf-king’s head.”

“We were outnumbered, we had no chance. Besides, there was this terrifying warrior with them. I barely escaped with my life…” the underling explained weakly.

Azog seized him by the throat and slowly lifted him, his voice rising to a furious roar.

“It would have been better if you had simply, DIED THERE!!”

Snap!

With a twist of his pale hand, the subordinate’s head lolled lifelessly. Azog cast the corpse aside as warg-feed.

“The dwarves will emerge again eventually. Spread word, there’s a bounty on their heads!”

Howl!

The orcs howled savagely, mounted their wargs, and prepared to resume hunting the dwarves.

Just before departure, however, a scout nervously approached with intelligence.

“My lord, we discovered a stronghold in the eastern wilds. It’s massive… and silent…”

Azog’s fierce expression froze.

Clenching his remaining fist, he drew a deep breath and growled the command with hatred.

“Avoid it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He knew who commanded that place.

Long ago, two orcs had fled from those walls, spreading tales of terror throughout the Misty Mountains. For an extended period, no orcs wanted approach that region.

Then came the carnage in the Vales of Anduin, and the orcs’ hatred for that man had been burned into their very souls. So deeply… that it was transforming into dread.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep