Third Age, March 2939
Two years, one month, and twenty-five days still remained until the famed expedition to the Lonely Mountain would begin—a fact of which Bilbo Baggins was, at present, blissfully unaware.
After bidding his Hobbit friend farewell, Tarnes rode south from Hobbiton, following the winding course of the Brandywine River as laid out on the map Bilbo had given him. For five days, he and his spirit steed, Torrent, traveled under an open sky.
The closer he drew to the borders of Minhiriath, the more desolate the landscape became. The peace of the Shire was a distant memory. This world was not the tranquil haven he had first imagined. Twice he had been set upon by packs of hostile creatures—hideous, dark-skinned humanoids with cruel, piggish faces, riding atop enormous, snarling wolves.
Tarnes wondered if they were even intelligent beings, for they gave no warning and offered no chance for communication. The moment they saw him, arrows flew. Their instant aggression was a brutal, straightforward language he understood all too well. In a strange way, their fight-on-sight mentality was a grim reminder of the Lands Between.
He answered in kind. His greatsword, a colossal slab of iron, met their charge with overwhelming force, smashing the foul creatures and their Warg mounts into broken ruin. After watching more than half their number fall, the survivors broke and fled.
But Tarnes, forged in the unforgiving crucible of his homeland, had learned a simple, vital lesson: an enemy that attacks you once will do so again. He spurred Torrent onward, the spirit steed's spectral hooves silent on the turf as he ran down the three fleeing riders, ensuring none would live to harry another traveler.
The chase, however, had led him far from the banks of the Brandywine. He now found himself on a vast, rolling plain of green grass, the familiar landmarks of the river gone. He was lost.
Still, the skirmishes had not been without purpose. They had allowed him to take stock of himself in this new world.
First, and most obviously, his physical prowess was undiminished. He felt every bit as strong and resilient as he had in the Lands Between.
Second, his command over sorceries and incantations remained. The power was there, waiting to be called upon. Yet, his Cerulean Flask was empty, and with his supply of Starlight Shards finite, he had no reliable way to replenish his focus in the heat of battle. It was for this reason he had relied on Torrent's speed and his own steel, rather than wasting precious energy on simple foes.
Finally, there was the matter of the Elden Ring. It rested within him, a sun coiled in his soul. He had tried to summon it, to feel its true power, but it would only manifest for a fleeting moment before receding. He sensed it was not ignoring his call but rather waiting. It needed to be in a specific place to fully answer him—the barren lands of Minhiriath, just as the Creator, Ilúvatar, had foretold in his dream.
But where was he now?
Tarnes looked around, feeling a familiar sense of displacement. Besides the scattered remains of his enemies, there was only the boundless sky and a lush grassland dotted with earthen mounds, grey rocks, and a few sparse, ancient trees. The terrain undulated in gentle waves, a sea of green without the treacherous swamps he so despised. Torrent, being a spirit, could likely traverse a mire, but the clinging mud would have been an unwelcome nuisance for them both.
Clip-clop, clip-clop.
Torrent's hooves beat a steady rhythm as Tarnes studied the map again, searching for any recognizable feature. The sun climbed to its zenith. Seeing a small grove of trees ahead, he guided Torrent toward its shade, planning to rest and eat before pressing on.
As they drew near, the sounds of battle reached him—the clang of steel, the guttural shouts of the creatures he'd just fought, and the low snarls of Wargs. But mingled with the din was another sound, a different language. At first, the words were a chaotic jumble, but as Tarnes focused, Ilúvatar's gift took hold. The alien sounds sharpened into meaning.
He dismounted, dismissing Torrent back into the whistle from which he was summoned. The dense grove was no place for a greatsword; its wide arcs would be hampered by the trees. Instead, he drew his trusted Lordsworn's Straight Sword and raised his Brass Shield. Both were weapons that had seen him through countless battles, both tempered and honed to perfection.
Shield high and sword ready, Tarnes moved into the woods, the sounds of fighting growing louder with every step. He pushed aside thick vines and parted overgrown weeds, his eyes scanning for any traps.
"Filthy Orcs! Crawl back to your master like the dogs you are!" an angry, deep voice roared.
The shout was followed by a sickening crunch, the sound of a heavy weapon crushing bone, and the pained yelp of a Warg.
A wet, phlegmy voice hissed in reply. "Struggle all you like. You can't escape your fate. Your head will be food for the Wargs. They'll suck your brain dry and splinter your skull."
Tarnes was close now. Peeking from behind the trunk of a thick oak, he took in the scene.
One side was just as he'd expected: the foul, grey-skinned creatures—Orcs, as the voice had called them—astride their monstrous Wargs.
But the other side was a people he had never seen before. They were stout and broad, shorter than a Man but taller than a Hobbit. Their faces were almost entirely obscured by magnificent beards, braided and flowing, some longer than the hair on their heads. They were Dwarves.
Five of them stood back-to-back, forming a defensive circle. One was clearly wounded, sheltered by his four kin who held axes and warhammers, their shields locked together against the Orcish onslaught.
The Orcs held a clear advantage in numbers. Tarnes counted at least eight of their corpses littering the ground, but there were still eleven Orcs and seven Wargs circling the desperate Dwarves.
The situation was grim.
The Orcs were fighting with a cunning brutality. Learning from their losses, they no longer charged blindly into the Dwarves' deadly axes. Under the direction of a hulking leader, they had split their forces. One group kept their distance, loosing arrows from crude shortbows to harass and distract. The other group, a mix of Orcs and Wargs, relentlessly pressed the attack, forcing the Dwarves to defend against both blade and arrow.
The tactic was brutally effective. As Tarnes watched, two Dwarves failed to block incoming arrows and were immediately cut down by opportunistic Orcs.
"No!"
One of the two remaining warriors, a Dwarf of powerful build whose movements were a blur of deadly grace, let out a roar of fury. His eyes were bloodshot, his teeth bared in a snarl of hatred. He met the next charge head-on, his war axe scything through the air. Two Orcs and a Warg fell before him, neatly beheaded or cleaved in two at the waist.
Tarnes knew he could wait no longer. If he didn't act now, the Dwarves would be slaughtered.
But he would not be reckless. He was alone, on unfamiliar ground, and outnumbered. Charging in would be foolish, a mistake he had paid for dearly in the past. He needed an advantage.
He reached into the pocket of reality where he kept his stores and wrapped his fingers around the cool, rough surface of two ceramic jars. As he drew them forth, sparks of lightning crackled across their surfaces.
Lightning Pots.
Tarnes weighed them in his hands, his eyes fixed on the pack of Orc archers. It was time to even the odds.
***
(End of Chapter)
[Check Out My Patreon For +20 Extra Chapters On All
My Fanfics!!] [www. p@treon.com/meowthtl]
[+300 Power Stones = +1 Bonus Chapter]
[+500 Power Stones = +1 Extra Chapter]
[Thank You For Your Support!]