The Orcs were not as swift as their Warg mounts, and the Wargs themselves only registered the thud of the ceramic jars landing a few feet away. They had never encountered such a weapon. The concept of an explosion was utterly alien to them.
The lead Orc, perched on its mount's back, spared the objects a dismissive glance. The Warg beneath him even seemed to mock the thrower's poor aim, not bothering to move. It was a fatal mistake.
As the Orc chieftain turned his head, a blinding flash of golden lightning erupted from the shattered pots.
Zzzzzzt—
Two bolts of stored lightning, like twin vipers striking from their dens, coiled around the unsuspecting Orcs and Wargs. They tore through flesh and armor with savage force, leaving behind nothing but the sickening stench of burnt meat and shattered bodies.
The two Lightning Pots had vaporized the entire rearguard—five Orcs, including their captain, and three Wargs—in an instant. The archers had been clustered together, a perfect target.
Even Tarnes was momentarily taken aback by the sheer effectiveness of the attack. He had never encountered an enemy that would simply stand and watch as a Lightning Pot was thrown at its feet. It was astonishingly foolish. Shaking off his surprise, he focused on the remaining foes.
With the ferocious short-bearded Dwarf's assault and Tarnes's lightning attack, only three Orcs and three Wargs remained. The survivors, reeling from the sudden, gruesome death of their captain and comrades, fell into a state of panicked confusion. They scanned the surrounding trees, but Tarnes remained perfectly concealed. The Wargs twitched their noses, trying to catch the scent of the hidden attacker, but the acrid smoke from the electrocuted corpses masked everything.
This was the opening the Dwarves needed. The two uninjured warriors let out furious roars and charged, no longer content to cower on the defensive.
"Now you face the wrath of Durin's Folk!" the short-bearded Dwarf bellowed.
He was a whirlwind of destruction, his Battle-axe a blur of motion. Beheading, dismembering, crushing—the panicked Orcs and Wargs were no match for his focused rage. He dispatched all three in the blink of an eye, his fury a terrible sight to behold.
Tarnes, while impressed, did not remain idle. He emerged from behind a large oak, his Lordsworn's Straight Sword cleaving an Orc's head from its shoulders. He raised his Brass Shield just in time to block the lunge of a Warg, its foul breath washing over him. A moment later, the beast let out a final, mournful cry as Tarnes's sword found its throat. The last Warg fell to the combined might of the two Dwarves, its skull caved in by a heavy Battle-axe.
Silence descended upon the blood-soaked clearing.
The short-bearded Dwarf spat a curse in a guttural language Tarnes did not understand, then turned to the armored man. He bowed his head slightly, a gesture of solemn gratitude. "You have my thanks, friend. These thrice-damned Orcs have been growing bold of late, crawling out from their holes to plague honest folk."
Tarnes sheathed his sword and slung the shield onto his back. "It was nothing. But we should see to your companions."
The Dwarf's face clouded with worry as he rushed back to the three warriors lying on the ground. Tarnes followed and saw that while their wounds were not immediately fatal, they were in a bad state.
"If not for your timely aid, my kinsmen would have been lost," the Dwarf said, his voice laced with relief as he and his uninjured companion began tending to the wounded. All three had been struck by arrows. It was clear they had been ambushed.
"Gently, brother, gently!" one of the injured Dwarves groaned as an arrowhead was pulled from his thigh.
But the short-bearded Dwarf's face hardened as he examined the wound. Dark, viscous blood oozed from the cut. "Poison," he growled. "The foul beasts coated their arrows in it. We carry no Athelas with us. We must get them to the Blue Mountains, or the venom will claim them."
Tarnes knelt, his gaze sweeping over the injuries. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance," he said calmly.
The Dwarf looked up in surprise as Tarnes reached into the empty air. A moment later, a golden, crystalline stone materialized in his gauntleted hand, pulsing with a soft, gentle light. It was a Warmstone.
He tossed it onto the ground beside the three injured Dwarves. As it landed, it began to radiate a profound, comforting heat, like the first rays of sunshine after a long winter. The pale-faced Dwarves were enveloped in the warmth, and a faint golden light shimmered around their bodies, mirroring the glow of the stone.
The short-bearded Dwarf's eyes, full of a craftsman's fascination, widened. "By my father's beard… What manner of ore is this? I have never seen such a stone in all of Middle-earth. Where did you find it?" he asked, his voice filled with excited reverence.
"It is not so common, but neither is it unheard of," Tarnes replied, slightly bewildered by the Dwarf's intense reaction. His hands did not stop moving. He produced three small, greenish pellets from a pouch. They were Neutralizing Boluses, crafted from cave moss, herba, and the wings of giant dragonflies—a common remedy for poison in the Lands Between.
He was about to offer them to the wounded when he saw that all five Dwarves had gathered around the Warmstone, their faces transfixed by its gentle, healing glow.
"There is nothing more to see," Tarnes said, clearing his throat. "Eat this. It will purge the poison."
The short-bearded Dwarf snapped out of his trance and took the boluses, handing them to his injured kin.
"Tastes of cave moss and grass… and is that the fishy tang of some insect?" one of the Dwarves grimaced after swallowing the pellet.
"It works, lad. Look!" the leader said, pointing. The blood flowing from the wound was now a healthy, bright red. "The poison is gone! And… wait. Your wound!"
The Dwarf looked down in a panic. "What's happened to my leg? Am I seeing things? It's closing up!"
Under the combined effect of the bolus and the Warmstone's prayer, the wound was knitting itself shut at a visible rate. As they stared in amazement, the light from the Warmstone faded, its power expended, leaving it an unremarkable white rock.
"The prayer within the stone is spent," Tarnes explained, seeing their unasked questions. "How do you all feel?"
The Dwarf who had complained of the pain moved his leg, his eyes wide with disbelief. "I feel… whole. Your magic is a marvel. I had not thought to meet a wizard who favored plate armor. Are you bound for the Blue Mountains? We would be honored to have you travel with us so we might thank you properly."
They think me a wizard, just as Bilbo did, Tarnes mused. He did not correct the assumption. "My destination lies elsewhere. I travel to Minhiriath."
The short-bearded Dwarf looked puzzled. "Minhiriath? Why would anyone venture into that desolate land?" He then seemed to remember himself, straightening his fine, dark tunic. "Forgive my manners. I have not introduced myself. It is an honor to meet you, Wizard. I am Thorin Oakenshield."
He extended a hand. Tarnes grasped his forearm in a warrior's greeting. "I am called Tarnes."
Thorin nodded, though his eyes couldn't help but drift back to the spent stone on the ground. "You Men of magic have many strange and wondrous things. I have seen gems that glitter and glow, but never a stone that could heal."
"I find myself lost," Tarnes admitted. "I set out from Hobbiton but was led astray by those Orcs. Do you know where we are?"
Thorin considered him for a moment. "If you seek Minhiriath, you are far off course. This is the borderland of the Blue Mountains. You must travel east, cross the Brandywine River, and then you will find the forests of Minhiriath."
Another Dwarf stepped forward, his expression grave. "Lord Wizard, a word of caution. Since the Great Plague and the floods that followed, Minhiriath has become a wilderness. No good folk dwell there now. It is home only to Orcs, Wargs, and foul men who hide from justice. It is not safe to travel there alone, even for one with your skill."
"I thank you for the warning," Tarnes replied, "but my task there is one I cannot forsake."
Thorin raised a hand, silencing the other Dwarf. "A wizard is ever loyal to his quest. Once his mind is set, words are but wind." He unhooked the Battle-axe from his belt and offered it to Tarnes. "Then take this. It is a small token for the lives you saved. Should you ever require the aid of Durin's Folk, present this Battle-axe in the halls of the Blue Mountains. So long as I live, I will answer."
The Battle-axe, easily wielded by a Dwarf, felt compact but weighty in Tarnes's hand. The runes carved into its head seemed to hum with latent power.
"I wish you a safe journey to your home," Tarnes said, accepting the great pledge.
With a final nod, Thorin and the other four Dwarves departed, their footsteps fading into the woods.
Guided by Thorin's directions, Tarnes turned east and resumed his journey toward the forgotten lands of Minhiriath.
***
(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!]