The death of Saur, the hill-chief, fell upon his kin like a bucket of cold water upon a raging fire. Their ferocity guttered, their will crumbled, and the wild men broke into flight. But they found no escape. Dulod's guards pressed from one side, and Ryan's fledgling host from the other, hemming them in.
Leaderless, the hillfolk flailed like headless flies, cut down one by one. Soon the valley's tumult faded to silence, broken only by the moans of the dying and the clatter of fallen arms.
Before Ryan's eyes shimmered the pale-blue veil of the system, words scrolling like ice:
[System Prompt]
Enemies slain: Hillfolk ×20, Hill-chief ×1
Experience gained: 50
Current XP: 70/200
With a thought he dismissed the screen and strode across the ruined battlefield.
By the wagons laden with arms stood Isabel. Her sword was driven into the earth, her hands clinging to the hilt for balance. Her silver mail hung broken, one arm bound with a blood-soaked strip of cloth. Across her cheek lay three red scars, the blood dried but stark against her pale skin. Her golden hair clung to her damp brow, streaked with sweat and blood.
When she beheld Ryan's approach, the steel in her spine at last slackened. Her resolve, which had carried her through the slaughter, gave way to the frailty of survival. Tears, red-tinged from the blood upon her lashes, slid down to the corner of her eye.
"My lord Ryan…" Her voice trembled. Before he could answer, she stumbled forward and fell into him, arms clinging tight about his neck.
She was light as a bird, but her bloodied armor pressed against his tunic, mingling with the gore upon his own. Ryan stiffened, caught off-guard, feeling the tremor of her shoulders and her breath warm upon his throat, with the scent of blood.
The men around them froze in stunned silence, eyes wide.
It was Alaina who broke the moment, her voice as crisp as steel:
"Why do you gape like fools? Clear the field! Gather the arms and leave this cursed place!"
Her eyes still burned from battle, and her poise carried the bearing of a born captain.
Alaina's eyes flicked once more toward Isabel, still holding Ryan. Her face betrayed no expression, yet her steadfast gaze dimmed, shadowed by something unspoken.
That battle had cost them dearly. More than a hundred hillfolk lay dead, yet some escaped into the wilds. And though they had triumphed, over thirty of Ryan's own lay slain, and nearly all others bore wounds. Still, they had secured the wagons of arms, and that was victory enough.
They tarried not. The dead were gathered, the spoils hauled, and the weary column marched out of the valley.
…
At last, they rejoined the East-West Road and turned westward. As dusk fell, the fortress of rose before them.
The Dulod guards gazed in awe. None had believed such a bulwark could be raised in the haunted fringe of the Trollshaws. Yet here it stood, stern and unyielding, born in but two months of toil: Ost-Giliath, the Bastion of Black Stone.
Back within its walls, Ryan bade Ailin tend to Isabel and settle the wounded. Then he summoned his captains to the hall.
…
The long table was filled, faces lit by wavering candlelight. Ryan sat at the head, his eyes reflecting fire as if from far-off stormclouds. None spoke until at last he did.
"We stand upon the brink of grave peril."
Tales looked up sharply, and the rest followed, their brows furrowing. Only Erken broke the hush with his puzzled honesty:
"My lord, forgive me, but I see no peril. We grow stronger by the day. A thousand soldiers, this mighty fortress, and trade that brings coin without end,what danger could trouble you?"
Ryan's gaze softened with respect. "My loyal warrior Erken, your heart is as pure as the mountain spring. But beneath still waters, storms brew unseen. Since we came here, we have slain trolls and orcs, yet they lurk still in forest and waste, keeping their distance. That quiet gave us time to grow.
"But the hillfolk,already we have clashed with them twice, and each time the storm grew fiercer. Do not mistake this: what we faced were but fragments, single tribes of middling strength. The true might of the hillfolk is far greater. They dwell in scores of tribes, ruled by the strongest of their chiefs—the one they name the Mountain Chieftain.
"Those who escaped today will carry word of us. Ost-Giliath is no hidden refuge.Soon, the tribes will know, and they will come.
"Do you think the dark-hearted men of the hills will suffer a kingdom of Dúnedain rising at their doorstep? No. They will bring war, and soon."
His words fell like stones in a silent pool. The warriors looked to one another, realizing what their lord already knew: the time left to prepare was short, and the storm was drawing near.