"Push on! We've already crossed halfway! Just a little more, and we'll be on the other side of the Misty Mountains!" Balin cheered on the sweat-drenched soldiers.
The early summer evening breeze was refreshingly cool. By dusk, the life-loving dwarves had already set up camp, lit numerous bonfires, and begun their joyous supper. Meanwhile, the Zaltarion army was still laboring, driving wooden stakes into the ground to erect a breastwork.
"King Rynar, care for a drink?" Balin waved his flask at Rynar with a grin.
"No, we do not drink while on a campaign. I must set an example," Rynar shook his head firmly.
"What a pity! You don't know what you're missing…" Balin sighed regretfully.
"I just hope tonight is a peaceful one. I don't want to play whack-a-mole with those damn goblins again!" Rynar gritted his teeth. The goblins of the Misty Mountains were truly relentless. No matter how many they killed, they never seemed to dwindle. They kept finding new ways to survive. Over the past few nights, the army had been harassed repeatedly. Their attacks were nothing compared to trolls—they were barely a threat to the heavily armored warriors—but they were noisy! Screeching and chattering, their raspy voices filled the night, making it impossible to rest. Rynar had been carrying dark circles under his eyes for days.
"Goblins?" Balin's expression turned strange. He recalled Rynar's rather 'friendly' methods of dealing with goblins. Dismemberment, bladed evisceration—those were the mild punishments. What stood out in Balin's memory was the time Rynar, smiling warmly in the firelight, had stabbed a goblin over a hundred times, deliberately avoiding vital spots. The wretched creature had howled all night before finally succumbing to blood loss. Ever since then, everyone knew not to disturb Rynar's sleep—his morning temper was murderous, even in his dreams.
"Let's hope no fools come disturbing your rest tonight!" Balin declared firmly. He certainly did not want to relive another night of listening to a goblin's tortured screams.
"Your Highness, roast hare!" Caslow approached, handing Rynar a large, succulent roasted rabbit. The juices dripped down its limbs, and the rich aroma of spices made Balin's mouth water.
"Bunnies are so cute, how can we eat them?" Rynar feigned shock as he stared at the roasted delicacy, imagining it as a fluffy, adorable creature in life.
"Mmm! Delicious! Add more chili; it needs more kick!" In the end, Rynar couldn't resist. It turned out that this rabbit was even cuter after being cooked—warming both the heart and the stomach!
Watching Rynar's blatant hypocrisy, Balin shuddered. What had twisted the once-innocent King Rynar into this? Was it the corruption of power, the erosion of morality, or the trauma of war?
"Awooo—" Suddenly, a long wolf's howl echoed from afar, causing the leaders' faces to tense.
"Balin, did you hear that?" Rynar asked, alarmed.
"By Durin, I'd recognize that sound even in death!" Balin growled, his teeth clenched.
"Dragon gods… That was a Gundabad warg's war howl?" Caslow's heart tightened.
"Warg riders are the vanguard of the Orcs. Does this mean an orc army has left the fortress of Gundabad? Why are they coming to the Misty Mountains? To attack Rivendell?" Omsk wondered.
"Map!" Rynar demanded urgently.
As he spread the map before him, his expression darkened. The Misty Mountains held no real targets for the orcs—except for Rivendell. But even if Sauron himself came, breaking Rivendell was not guaranteed. If they weren't after Rivendell, then…
"Heavens, have we been exposed? Do the orcs already know about our plan to attack Moria?" Rynar exclaimed. Along the journey, he had not bothered to conceal their movements, believing that the crippled orcs would be unable to resist them. After all, in the original tale, no one had intercepted Balin's expedition. But the butterfly effect was in motion. The orcs, wounded but not defeated, had chosen to strike back!
"Damn! The royal banner!" Caslow suddenly looked up and cursed. Sure enough, the Zaltarion dragon banner, embroidered with golden fringes and intricate patterns, fluttered proudly in the wind.
"Damn it! We forgot to change the banner!" Omsk groaned, smacking his forehead.
"What's wrong?" Rynar had a bad feeling.
"Your Highness… We forgot to remove your royal flag. They must have recognized it and came for you!" Omsk admitted, his eyes shut in regret.
"Pfft!" Rynar nearly spat out blood. Were the inhabitants of Middle-earth so naive? Hadn't they read The Art of War or The Thirty-Six Stratagems? They saw a banner and decided to march an army? His mind filled with visions of using the banner for deception and baiting enemies into traps.
"By my beard! You really marched all this way under your royal standard?" Balin's face twisted in disbelief. He had thought something was amiss, but now he realized the problem lay with his allies.
"Survivors from the Battle of the Lonely Mountain must have sent word back. They have their own intelligence networks; it's not surprising," Rynar sighed. The situation was set. There was no turning back.
"Looks like we were marked from the moment we set out," Rynar laughed bitterly. The orcs had timed their move well—too late for the Zaltarion army to seek Rivendell's aid or flee across the Anduin. They were caught in the worst possible position—forced to fight.
"Orcs are nothing to fear! We've slain plenty. Let's kill some more tonight!" Rynar's eyes gleamed with murderous intent.
"No, no, no. I fear the Nazgûl more than the orcs…" Omsk voiced his true concern.
"…" Rynar.
"We're in trouble… Your Highness, look! The moon is setting!" Caslow pointed skyward, where the bright moon was slowly disappearing behind the clouds, its light growing dimmer.
"Moonset…" Rynar's brow furrowed.
"Balin! Merge your troops with mine! Increase patrols! Sleep in armor! And light a bonfire every hundred meters, one hundred paces from the camp!" Rynar ordered.
"At your command!" Balin responded without hesitation.
"Move quickly, lads! Tonight will be eventful—we might have to fight for our lives!" Rynar roared, cursing his luck. How many nights had he gone without proper rest? First trolls, then goblins, and now orcs? Even a clay man has his limits! His eyelid twitched as he clenched his fist, yearning for battle.
"Let's see if you still remember the army that defied the current at the foot of the Lonely Mountain!" Rynar growled. He lifted his gaze, tears welling in his eyes, as memories of those who charged against the tide filled his heart—
The rushing current… ever unyielding!