Chapter 5: Dunlending Raid (Part 1 of 2)
John Stark crouched low in the tall, dry grass of the Rohan plains, the wind biting at his exposed neck like a living entity, its chill seeping into his bones as it whipped his borrowed tunic against his skin. His pulse hammered, a frantic drumbeat, damp sweat pooling under his arms, and the system's hum pulsed steadily in his skull, a quiet alert he buried beneath a facade of instinct, his throat dry as parchment. He tracked Dunlending signs—broken twigs, scuffed earth, the sour tang of woodsmoke carried on the breeze—toward a copse of trees two leagues from the village, his knees aching from the strain of holding still.
"Think like a sneak-thief, not an idiot with a sword—lives depend on this," he told himself, flattening into the grass, his scarred hands steadying his breathing, the grit of dirt under his fingernails a sharp reminder of his reality.
He reached the ridge and parted the grass with cautious fingers, the blades whispering against his palms, revealing the Dunlending camp below, a cluster of shadows in the pre-dawn gloom. Over a dozen men, their faces smeared with harsh ochre and black, moved with predatory intent, their small campfires glowing like orange eyes, the low, aggressive mumble of their voices a menacing hum that set his teeth on edge. His stomach twisted, a knot of fear tightening with each breath.
He summoned the HUD, its starlight glow a mental oasis, the text crisp and cold, flickering slightly as if glitching.
[SYSTEM: Stealth Mastery: Lv. 2. Sneaky, for once. Enemy count: 14. Warning: Opponent Strength Index > Player Strength Index.]
He dropped the interface, rubbing his face as if swatting a fly, the stubble on his jaw rough under his palm, concealing the alert as simple caution, his heart racing with the realization of the odds. The numbers were daunting—this wasn't a raid, but an invasion, hinting at Saruman's shadowy influence, a chill creeping up his spine.
"Like stalking in a bad MMO, except screwing up means more than losing loot," he whispered, his voice thin as cotton, mapping their positions with meticulous care, noting lazy watch rotations and horse placements, the tension in his shoulders a coiled spring.
The terror thrummed in his veins, a constant hum, but focus overrode it, his mind calculating the fastest approach and chokepoint strategy, the taste of bile rising in his throat. He reversed his path with deliberate steps, the grass brushing his knees, determined to warn Éowyn before dawn broke, his legs trembling with the effort.
In the village armory, Éowyn tested the edge of a spear blade, the metal cool and smooth under her thumb, the morning hush broken by the urgent thud of boots. She recognized John's rhythm, her heart quickening, the scent of oil and steel filling her lungs as he burst in, chest heaving, sweat and dust streaking his face like war paint.
"Éowyn, listen to me. It's not a raid, uh, I mean, it's a force. Fourteen men, maybe more. Armed. They are not just thieves; they are sent to burn this place down."
Her eyes locked on his, wide and fierce, the flicker of torchlight dancing in her gaze, and she didn't question his accuracy, seeing only the resolve that mirrored her own, her breath catching slightly. His strange attire faded from her mind—his actions were her anchor, a steady rock in the storm.
"Where are they?"
He leaned in, his voice dropping, laced with that odd, modern wit, his breath warm against her cheek.
"Two leagues out, in the western copse. Look, this is serious. Raiders? Worst party crashers ever. We need to reinforce the south wall and pull everyone back behind the palisades. Now."
Her plan aligned with his, using the terrain to force a chokepoint, and she trusted his judgment, her experience bowing to his urgency, her fingers tightening on the spear.
"Wulf! Brand! Wake the others! To the south palisade! The Dunlendings are at our gates!"
The village erupted into controlled chaos, spears clashing, children hustled to safety with soft cries, carts dragged to reinforce the barricade with a groan of wood, the air thick with tension. Éowyn glanced at John, gratitude swelling in her chest, her pulse steadying under his gaze.
"You have given us a fighting chance, Stark," she said, her voice soft, a rare vulnerability breaking through, her hand brushing the spear's haft nervously.
[SYSTEM: Charisma: +1. They're listening, hero. Nice display of urgency.]
John paced the south wall, pointing out weak spots in the barricade, his voice steady despite the cold pressure weighing on his chest, the rough bark of the logs scraping his fingers.
"Fourteen guys, chokepoint defense—manageable. Mostly," he thought, directing log placements with a trembling hand, the ache in his back a dull throb, his neck prickling as he scanned the horizon.
The HUD flared, a blinding spike of light and strategy, interrupting his focus with a jolt.
[SYSTEM: Quest: Defend Village. Reward: +2 random stat. Strategy Hint: Exploit the choke point. They rely on brute force. Greater foes await if you fail here.]
He jerked his head, pretending to scan the wide, empty horizon, the wind biting at his ears, hoping no one saw the flash in his eyes, the strain of hiding it tightening his jaw. The system's foresight confirmed Saruman's hand—this was a tutorial for a larger war, a chill settling in his gut.
"This is no loot grind; it's the main story's preamble," he mused, shoving the interface down, the hum returning as he wiped sweat from his brow, the salt stinging a small cut.
"Strategist? Don't hurt your brain," he muttered, the system's snark echoing his humor, his fingers brushing the sword hilt for reassurance as he turned to Éowyn.
"We need those spears here. Two men deep. When they hit, they'll hit hard, and they won't stop."
The calm shattered as Dunlending drums thundered in the distance, a primal rhythm resonating through the soil, menacing and psychological, the vibrations tingling up his legs. John met Éowyn's grim gaze, her resolve unshaken, the war cries growing louder on the wind, a faint metallic tang in the air.
"Phase one complete. Phase two: Survive," he thought, gripping his sword, the steel cold and hard, ready for the storm, his pulse a frantic drumbeat.
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