At dawn's first breath, where the sun had yet climbed above the eastern hills, Ryan Eowenríel set forth with his chosen companions—Idhrion, Erken, Elger, Arion, Alaina, and ten of the Rangers. They went armed and armored, and in each man's eyes burned the fierce gleam of desire—for they sought the treasure that fate itself had placed within their grasp.
By day the Troll-woods seemed fair, clad in quiet beauty. Now, while trolls and Orcs slumbered in their dark dens, the forest lay in silence, untroubled. No foe hindered their steps.
"My lord, there ahead," said one of the Rangers who had scouted with Elger the night before, pointing to a cliff face some ten fathoms high. "It was there we found the trolls."
At this, Ryan raised his hand, halting the company. His voice was soft but firm:
"Spread out. Tread lightly. No sound."
Steel whispered from scabbards. With blades at the ready, they crept toward the cliff. At its foot they found a yawning cavern, a vast hollow mouth opening into shadow.
Upon the stone about its entrance were faint carvings, worn and veiled with moss. With careful hands Idhrion brushed it aside, and his keen eyes traced the ancient runes.
"It is Sindarin," he murmured. "It reads, 'Storehouse of Grain.' Once this was the granary of Rhudaur."
"Now it is the den of evil," Ryan answered darkly.
Leaving the rest behind, Ryan and Idhrion stole within.
Bones littered the ground, whitening in heaps. The air reeked of corruption and rot, and both men wrinkled their brows at the stench.
Deeper still they went, until from the dark came the sound of heavy snores. Faint light glimmered, and there, sprawled across the cavern floor, lay three vast shapes—trolls, slumbering in their foul dreams.
Exchanging but a glance, the two withdrew as quietly as they had come, not a sound betraying them.
Back outside, Ryan's eyes swept the land. Great trees rose thickly about the cliff, their branches woven so close that no sunlight pierced to the ground. He thought swiftly, then gave his order:
"Touch them not yet. Each of you climb and trim the boughs above the cave. Tie cords to the cut branches. At my word, all shall be broken, and the light of the sun will do our work."
"Aye, my lord!" The Rangers leapt upward, nimble as cats, blades flashing as they trimmed and bound. For two hours they toiled until the trap was laid.
When all was ready, Ryan nodded to Erken. Together they entered the cave once more, and crept near to one of the sleepers. Erken hefted his great war-axe, and with a cry that shattered the silence, brought it down.
Steel cleaved flesh and bone; the troll's head rolled free, its body twitching in death.
The noise awoke the other two. With roars of fury they sprang up, eyes blazing.
"Dúnedain!" one bellowed. "They've slain William!"
"Thieves! Filthy thieves!" snarled the other.
Without thought, they lumbered in rage after Ryan and Erken, who fled swiftly back toward the forest.
"Stop!" roared Tom, snatching up a great boulder to hurl.
But a voice rang behind him:
"Foul creatures—face the judgment of the Sun!"
A chorus of sharp cracks followed as the branches snapped, and sunlight poured down in golden spears upon the trolls.
At once they shrieked, pain searing through them. They stumbled, clawing at their stony skin, seeking to flee—but it was too late.
Born of shadow in the elder days, before Sun or Moon had risen, trolls could not withstand the light. Their flesh hardened, their cries froze, and in moments they stood as statues of rock, their faces twisted in terror.
The Rangers dropped from the trees, blades still ready, though no further foe stirred.
"Come," Ryan said. "Let us see what lies within."
Torches flared, and they entered once more. William's body lay sprawled, his blood still pooling across the stone. The cavern was vast, clearly hewn by craft in elder times.
Racks lined the walls, piled with grain and stores. But more wondrous still, the floor glittered with treasure—heaps of bronze and silver, jewels and vessels of fine make, and in one corner stood jars of gold coins stacked high.
Upon the walls hung weapons of every kind: quivers, bows of yew, spears, swords, mail-shirts, hauberks, and helms, enough to arm a hundred men.
The Rangers gasped, awe upon their faces.
"By the Valar, look upon this!"
"Food enough to last us months!"
Yet Ryan's eyes had fixed elsewhere—upon the wall where three blades hung in jeweled scabbards. He stepped forward, and with reverence he took them down: two long-swords, and a short blade of finest make.
For he knew them, though he had never seen them before.
One was Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver, forged in Gondolin in the First Age by the High Elves. A blade of legend, bane of Orcs.
The second was Glamdring, Foe-hammer, once borne by Turgon, King of Gondolin himself. A sword fit for kings, radiant with power.
The last was a short-sword of fine edge, small in size but wrought with Elven craft, keen against darkness. In days to come, it would be named Sting.
….
Thus had Ryan found the very weapons fated to fall into Thorin Oakenshield's hands, and into the keeping of Bilbo the Hobbit. But here and now, it was Ryan and his Rangers who stood amidst the hoard, the treasure of trolls turned to the cause of the Dúnedain.
And in his heart, Ryan knew: fate itself was shifting.