Chapter 7: The Road to Bree
The East-West Road had seen better centuries.
Weeds choked the ancient stones. Grass pushed through cracks that hadn't been repaired since Arnor fell. The road my ancestors built—the road that once carried kings and commerce—now carried ghosts.
We moved in careful formation: Maeglin ahead, scouting. Two guards on each flank. Me in the center with the pack mule carrying our trade goods. Five units of iron ore, carefully selected samples that Grimbeorn swore would demonstrate quality.
Three days to Bree. Three days of exposure on a road that bandits and worse called home.
"Movement."
Maeglin's voice carried no further than it needed to. We froze. His hand made signs I was still learning to read—ahead, left, human, wait.
I eased my hand toward my sword. The wound on my forearm twinged in protest. Two weeks since the battle, and it still reminded me of its presence at the worst moments.
Long minutes passed. Then Maeglin appeared from the brush like smoke solidifying into man.
"A wagon. Burned, maybe three weeks old. Bodies picked clean." His face stayed neutral, but his eyes tracked the surrounding trees. "Orc work. They went south after."
South. Toward the mountains. Toward whatever was being built in those tunnels.
"Any current danger?"
"Not immediate. But the road ahead shows tracks. Days old, but..." He shook his head. "This stretch isn't safe."
When has it ever been?
I thought of the claiming ritual—standing on those ruins at dawn, speaking words I barely understood. I'd claimed a territory in the middle of a war zone without knowing the enemy's strength. A month and a half later, I still didn't fully know.
"We push forward. Stay alert."
We passed the burned wagon an hour later. Maeglin hadn't exaggerated—bones scattered in the grass, white and weathered. A child's shoe half-buried in mud. I didn't look too closely.
Focus on the living. The dead are beyond helping.
[EAST-WEST ROAD — AFTERNOON]
The second day brought the bandits.
Maeglin spotted them first—four figures positioned in a narrow stretch where old oaks crowded the road. Classic ambush point. Anyone with half a brain would see it coming.
Which meant they were either desperate or stupid. Possibly both.
"Options?" I kept my voice low, the mule's reins tight in my hand.
"Circle south. Add an hour, maybe two. Rough terrain, but passable." Maeglin's eyes never left the treeline ahead. "Or we go through them."
Four bandits. Six of us, counting the mule if it decided to bite someone. Reasonable odds, especially with Maeglin's bow. But we couldn't afford casualties. Every fighter we lost was one fewer to protect the settlement. One fewer to guard the trade caravans I hoped to establish.
"South. We're not here to fight."
One of the guards—Beran, a former farmhand who'd volunteered after the battle—shifted uncomfortably. "They're just bandits, my lord. Four men."
"Four men with swords. Four men who chose this spot because they know how to use the terrain." I met his eyes. "We're here to make a trade deal, not prove we're brave. Brave doesn't fill bellies."
Beran flushed but nodded.
We turned off the road, moving slow through underbrush that grabbed at legs and caught on the mule's packs. Two hours became three as the terrain fought us. But we reached clear road beyond the ambush point without bloodshed.
"They'll know we avoided them," Maeglin observed. "They may follow."
"Then we'll deal with them. But not today."
Bree appeared at sunset.
I stopped on the road's crest, staring. Behind me, the guards muttered amongst themselves, but I barely heard them.
Civilization.
Wooden walls rose fifteen feet high, surrounding a town that dwarfed everything I'd built. Smoke curled from dozens of chimneys. I could see people moving on the streets, hear the distant sound of hammers and voices and life.
More people in one glance than my entire domain held.
Oliver Smith had lived in cities. Actual cities, with millions of people and traffic and noise. But that was another life, another world. Aldric had spent months in ruins and wilderness, fighting for scraps.
This felt like coming home to a place I'd never been.
"My lord?" Maeglin's voice broke my trance. "The gates."
Right. The gates. Where guards were watching our approach with the kind of suspicion that men reserve for strangers in hard times.
We walked the final stretch with hands visible, movements slow. The mule plodded behind us, seemingly unimpressed by the architecture.
"State your business."
The guard who spoke was older, weathered, with the kind of eyes that had seen trouble and learned to expect more. His partner was younger but held his spear with practiced confidence.
I straightened. For a month I'd been a lord of ruins. Now I needed to be something more.
"I'm Aldric, from the settlement at Amon Hen-dîr in the Weather Hills. I've come to discuss trade."
The guard's eyebrows rose. "The Weather Hills? Nothing out there but orc-sign and abandoned towers."
"Not anymore."
Something in my voice made him pause. He studied my face, my sword, the trade goods visible on the mule's back.
"Amon Hen-dîr," he repeated slowly. "The old watchtower?"
"The same."
A long moment passed. Then the guard stepped aside.
"You'll find merchants near the Pony. Hamfast the Elder handles most trade with the eastern roads." His expression remained wary but curious. "If what you say is true—if someone's actually building something out there—you'll find Bree interested in talking."
I nodded my thanks and led my party through the gates.
The Prancing Pony sat at the town's heart like a grandmother surrounded by children.
Smaller buildings clustered around it—shops, homes, stables. People moved between them with the casual ease of folk who'd never faced an orc charge or buried four friends in a single morning.
Different world. Same needs.
We found lodging in a stable loft—the inn was full, and my coin purse couldn't afford to argue. The guards settled the mule while Maeglin disappeared to gather information. I stood in the stable doorway, watching the town's evening routine.
The smell hit me first.
Fresh bread. Real bread, baking somewhere nearby. Warm and yeasty and so achingly normal that my stomach cramped.
I'd eaten hardtack and dried meat for weeks. Thin stew stretched to feed too many mouths. The occasional rabbit that the hunting parties brought back, divided sixty-five ways.
This was bread. Simple, beautiful bread.
My stomach growled. Loud. Behind me, someone laughed.
I turned to find Maeglin returning, a rare smile on his face.
"The baker sells day-old loaves for half price," he said. "I took the liberty."
He handed me a small round loaf, slightly stale, utterly perfect.
I bit into it without ceremony. The taste was beyond description—wheat and salt and something like civilization itself. For a moment, I wasn't a lord or a leader or a transmigrated soul carrying the weight of impossible knowledge.
I was just a man eating bread.
"The merchants meet at dawn," Maeglin said, watching me demolish the loaf. "Hamfast is known for hard bargains but honest dealing. Old Butterbur—the innkeeper's father—might be worth approaching separately. He has connections outside the merchant guild."
I nodded, mouth too full for words.
Tomorrow, the real work began.
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