Chapter 12: Shadows in the East
Maeglin found me at dawn.
His face told me everything before he spoke a word—drawn, tight, the expression of a man carrying news he wished he didn't have.
"How bad?"
"Bad enough." He fell into step beside me as I walked toward the watchtower. "I counted thirty-two orcs. Maybe more—they've got scouts in the surrounding hills, and I couldn't get close enough to be certain. They're building a camp in the eastern foothills. Not a raid staging ground. Supply caches. Defensive positions."
My stomach dropped.
"How far?"
"Day's march. Less if they move fast."
Thirty orcs. Maybe more. Last time we'd faced twenty, and four of my people had died—including Farren, who'd been braver than anyone deserved to be.
The math was brutal. We had forty fighters now, better armed than before thanks to Grimbeorn's forge. But the orcs would be rested, organized, attacking a target they'd been scouting for weeks.
"When did this start?"
"Hard to say. The camp's been there at least three days. They're still building, still fortifying." Maeglin's jaw tightened. "This isn't a raiding party, my lord. This is an occupation force. They're planning to stay."
I climbed the watchtower steps, Maeglin following. At the top, I could see the eastern horizon—mountains rising blue-grey in the distance, foothills rolling toward us like waves frozen in stone.
Somewhere in those hills, thirty orcs were preparing to destroy everything we'd built.
"Gather the war council," I said. "Halbarad, Grimbeorn, anyone with military experience. We need to talk."
[AMON HEN-DÎR — WAR COUNCIL]
The planning corner had never felt smaller.
Halbarad stood to my right, his weathered face grim. Grimbeorn to my left, arms crossed over his massive chest. Maeglin crouched near the crude map I'd drawn in the dirt, marking positions with small stones.
"Here." He placed a dark stone in the foothills. "Their main camp. Thirty-two orcs confirmed, possibly up to forty with scouts and foragers. They've got a natural defensive position—rocky outcrop backing, stream for water, clear sight lines in three directions."
"Supplies?"
"Limited, from what I could see. They're living off the land, hunting and raiding. But they've been bringing in materials—wood, stone, maybe iron. They're building something."
Building.
The word echoed Bregol's story from weeks ago. Tunnels in the mountains. Orcs taking slaves for construction. Something being built in the deep places.
"What are our options?" I looked around the circle. "Speak freely."
Halbarad went first.
"We can hold these walls. The palisade is solid, our fighters know the ground, and we've got height advantage from the towers. If they assault, we'll bleed them."
"And if they don't assault? If they just blockade us? Cut off trade?"
The old Ranger's silence was answer enough.
Grimbeorn spoke next.
"I can arm forty fighters with decent weapons. Spears, axes, a few swords. Nothing fancy, but good steel." His voice rumbled like distant thunder. "The forge has been my whole life since I got here. Every blade I've made, I've made thinking about orcs."
"Quality fighters?"
"Maybe twenty-five are worth a damn in a real fight. The rest are farmers with spears." He didn't sugarcoat it. "Better than nothing. Worse than trained soldiers."
Maeglin was last.
"I can get us close. Night approach through the southern ravine—they've got the fewest scouts that direction. Hit them before dawn, when they're groggy and the fire's burned low." His eyes met mine. "But we'd be attacking a fortified position with inferior numbers. Even with surprise, we'll take casualties. Maybe heavy casualties."
Three options. Defend and risk starvation. Attack and risk slaughter. Wait and risk both.
I stared at the map, running calculations that Oliver Smith would have recognized. Risk assessment. Resource allocation. Cost-benefit analysis.
Except these aren't numbers. They're people. People I know. People who trust me.
"What about reinforcements?" I asked. "Rangers? Other settlements?"
"The nearest Ranger patrol is weeks away," Halbarad said. "Other settlements..." He shook his head. "They've got their own problems. No one's riding to our rescue."
We're alone.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it clarified something.
"Maeglin."
"My lord?"
"If we hit them at night—your southern approach—what are the odds of achieving surprise?"
"Seventy percent, maybe higher. They're not expecting an attack. They think they're the hunters here."
"And if we achieve surprise, what are our chances of winning?"
Long pause.
"Better than defending. Not by much, but better."
I looked around the council. Halbarad's experienced eyes. Grimbeorn's forge-hardened determination. Maeglin's quiet competence.
"Waiting means dying," I said. "Every day they're out there is a day they're getting stronger, more prepared, more certain they can take us. We don't have time to wait for help that isn't coming."
"So we attack." Halbarad's voice was flat, neither approving nor objecting.
"We attack. Night assault, southern approach. Hit them before dawn, when the fire's low and they're still sleeping." I picked up a stone and placed it on the map. "We've got one advantage they don't expect—desperation. They think we're sheep waiting to be slaughtered. We're going to show them otherwise."
Silence around the circle.
Then Grimbeorn laughed—a deep, rumbling sound that shook his whole frame.
"I didn't flee halfway across Middle-earth to die cowering behind walls." He slapped his hammer against his palm. "When do we leave?"
"Two days. That gives us time to prepare, rest, make sure everyone who's going knows what they're walking into." I met each of their eyes in turn. "Volunteers only. I won't order anyone to their death."
"You'll have forty," Halbarad said quietly. "Every fighter we have. They'll all volunteer."
"Then we need to make sure as many as possible come back."
[AMON HEN-DÎR — NIGHT]
The pipe-weed was harsh but welcome.
Halbarad had offered it after the council disbanded, and I'd accepted without thinking. Now we sat on the watchtower platform, sharing smoke and silence while the stars wheeled overhead.
"I've been fighting orcs for forty years," the old Ranger said. "Lost count of how many I've killed. Lost count of how many friends I've buried."
"Any advice?"
"Don't die." He took a long draw from the pipe. "Beyond that... fire. Dawn. They hate both. Something in their breeding makes them weak in sunlight, and fire terrifies them in ways that don't make rational sense."
Fire and dawn.
I filed the information away.
"What about the big ones? The one the refugees mentioned—the speaking orc?"
"Never seen one myself. But I've heard stories." Halbarad's voice dropped. "There are orcs, and then there are orcs. Some of the older ones, the ones that have survived long enough to learn... they're different. Smarter. Crueler. They remember things from before the darkness retreated."
"Before?"
"The wars of the last age. Morgoth's fall. The great battles that broke mountains." His eyes reflected starlight. "Some of them were there. Some of them remember."
The thought chilled me more than the night air.
Creatures that had lived through the Silmarillion. Beings older than most civilizations.
"Will we win?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it. Halbarad was quiet for a long moment.
"I've seen worse odds turn. I've seen better odds fail." He passed the pipe back. "But I've never seen a lord who works beside his people. Never seen one who eats the same rations, carries the same burdens. That counts for something."
"Something isn't everything."
"No. But it's more than nothing." He rose, joints creaking. "Get some sleep. You'll need it."
After he left, I sat alone with the stars and the pipe and the weight of forty lives resting on my decisions.
Tomorrow, I would sharpen my sword. Check equipment. Review Maeglin's approach route for the hundredth time.
In two days, I would lead men into battle. Some of them wouldn't come back.
I thought of the claiming ritual—the old words, the System's awakening, the blue light flooding my vision. I'd promised to build something. To restore something.
Building requires defense. Restoration requires survival.
The pipe burned low. I let it die.
Forty fighters. Thirty orcs. Two days until we marched.
Time to make good on my promises.
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