Chapter 26: The Price Paid
The prisoners presented a problem I hadn't anticipated.
Thirty-four souls knelt in the fortress courtyard, hands bound, faces ranging from defiant to terrified. Hill-men mostly—the hard folk of these wild lands, who'd followed Ulfang out of fear or ambition or simple lack of alternatives. A handful of orcs mixed among them, though fewer than I'd expected.
"The orcs?" I asked Gorlim, who'd taken charge of the prisoners after the battle.
"Eleven survived the fighting. Most fought until we cut them down." His voice carried the flat tone of someone stating facts, not making judgments. "These were taken when their positions collapsed."
Eleven orcs. Creatures bred for darkness, incapable of redemption in any story I'd ever read. Creatures who'd killed my people, enslaved the hostages, served a warlord who'd planned to destroy everything I'd built.
The decision came easier than it should have.
"Execute them. All eleven."
Gorlim nodded without hesitation. "And the Hill-men?"
Twenty-three faces stared up at me. Some angry, some afraid, some simply hollow with the shock of capture. Men who'd fought against me hours ago, who might have killed friends I'd never see again.
"Bring them forward. One at a time."
The first was young—barely twenty, with a scraggly beard and eyes that couldn't meet mine.
"Name?"
"Torgen." His voice cracked. "Son of Torgen."
"Why did you follow Ulfang?"
"He... he promised safety. Food. My family's farm was burned by orcs two winters ago. He said he'd protect us if we served."
Fear. Desperation. The same things that drove my own people to Amon Hen-dîr.
"You have a choice," I said. "Death, for fighting against me. Slavery, for the same crime. Or an oath of service—genuine service, with the chance to earn a place among my people."
Torgen's head snapped up. Hope and suspicion warred in his expression.
"You'd... take me?"
"If you swear truly. If you serve honestly. If you prove yourself." I leaned forward, ignoring the pain in my ribs. "But understand this: one betrayal, one sign of treachery, and you die. No second chances. No mercy."
He swallowed hard. Then nodded.
"I swear. By whatever powers watch over these hills, I swear."
Not exactly the formal oaths of Dúnedain tradition. But sincere.
"Bind him separately. He's under guard until we reach the settlement."
One down. Twenty-two to go.
[AMON RHÛD — EVENING]
The interviews took hours.
Of the twenty-three Hill-men prisoners, twenty-two chose the oath. The twenty-third—a grizzled veteran who'd clearly served Ulfang since before my arrival in Middle-earth—chose death with quiet dignity.
"I was his man," the old fighter said simply. "Can't be anyone else's."
I respected that, in a dark way. Some loyalties ran deeper than survival.
His execution was quick. Clean. I didn't watch, but I didn't look away either.
This is what lordship means. Making the hard calls. Living with the consequences.
The orc executions were... different. Less dignified. More necessary. Creatures who would have killed children without hesitation, who served darkness as naturally as breathing.
I still didn't enjoy it.
[AMON RHÛD — NIGHT]
The fortress decision came last.
"We could garrison it," Gorlim suggested, studying the ancient walls by torchlight. "Twenty men could hold this position against a hundred. Strategic control of the Trollshaws."
"Twenty men we don't have." I sat on a fallen column, ribs burning with every breath. "We lost fifteen today. Another twenty-three wounded. Our effective fighting force is halved."
"Temporarily."
"For months. And in months, this fortress becomes a liability—too far to support, too valuable to abandon, a target that draws enemies we can't defeat."
Grimbeorn grunted agreement. "Demolish it. Take the metal, the supplies, anything useful. Burn the rest."
The practical solution. The ugly solution. Destroying something valuable because I couldn't afford to keep it.
"Do it," I said. "Salvage everything you can. Then bring it down."
The work began at first light. Grimbeorn's team stripped the fortress of anything worth carrying—iron fixtures, weapons, stored supplies. They found Ulfang's treasury too—a modest hoard of gold and silver, accumulated through years of raiding.
Then the fires started.
I watched from my cart as Amon Rhûd burned. Ancient walls that had stood since Rhudaur's founding, consumed by flames we'd set deliberately. Destruction as strategy. Denial of resources to enemies who might follow.
This is what you've become. A lord who burns fortresses rather than lose them.
The column began its march home with fire at our backs and the weight of victory on our shoulders.
[RETURN ROAD — MORNING]
I spent the first day of travel writing letters.
Fifteen letters. One for each family that had lost someone. My chest wound made holding the quill painful; I wrote anyway.
To the family of Torval of Archet:
Your son died bravely, defending his companions at the breach of Amon Rhûd. He held his position when others might have fled. He died a warrior.
I grieve with you. He was under my command, and his loss is my responsibility. Whatever you need—food, shelter, support for your children—the settlement will provide. This is my promise.
Aldric of Amon Hen-dîr
Fifteen times. Different words, same truth. Men had trusted me to lead them, and I'd led them to death.
The letters would reach the families before we did. Runners carrying grief to people who'd been celebrating our departure only days ago.
This is command. This is lordship. This is the weight you chose to carry.
I kept writing until my hand cramped and Thorwen threatened to sedate me.
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