Chapter 15: The Cost of Victory
The graves faced east.
Five of them, freshly dug on the hillside above the settlement. We'd carried the bodies home wrapped in cloaks—a full day's march with the wounded slowing us down and my cracked ribs protesting every step.
Now they rested in Amon Hen-dîr's soil, facing the dawn. The Dúnedain way, Halbarad said. So the dead could see the sun rise forever.
I spoke for each man.
"Torval. Farmer from Archet. Volunteered three weeks ago. Never held a sword before the militia formed." I looked at the wrapped body, remembering a quiet man who'd asked for extra drilling sessions because he wanted to protect his daughter. "He died holding the line. He died a warrior."
The crowd murmured acknowledgment. Eighty-plus people gathered on the hillside—the original settlers, the refugees, the rescued prisoners still weak from captivity.
"Beorn. No relation to the skin-changers, despite the name." A small laugh rippled through the assembly. The young man had joked about it constantly. "He was seventeen. He came here looking for a new start. He found one."
Seventeen years old. Younger than some of the children Oliver Smith had seen in hospital waiting rooms, waiting to hear if their parents would survive.
Too young. They were all too young.
"Garrick. Father of three. His wife died in the orc raid that drove his family here." I swallowed hard. "He said he had nothing left to lose. He was wrong. His children lost him."
Three orphans now. Added to Farren's children from the first battle. Added to all the other broken families that had stumbled through our gates looking for safety.
I promised to protect them. I promised.
"Marven. Oldest of our fighters—fifty-two winters. Veterans half his age couldn't match his endurance." I remembered him on the march, steady and uncomplaining while younger men struggled. "He told me once that he'd spent his whole life running from trouble. He wanted to die facing it."
He'd gotten his wish. A spear through the chest, defending the retreat of the prisoner escort.
"Collin. Former bandit, turned to our cause." I paused, thinking of Tam—the boy we'd recruited from the same ambush that had tried to kill us. "He proved that people can change. That redemption is possible. That where you start doesn't have to be where you end."
Five graves. Five men who had trusted me to lead them, and now lay cold in the earth.
I spoke the final words—Dúnedain prayers that felt more real each time I said them.
"The stones remember. The stars remember. We remember."
[MEDICAL TENT — AFTERNOON]
Thorwen's fingers probed my ribs with merciless precision.
"Cracked. Not fully broken—you're lucky." She wrapped bandages around my torso, pulling them tight enough to make breathing difficult. "Rest. Minimal activity. Three weeks healing, maybe four."
"I don't have three weeks."
"You have as many weeks as I say you have." She tied off the bandage with more force than necessary. "Or would you prefer the rib to break fully? Puncture a lung? Die of internal bleeding because you're too stubborn to sit down?"
"When you put it like that..."
"I always put it like that." She stepped back, examining her work. "Half-duty for two weeks. No lifting. No fighting. No climbing watchtowers to brood dramatically at sunset."
Despite everything—the dead, the wounded, the bone-deep exhaustion—I almost smiled.
"You've noticed the brooding."
"Everyone's noticed the brooding." Her expression softened slightly. "You did well out there. The men who came back... they believe in you now. Not just hope in you. Believe."
"Five didn't come back."
"And thirty-five did. Plus eight prisoners who would have died in those cages." She met my eyes. "Leadership means carrying deaths on your shoulders. It doesn't mean drowning in them."
Easy to say. Harder to do.
"The pregnant widow," I said. "Marven's daughter. How is she?"
"Grieving. But she brought you soup an hour ago. Said her father would have wanted her to." Thorwen shook her head. "These people don't blame you. They're grateful."
Somehow, that was worse.
[WAR COUNCIL — EVENING]
The rescued prisoners had stories to tell.
We gathered in the planning corner—Halbarad, Grimbeorn, Maeglin, and me, nursing my wrapped ribs with every breath. The prisoners sat across from us, eight survivors of something worse than death.
Their spokesman was a weathered man named Aldred. Farmer originally, then captive, now survivor.
"They took us from the Trollshaws," he said. "Three weeks of marching—east, toward the mountains. They have a base there. Old watchtower, rebuilt. Fortified."
My mind mapped the geography. The Trollshaws sat northeast of us, wild country between the Weather Hills and the Misty Mountains.
"How large?"
"Hundreds." Aldred's voice shook. "Orcs, bandits, outcasts—all working together. Building something. They had us digging tunnels, hauling stone, constructing walls."
Tunnels again. Building. Just like Bregol described months ago.
"Who leads them?"
Silence around the group. When Aldred spoke again, his voice was barely audible.
"A man. Not an orc—a man. Tall, dark-haired, wears armor that looks older than kingdoms." He met my eyes. "They call him the Warlord. He speaks to the orcs in their tongue. Speaks to men in ours. Makes them work together somehow."
A human warlord. Commanding orcs.
That shouldn't have been possible. In the stories Oliver remembered, orcs served Morgoth, then Sauron. They didn't follow human leaders.
Unless something has changed. Unless the world isn't quite what the books described.
"Did you see him? Speak to him?"
"Once." Aldred shuddered. "He walked through the work gangs, checking progress. Looked right at me. His eyes..." He stopped. "They weren't human eyes. Not anymore."
Halbarad and I exchanged glances. The old Ranger's face was grim.
"This is bigger than orc raids," he said quietly. "This is someone building an army."
"Yes."
"We can't fight an army. Not with what we have."
"No." I looked at the map, at the vast empty spaces between our settlement and the Trollshaws. "But we can prepare. We can grow. And we can find out who this Warlord is."
The prisoners watched me with desperate hope. Eight people who'd survived hell, now counting on me to protect them from its architects.
"You're safe here," I said. "That's a promise. Whatever's coming from the Trollshaws—we'll be ready."
I hope.
[HILLSIDE GRAVES — SUNSET]
The sun touched the western horizon.
I stood among the fresh graves, watching shadows lengthen across the earth. My ribs ached with every breath. My sword arm was sore from a day of combat that seemed years ago.
Five stones marked five lives. Simple markers—we didn't have the resources for anything elaborate. Names carved by Grimbeorn's skilled hands.
"I'll finish this," I told them. The dead didn't answer, but I spoke anyway. "The camp was just the beginning. There's more coming—this Warlord, his army, whatever they're building in the mountains. But I'll finish it."
Wind rustled through the grass. In the settlement below, I could hear the sounds of evening routine—cookfires lit, children called home, the ordinary rhythms of survival.
Eighty-eight people now. Population growing. Trade route active. Militia blooded and hardened.
The System tracked it all in cold numbers. Sovereignty rising. Military Might increased. Progress measured in statistics that meant nothing to the men beneath my feet.
"We'll remember you," I said. "Your names. Your faces. What you sacrificed."
The sun slipped below the horizon. Stars emerged—the same stars that had watched the claiming ritual, the first battle, every step of this impossible journey.
I thought of Farren's grave from months ago. Of the promise I'd made to his widow, his children.
I keep my promises.
The settlement lights glowed warm in the gathering dusk. My people, safe behind walls I'd helped build, protected by fighters I'd trained.
Tomorrow, I'd start planning for the larger threat. The Warlord. The army. Whatever darkness was gathering in the Trollshaws.
But tonight, I stood with the dead and honored what they'd given.
Five graves facing east.
Five souls watching for the dawn.
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