Chapter 16: The Pretender
Twelve riders appeared on the eastern road.
I was reviewing construction progress when the horn sounded—two sharp blasts that meant unknown armed approach. My hand dropped to my sword before I consciously decided to reach for it.
"Armed men," Halbarad said, appearing at my shoulder with the ease of decades' practice. "Not orcs. Riding in formation."
Not orcs was good. Armed formation was concerning.
I climbed the watchtower steps, ribs protesting. Two weeks since the battle, and Thorwen's wrapping still pulled tight around my torso. The bone was knitting, but slowly. Fighting would reopen the injury.
Let's hope fighting isn't necessary.
From the platform, I watched the riders approach. Professional formation—four in front, four behind, four flanking a central figure. Decent horses. Good weapons visible at hips and backs. These weren't refugees or traders.
The lead rider stopped fifty paces from our gate.
"I seek the one who calls himself lord of Amon Hen-dîr!" His voice carried with practiced projection. "I am Gorlim, son of Gorlath, descendant of Argeleb II, rightful heir to these lands!"
Halbarad's face went still.
"Argeleb II," he murmured. "That's a real bloodline. Distant, but legitimate."
Of course it is.
The System had taught me—in cold blue notifications I couldn't share—that Sovereignty wasn't just about holding land. It was about the right to hold land. Bloodlines mattered in Middle-earth. Claims mattered.
And now someone with a claim had arrived.
"Open the gate," I said.
"Aldric—"
"He rode here with twelve men to challenge a settlement of ninety. Either he's suicidal, or he believes he can win without fighting." I started down the stairs. "Let's find out which."
Gorlim was younger than I expected.
Maybe thirty winters—roughly my borrowed body's age. Dark hair cropped short in the northern style. A scar crossing his left cheek that suggested battlefield experience. Grey eyes that reminded me uncomfortably of descriptions I'd read about Dúnedain nobility.
He dismounted as I approached, his men forming a loose semicircle behind him. Our militia had gathered along the walls—forty fighters watching, weapons not drawn but close at hand.
"You're the claimant," Gorlim said. Not a question.
"I'm Aldric. And you're standing in my settlement."
His jaw tightened. "This land belonged to my ancestors before the kingdom fell. My great-grandfather held these hills when Arnor still lived. By blood and right, it should have passed to my line."
"Should have is a heavy phrase." I kept my voice level, conscious of every ear listening. "What's your actual claim?"
"Argeleb II's third son married into my family. The bloodline descends through—"
"Third son." I cut him off. "Not first. Not second. Third."
Gorlim's hand twitched toward his sword. "Blood is blood."
"And my line descends from Araphant's brother." The lie—or rather, the truth this body carried—came smoothly. "Closer than third-son marriage ties."
"You have proof?"
"Do you?"
We stared at each other. Two men claiming the same ruin, neither able to definitively prove their right to it. In Rivendell, maybe, the elves kept records that could settle such disputes. But Rivendell was weeks away, and Gorlim hadn't come for paperwork.
"I didn't think so," I said. "Dinner?"
His expression flickered. "What?"
"You rode here expecting a fight. I'm offering food instead." I gestured toward the settlement's heart. "Your men look hungry. The horses need water. Let's talk before anyone does something stupid."
Around us, the watching crowd murmured. This wasn't the confrontation they'd expected.
Gorlim studied me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"One meal. Then we settle this."
[SETTLEMENT HALL — EVENING]
The meal was simple—venison stew from yesterday's hunt, bread from the Bree shipment, watered wine that passed for celebration drink.
Gorlim ate without enthusiasm, his men clustered at a separate table. The hall buzzed with tension—my people mixing uneasily with his, everyone waiting for something to break.
"Tell me about your family," I said.
He looked up, suspicious. "Why?"
"Because I'm curious. Because you rode here with twelve men to challenge someone you'd never met. Because most people who claim inheritance don't actually show up to collect."
Something flickered in his eyes. Pain, maybe. Old wounds.
"My father was a fool," Gorlim said quietly. "Believed in honor and oaths and the old ways. He died defending a village that couldn't pay taxes, killed by orcs while the lords he'd sworn to ignored his calls for help."
I thought of the orc raid. The five dead on the hillside.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. His death taught me something." Gorlim's voice hardened. "The old ways are dead. The kingdoms are dust. All that matters now is strength—who has it, who can hold it."
"And you think strength means taking what someone else built?"
"I think strength means recognizing opportunity." He leaned forward. "You've done well here. Better than I expected. But you're one man, one claim, one injury away from collapse. I could give you legitimacy. Real bloodline backing. In exchange, you step aside and let someone who was born for this take over."
Born for this.
I remembered waking in a dying body. Gasping for breath in a world I'd only read about. Stumbling through months of impossible situations because there was no other choice.
"No."
"Then we fight." Gorlim pushed back from the table. "Single combat. Dawn. Winner rules. The old way—since you seem to value tradition."
My ribs ached. Thorwen's warnings echoed in my memory.
Half-healed. Four weeks minimum. Fighting could break it fully. Puncture a lung.
But backing down meant losing everything.
"Agreed."
[TRAINING YARD — MIDNIGHT]
The sword felt wrong in my hands.
I'd practiced every day since the raid—when Thorwen wasn't watching. Building muscle memory. Compensating for the injury that limited my movement.
It wasn't enough.
Gorlim moved like someone who'd trained since childhood. His stance during dinner had shown professional habits—weight distribution, hand placement, the unconscious readiness of a born fighter.
I swung at the practice post. The impact jarred my ribs. I bit down on a curse.
He's going to target the injury. He has to know about it—everyone saw me collapse after the duel announcement.
Another swing. Pain. Another. Pain.
Can't match his skill. Can't outlast him. Can't—
I stopped. Breathed. Let the sword hang at my side.
Oliver Smith had spent thirty-two years solving problems with spreadsheets. Finding patterns. Exploiting weaknesses.
Gorlim was stronger. Faster. Better trained.
But Gorlim had also challenged a stranger to single combat based on pride and bloodline claims. Gorlim had brought twelve men to a settlement of ninety, expecting to intimidate them into submission. Gorlim believed in strength as the answer to everything.
Arrogance is a weakness too.
I raised my sword again. Not to practice technique—I'd never match his skill in hours.
Instead, I practiced falling. Rolling. Moving in ways that favored my injured side.
Tomorrow wasn't about winning cleanly. Tomorrow was about surviving long enough to make him make a mistake.
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