Chapter 18: The Warlord's Shadow
The scout rode in at sunset, horse lathered and half-dead.
Maeglin's man—one of the team that had been probing the Trollshaws for two weeks. He collapsed in the saddle, barely conscious, and spoke three words before passing out.
"They're coming."
[WAR COUNCIL — EMERGENCY SESSION]
The planning corner had never felt so crowded.
Halbarad, Grimbeorn, Maeglin, Gorlim—new to the council but too valuable to exclude. Thorwen stood in the back, present as a reminder of what battle costs. The rescued prisoner Aldred had been summoned too, his knowledge of the Trollshaw fortress suddenly critical.
"Report," I said.
Maeglin's face was grim. "We penetrated deeper than before. The old watchtower—it's not a camp anymore. It's a fortress. Stone walls repaired, gates reinforced. And it's full."
"How full?"
"One hundred fifty, minimum. Possibly two hundred. Orcs and men working together. Organized. Drilled."
Two hundred.
My settlement had sixty fighters. Gorlim's twelve made seventy-two. Even with walls and preparation, those numbers meant death.
"The Warlord?" I asked.
"Real. I saw him." Maeglin's voice dropped. "Human. Tall, dark armor, commands in both tongues. They call him Ulfang. Claims descent from the Rhudaur traitors."
Halbarad sucked air through his teeth. "Rhudaur. That's an evil name."
"What was Rhudaur?" Gorlim asked.
"One of the three kingdoms that Arnor split into," Halbarad explained. "Arthedain, Cardolan, Rhudaur. The last one fell first—sold itself to the Witch-King for power. Their descendants scattered after the war, but some bloodlines survived."
The Witch-King. Angmar. The war that broke Arnor.
History Oliver had read about was now reaching forward to kill me.
"What's his goal?" I asked.
"Expansion." Maeglin pulled out a crumpled map—his own work, sketched during the reconnaissance. "He's been building strength for years. The raids we've seen are tests. Probes. He's mapping the settlements, identifying targets."
"And we're a target."
"The biggest one in the Weather Hills. The others are scattered, undefended. But you..." Maeglin met my eyes. "You're building something. He can't ignore that."
"Timeline?"
"Two weeks. Maybe less. They're gathering supplies, organizing march formations. This isn't a raid—it's an invasion."
Gorlim leaned over the map.
"I know these hills." His finger traced the eastern approaches. "Fought here, years ago. Before the fortress was rebuilt."
"You fought Hill-men?"
"Bandits. Orcs. Whatever was causing trouble." He tapped a spot on the map. "There's a pass here. Hidden. Comes up behind the old watchtower. We used it to ambush a warband once."
Maeglin studied the indicated location. "My scouts didn't find that."
"You wouldn't, unless you knew to look. The entrance is behind a waterfall, three days east."
A hidden approach. Behind enemy lines.
The information sparked something in my mind. Not a complete plan—not yet—but the beginning of one.
"If we could get a force into that pass..."
"Suicide," Halbarad said flatly. "Even with surprise, seventy fighters against two hundred is massacre."
"Seventy fighters against a fortress, yes. But what about seventy fighters plus allies?"
"What allies? The villages are too small to help. Bree won't send militia into the wild. The Rangers—" He stopped. "The Rangers might. If we could reach them."
"Then we reach them."
[WAR COUNCIL — CONTINUED]
Two hours of planning produced a framework.
The settlement would fortify. Every able body working on defenses—higher walls, deeper ditches, stockpiled supplies. If Ulfang attacked before help arrived, we'd hold as long as possible.
Meanwhile, messengers would ride out. One north, seeking Ranger patrols. One west, to Bree—not for militia, but for supplies and evacuation routes if everything failed.
"I should go north," Gorlim said. "I know the Ranger territories. Have contacts from my father's time."
I studied him. Two weeks ago, this man had challenged me for rulership. Now he was volunteering for a dangerous mission that would take him away from any chance to undermine me.
Testing. Or genuine. Only one way to find out.
"Do it. Take your fastest rider. Find the Rangers, tell them what's coming."
Gorlim nodded and left to prepare.
"You trust him?" Grimbeorn asked after he'd gone.
"I trust that he wants to survive. Right now, that means helping us."
[ALDRIC'S QUARTERS — MIDNIGHT]
The map covered my entire table.
I'd been staring at it for hours, tracing routes, counting distances, calculating odds. Every scenario ended the same way—not enough fighters, not enough time, not enough margin for error.
Two hundred against seventy-two. Even with walls, even with preparation...
A knock at the door.
"Enter."
Gorlim stepped inside, travel gear already assembled. "Leaving at dawn. Wanted to speak with you first."
"Something wrong?"
"Just... curious." He stood across the table, studying the map. "During the duel. You could have killed me. Anyone else would have."
"We've covered this."
"No, we haven't. Not really." He looked up. "You're not like other lords. Not like what I expected. You work alongside your people, eat the same food, bleed in the same battles. And now you're sending me—the man who challenged you two weeks ago—on a mission that could save everything."
"Should I not trust you?"
"Probably not. I'm ambitious. I still think I could rule better than you." He paused. "But I'm also not stupid. Whatever you're building here, it's working. And that's worth more than pride."
We stood in silence for a moment. Two men who'd tried to kill each other, now bound by circumstance into something that might become alliance.
"The pass you mentioned," I said finally. "The hidden one behind the waterfall. When you find the Rangers, tell them about it. If we're going to attack that fortress, we'll need every advantage."
"You're actually planning to attack?"
"I'm planning to survive. If that means attacking, then yes." I met his eyes. "Bring the Rangers, Gorlim. Bring whatever help you can find. We'll hold here as long as possible."
He nodded once. "I'll ride fast."
[MAIN GATE — DAWN]
Two riders prepared to leave.
Gorlim for the north, seeking Rangers. Beran for Bree, carrying letters to Hamfast and Old Butterbur. Two threads of hope stretching into uncertain distances.
"Three weeks," Gorlim said. "If I find them quickly. Maybe four."
"Ulfang won't wait that long."
"Then hold." He mounted his horse, settling into the saddle with practiced ease. "You're good at surviving when you shouldn't. I've seen it."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation." He turned his horse toward the gate. "Don't die before I get back. I haven't decided if I want to serve you or replace you yet."
Despite everything—the threat, the odds, the bone-deep exhaustion—I almost smiled.
"Ride safe."
He spurred his horse through the gate. Beran followed moments later, taking the western road.
I watched them until they disappeared over the horizon. Two riders. Two chances.
The settlement stirred behind me—people waking to another day of building, fortifying, preparing for war. Ninety-plus lives depending on decisions I'd made and decisions yet to come.
Two weeks. Maybe less.
I turned back toward the planning corner. There was work to do, and time was running out.
Now I'll create the updated Master Tracker:
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