Chapter 21: The Alliance Forms
Beran returned from Bree on the seventh of July, leading fifteen militia volunteers and three supply wagons.
"Hamfast sends his regards," he said, handing me a sealed letter. "And his investment."
The letter was brief, businesslike. The Bree merchants had calculated their losses to road violence over the past two years. The numbers were significant. If Aldric could eliminate the Trollshaw threat, future profits would more than compensate for current costs.
Economics. The universal language.
The militia leader was a stocky man named Tom Ferny—distant cousin of someone famous, he explained, though the family connection was complicated. He sized me up with merchant's eyes, calculating worth and risk.
"Fifteen fighters," he said. "All volunteers. We're not conscripts—we're here because the roads need to be safe for trade to work."
"And if we lose?"
"Then we're dead and it won't matter." He shrugged. "Same as everyone else. At least this way we go down fighting for something that benefits our people."
Practical. I could work with practical.
[WAR COUNCIL — FULL SESSION]
The planning corner had never been so crowded.
Halbarad stood at my right, the anchor I'd come to depend on. Grimbeorn at my left, arms crossed, hammer resting against the wall. Maeglin crouched near the map, marking positions with careful precision.
Gorlim had returned with the Rangers, proving his loyalty through action. He stood across the table, waiting.
And now Tom Ferny, representing Bree's investment in our survival.
"Total forces," I said. "Final count."
"Seventy-five fighters." Maeglin's voice was flat, professional. "Sixty from our settlement. Fifteen from Bree. Plus the five of us here."
"Against?"
"One hundred fifty minimum. Possibly two hundred." He traced the Trollshaw fortress on the map. "Stone walls. Defensible position. Mixed force of orcs and Hill-men. And Ulfang himself."
The numbers were brutal. Two-to-one at best. Possibly three-to-one.
"We can't win a straight assault," Halbarad said. "Not with those numbers."
"Then we don't fight straight."
I'd been working on this since Tauriel's visit. Running scenarios. Testing plans. Looking for the approach that gave us any chance at all.
"Three simultaneous attacks. Each with a specific objective. Timing is everything."
Gorlim leaned forward. "Explain."
"First prong—Maeglin's scouts." I pointed at the map. "The fortress holds hostages. There are always hostages—Ulfang uses them as leverage. Before the main assault, Maeglin's team infiltrates and frees them. Gets them clear of the fighting."
Maeglin nodded slowly. "Possible. Risky, but possible. I'd need to scout the holding area."
"Second prong—your team." I met Gorlim's eyes. "The hidden pass. The one behind the waterfall. You lead fifteen fighters through it, come up behind the fortress. Block the western escape route. When Ulfang's forces break, they can't scatter—they're trapped."
"That path is dangerous," Gorlim said. "We'll be moving blind through hostile territory."
"You know the route. No one else does."
He absorbed that. The weight of responsibility settling onto his shoulders.
"Third prong—main assault." I traced our approach. "Forty fighters. Dawn attack from the south. Fire arrows to start. We hit hard, drive into the fortress, create chaos. Make Ulfang commit his reserves."
"And then?"
"Then Gorlim's team springs the trap. The escape routes close. We crush them between two forces."
Silence around the table.
"It could work," Halbarad said slowly. "If the timing holds. If Maeglin's team gets the hostages out. If Gorlim reaches position without being detected." He shook his head. "Too many ifs."
"There are always ifs. But this gives us a chance."
I looked around the room. These men—and women, I realized, seeing some of Bree's militia for the first time—had chosen to follow me into battle. Against an enemy that outnumbered them. Against odds that rational people would avoid.
"I won't lie to you. Some of us will die. Probably many of us. Ulfang has been building his strength for years while we've had months." I met each pair of eyes in turn. "But if we don't stop him now, he'll come for us. For our families. For everything we've built. The choice isn't between fighting and not fighting. It's between fighting on our terms or dying on his."
Tom Ferny spoke up. "The Bree militia is in. We didn't march three days to turn back now."
Gorlim nodded once. "My team will take the pass. I know those hills. I won't fail."
Maeglin said nothing—just tapped the hostage location on the map, committing to his role.
Grimbeorn's hammer rose off the wall. "I'll be in the main assault. Where the fighting's thickest."
Halbarad looked at me with something like pride.
"Then we're agreed. Attack in three days."
[AMON HEN-DÎR — NIGHT BEFORE DEPARTURE]
Fighters gathered in small groups throughout the settlement.
Some prayed. To the Valar, to ancestors, to whatever powers they hoped were listening. I saw Bree militia kneeling beside local settlers, different cultures finding common ground in the face of death.
I didn't pray.
Instead, I checked equipment. Weapons, armor, supplies. Everything that could make the difference between living and dying.
Thorwen found me in the armory, counting arrows for the third time.
"You should rest."
"I will."
"You won't." She handed me a small pouch. "Pain herbs. For your ribs. They're healed enough for combat, but another blow to that area..."
"I know."
"Do you?" She grabbed my arm, forcing me to look at her. "You lead from the front. I've seen it. The men respect it, but it means you're the first target. Ulfang will know who you are. He'll come for you."
"I know that too."
"Then don't be stupid about it." She released me. "Win the battle. Don't try to be a hero."
"There's a difference?"
"Heroes die with songs about them. Winners live to hear the songs." She turned to leave. "I'll have the medical tent ready for when you return."
When. Not if.
I appreciated the faith.
[AMON HEN-DÎR — DAWN]
Seventy-five fighters assembled at the eastern gate.
Three groups. Three objectives. One chance.
Maeglin's scouts departed first—ten fighters moving fast and light, taking the northern route. They'd need to be in position before the main attack began.
Gorlim's team left next—fifteen experienced fighters, carrying extra supplies for the hidden path. The waterfall passage would take two days. They had to move fast and silent.
Then the main force.
Forty fighters. Farmers, refugees, merchants, outcasts. United by desperation and something harder to name.
I mounted my horse at the column's head. My father's sword hung at my hip. The bloodline ring pressed against my chest, hidden beneath armor.
Two months ago, I stood on a broken tower and claimed a ruin.
Now I ride to war.
"Move out."
The column lurched forward. Toward the Trollshaws. Toward Ulfang.
Behind us, the settlement walls grew smaller until they vanished over the horizon.
No turning back now.
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