Chapter 22: The Long March
The forest swallowed us whole.
Seventy-five fighters moving through terrain that didn't want them—roots that grabbed at ankles, branches that slapped faces, undergrowth so thick we had to hack through it in places. Maeglin's scouts ranged ahead, marking the safest paths, but "safe" was relative in the Trollshaws.
Eight miles on the first day. Barely a quarter of what we needed to cover.
"At this pace, we'll reach the fortress in a week," Ferny muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. The Bree militia leader had proven tougher than he looked, but even he was feeling the strain.
"We'll reach it in three days." I kept my voice low—sound carried in forests, and we couldn't know how far Ulfang's patrols ranged. "We push harder tomorrow."
"The men are exhausted."
"The men will be dead if we give Ulfang time to prepare."
No argument to that. Ferny fell back to check on his militia, and I continued the march.
The weight of command pressed down with every step. Seventy-five people following me into territory that had killed better armies. The Trollshaws had been dangerous even in Arnor's height—now, with Ulfang's forces hunting through them, every shadow could hide an enemy.
Keep moving. Don't think about what could go wrong.
Night fell without warning. One moment, grey twilight filtered through the canopy. The next, darkness so complete I couldn't see my hand in front of my face.
"No fires," I ordered, passing the word down the column. "Cold camp. Eat what you have. Sleep in shifts."
Grumbling from the ranks. I didn't blame them. Cold rations and hard ground weren't what anyone had signed up for. But fire meant smoke, and smoke meant detection.
I found a spot against a fallen tree and settled in, sword across my knees. My thigh muscle cramped from the day's march. My shoulders ached from carrying armor I wasn't built for.
Three more days of this. Then battle. Then either victory or death.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it felt almost peaceful. No more planning. No more waiting. Just the simple clarity of action.
[TROLLSHAWS — DAY TWO]
We pushed harder the second day.
Twelve miles through increasingly rough terrain. The forest gave way to rocky hills that offered better sightlines but worse footing. Twice, scouts reported movement ahead—orc patrols, small groups, easily avoided with careful routing.
But avoiding meant delays. Delays meant exhaustion. Exhaustion meant mistakes.
The deserter disappeared sometime after midnight.
I didn't notice until dawn muster—one of the Bree militia, a young man whose name I'd never learned, simply wasn't there. His sleeping spot was empty. His gear was gone.
"Search party?" Halbarad asked quietly.
"No time." The words tasted bitter. "If he deserted, he's long gone. If he was taken..." I didn't finish the sentence.
If he was taken, Ulfang would know we were coming. The entire plan would be compromised.
"We continue as planned. Faster if possible."
Ferny took the news hard. The missing man was one of his—a volunteer who'd marched three days from Bree to fight for something he believed in. Now he was either a coward or a corpse.
"I should have watched him closer," Ferny said, face pale. "Should have noticed something was wrong."
"You couldn't have known."
"That doesn't make it better."
No, it didn't. But guilt was a luxury we couldn't afford.
The march continued.
[TROLLSHAWS — DAY THREE — EVENING]
The fortress appeared at dusk.
We crouched on a ridge overlooking the valley, hidden among rocks and scrub, watching Ulfang's stronghold emerge from the gathering shadows.
Amon Rhûd. The name came from Gorlim's maps—an ancient Rhudaur watchtower, built in the early days of Arnor's division. The original structure had been elegant, if the foundation was any indication. What stood now was crude but effective—stone walls repaired with timber, wooden palisades filling the gaps, watchtowers at each corner bristling with archers.
Fires burned inside. Torchlight moved along the battlements. Even from this distance, I could hear voices—guttural orc-tongue mixed with the rough speech of Hill-men.
"Busy place," Halbarad observed.
"Gorlim's estimates were accurate." I counted the visible guards, multiplied by probable shift rotations. "One hundred fifty, maybe more. All concentrated inside the walls."
"They're not expecting an attack."
"They're not expecting this attack." I turned to find Grimbeorn, his massive frame somehow fitting into the rocky concealment. "Your hammer team ready?"
"Born ready." His teeth showed in something between a grin and a snarl. "That wall section Gorlim marked—I've been looking at it. The timber's old. Rotted in places. Three good hits and it comes down."
"Three hits without getting killed by archers."
"Four hits, then. I'll duck."
Despite everything—the exhaustion, the fear, the crushing weight of responsibility—I almost smiled.
"Get your team in position. Wait for the signal."
He melted into the darkness with surprising grace for a man his size.
[ASSAULT STAGING AREA — NIGHT]
I sat with the common soldiers while we waited.
Not the officers, not the leaders, not the people who expected me to have answers. Just ordinary fighters—farmers who'd learned to hold spears, refugees who'd survived orc raids, Bree merchants who'd decided trade routes were worth dying for.
We sharpened weapons. The rhythmic scrape of stone on steel filled the darkness, a sound that had probably echoed before every battle in history.
"First time in a real fight," said the man beside me. Young, barely twenty. One of the original settlement militia. "I mean, I was at the first orc attack, but that was defense. This is..." He trailed off.
"Different," I finished.
"Yeah."
"You'll do fine. Stay with your group. Don't try to be a hero. Watch your footing."
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not simple. But you'll survive if you stay smart." I met his eyes in the darkness. "And when you get back home, you'll have a story worth telling."
If you get back home. The words I didn't say.
He nodded, something settling in his expression. Not confidence exactly—more like acceptance. The look of someone who'd made peace with whatever came next.
Around us, other conversations murmured through the darkness. Men talking about families. Women comparing weapon maintenance techniques. Everyone finding their own way to face what morning would bring.
I finished sharpening my sword and slid it back into the scabbard.
Gorlim's team should be in position by now. Maeglin's scouts are waiting at the drainage tunnel. Everything is ready.
Everything except me.
The fortress lights burned through the night.
I watched them from my position on the ridge, counting the hours until dawn. Sleep was impossible—not from fear, exactly, but from the hyperawareness that came before violence. Every sound magnified. Every shadow potential threat.
Somewhere inside those walls, Ulfang slept in a stolen bed. The warlord who'd united orcs and men under one banner. The descendant of Rhudaur traitors who'd sold their kingdom to darkness.
Tomorrow, one of us dies.
The thought didn't frighten me anymore. It felt almost inevitable—the logical conclusion of every choice that had led me here. From the claiming ritual on broken stones, through orc raids and trade negotiations and political duels, all of it building toward this moment.
Oliver Smith died in a hospital bed. Aldric will die in battle, if he dies at all.
Better, probably. More fitting for the life I'd been given.
The eastern sky began to lighten. Grey replacing black. The first hint of dawn.
Time to move.
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