"Hey, Thorin!" Bard welcomed Thorin and his party from Erebor with a smile in his eyes.
"Hello, my brother!" Thorin gave him due respect as well, stepping forward to bump fists with Bard.
"This is quite a commotion! You actually didn't bring thirteen people down the mountain?" Bard teased, thumping Thorin's chest.
"By Durin! Aren't you afraid Roland will curse me to death for that?" Thorin grumbled.
"How many men did you bring?" Bard asked, looking around.
"Eight hundred Dwarf warriors! What do you think? Impressive, right?" Thorin shook out his arms.
"Mm... Wait a minute? You're going too?" Bard's gaze sharpened as he finally noticed Thorin's shield and Orcrist—the Beast-bite Sword, though it was actually a blade!
"Of course. I wouldn't trust anyone else with it!" Thorin nodded.
"Aren't you going too?" Thorin slapped Bard on the shoulder, the sound of his palm striking chainmail ringing out. With the longbow on his back, Bard was clearly preparing to personally march into battle as well.
"Does Dale have anyone capable of commanding troops?" Bard's mouth twitched as he looked at the five hundred lightly equipped infantrymen standing in neat ranks behind him.
"Militia?" Thorin followed Bard's gaze. Though those soldiers were uniformly equipped, they could not hide the air of old farmers about them!
"Yes. If I don't lead them myself, they'll fall apart the moment they run into anything tough!" Bard sighed. In Middle-earth, the saying that a general was the courage of his soldiers was absolute truth. That was also why ordinary commanders found it difficult to distinguish themselves—after all, the enemy could truly decapitate your command structure!
"Have them follow behind us! Dwarves are still good at positional warfare. I see your men all carry bows and crossbows, so at least they can supplement our ranged firepower!"