Spring in Rhovanion was wonderfully pleasant. The sun overhead was not harsh, and its light felt warm against the skin. A gentle breeze swept over Eowya from time to time, bending the lush green crops in the fields and wiping the sweat of hard work from the faces of a farming family.
Yet on this relaxing, cheerful afternoon, a fully armed young man sat drinking tea beneath a roadside shelter, his expression grave. A stocky dwarf sat beside him, but the young man showed no interest in conversation. Instead, he glanced south from time to time, making it clear that he was waiting for someone.
Behind the young man stood a dozen or so guards dressed much as he was. Their handsome faces were equally solemn, and they gripped longbows engraved with intricate patterns, looking ready to attack at any moment.
Farther away, more than a hundred burly, well-equipped guards patrolled on sturdy horses, roaming several hundred meters from the shelter. All of this seemed to suggest that the host was not particularly welcoming toward his approaching guests.
The young man was Allen. Saruman's party had barely left Orthanc before a swiftly flying bird brought the news to Wilderness Town.
Allen was somewhat nervous about Saruman's arrival. After all, the White Wizard possessed all manner of extraordinary abilities. Even without the conditions needed to cast spells of mass destruction, his voice alone, with its power to beguile people, was enough to give Allen a serious headache.
If they truly had to fight, Allen believed that he would be the ultimate victor, provided he deployed his forces and committed everything to the battle. His side might lack a top-tier fighter like Gandalf, but it had plenty of elite warriors. Apart from Saruman himself, the fighting forces on the other side were