Saving lives

Beneath the dark sky, a band of Warg riders ambled across Wilderland with over a hundred prisoners.

Their filthy faces were full of gleeful smiles. The bright sunshine that morning had been terrible weather for Orcs, and a whole night of harassing a village had yielded little.

After daybreak, they had been forced to retreat. Unexpectedly, thick clouds soon covered the sky. With the weather on their side, the Warg riders had doubled back, caught the village off guard, and broken through its defenses. They had slaughtered every man capable of fighting back and burned the entire village to the ground.

Now, following orders from their leader, the Orc King, they were taking the remaining elderly, women, and children toward Dol Guldur, intending to offer their prisoners as tribute to Sauron, who was building his power there.

At that moment, Allen, pursuing them with his troops, crested a ridge and spotted them less than a kilometer away.

"Catch them! Kill them!"

Shouting, Allen spurred his horse and led his men charging toward the Orcs.

A surprise attack was out of the question. Horses made a great deal of noise when running. Even on soft ground, more than twenty galloping mounts were enough to alert the sharp-eared Wargs.

The Orc column stopped in the face of Allen's charge.

Soon, an Orc whose body and mount were far stronger than those of the other riders emerged from their ranks. He waved his weapon, barked a few orders, and led most of the Warg riders in a countercharge against Allen's men.

The remaining Warg Riders swung their whips, driving the hundred-odd humans south as fast as they could.

The two forces rapidly closed beneath the gloomy black clouds.

Allen, riding at the very front, found himself in a strange state.

He thought he ought to have been excited, frightened, or at least trembling. Yet he was not. His right hand held the heavy lance with absolute steadiness, while instructions kept surfacing in his mind: what to watch for during a charge, how to face cavalry, how to face infantry, and what to do when enemies hurled rubbish or shot at him. It was as though his body was telling his mind what to do.

It left Allen feeling disconnected, as if he was not commanding his own body but merely watching.

He watched the mounted Rhodoks Sharpshooters fire at the fifty or sixty Warg riders ahead, then hang their siege crossbows from their saddle hooks and draw straight-bladed cleavers as they continued charging.

He watched Deshavi repeatedly draw her bow along the edge of the formation, shooting the enemy mounts. Every shot sent a Warg tumbling to the ground. He watched Klethi rapidly throw her javelins at the approaching enemy, each one depriving a Warg of its rider.

He watched Firentis, Alayen, Ymira, and over a dozen Swadia Knights brandish their weapons as they followed close behind him.

Finally, he watched himself spur his horse straight toward the exceptionally large Orc, swing his right arm hard, and burst the enemy's skull with one swift thrust.

He pulled the reins with his left hand, and his warhorse deftly dodged the Warg's snapping jaws. Allen immediately drove his right arm downward, plunging his lance into the chest of a second enemy charging straight at him.

Then he released the lance and drew his knightly longsword. A downward cut killed a Warg trying to ambush his mount, and a final slash to the right sent an Orc's head flying.

With no enemies left before him, Allen galloped another few dozen meters and reined in. Only after taking a while to recover did he feel control of his body return. With no time to think, he quickly turned his horse to support his men.

But the fighting was already over. A single clash between the two cavalry forces had decided the outcome. Only Klethi and Deshavi were still pursuing the few Warg riders and riderless Wargs scattering in flight.

Half-orcs were weak fighters, especially those from the Misty Mountains, with their small bodies, hunched backs, and long claws.

Of course, they were also Sauron's minions, and during the War of the Ring they would join the Orcs of Mount Gundabad in keeping the elves of Mirkwood occupied.

But their weapons and equipment were truly poor. Sauron was essentially leaving them to fend for themselves.

He only remembered them when there was dirty, exhausting work to be done, and they received almost nothing in return. Only Azog, who ruled Moria close enough to Dol Guldur, could benefit from the great lord's attention.

Sauron's true core forces were the Half-orcs active in Mordor and Dol Guldur. The troops in those two places had better equipment and were strong enough in battle.

Thus, even mounted on Wargs, these Half-orcs were doomed to a swift rout when they charged head-on into Allen's elite troops.

Allen's men, however, had not fared particularly well either. All eight Rhodoks Sharpshooters lay on the ground, their fate unknown. They were not professional cavalrymen, after all, and were probably mere amateurs with level-two riding.

Three or four Swadia Knights had also formed up on foot. Their horses had been swarmed by Wargs during the fighting, but their excellent riding skills had allowed them to react quickly even when their mounts fell, finding other unhorsed companions to fight alongside. Only half as many of their companions remained mounted as when they had arrived.

"Firentis! Firentis! Bring every Swadian knight still mounted and keep chasing with me! Everyone else, clear the battlefield!"

Allen shouted his orders. He knew he had not come here to kill Orcs. Saving people was the real purpose.

At his command, Firentis called the Swadian knights together and followed. Allen turned and led them after the remaining Orcs.

Seeing their main force wiped out, the dozen or so remaining Warg riders actually drew their weapons and began slaughtering the prisoners. After one round of killing, they saw Allen's men rapidly bearing down on them and abandoned the survivors, scattering in flight.

Allen led his cavalry straight after the largest group of enemies.

But over short distances, horses had no speed advantage over these descendants of evil wolves. The horses were exhausted, too. After carrying Allen's men on a long journey and then through a fierce battle, they simply lacked the strength to keep pursuing the fleeing scum.

Watching the enemy pull farther and farther away, Allen halted the pursuit and led his men back to the prisoners.

Even after the Orcs' slaughter, nearly a hundred prisoners remained. At a glance, there was not a single adult man among them, only the elderly, women, and children.

From horseback, Allen surveyed the women and children, who were cowering silently after their ordeal, and called out:

"Who's in charge here? Someone who can speak for you, come forward."

A stir passed through the crowd, and a white-haired, stooped old woman with a deeply wrinkled face stepped out. She bowed humbly to Allen on his horse in thanks, then straightened and said gratefully, "Honored lord, thank you for making the long journey to save us and spare us such a miserable fate. Forgive me for asking, but are you lords from Rohan or Lake-town?"

Looking at the woman, who was older than his own grandmother, Allen hurriedly dismounted and went to her side.

He said gently, "We're neither from Rohan nor Lake-town. I've brought my people here from a very distant land, and we intend to settle in this region."

A flicker of surprise crossed the old woman's aged face. "My lord, that is not a wise decision. The Half-orcs of the Misty Mountains have become active again. After that great war between the Dwarves and Orcs many years ago, they stayed quiet for a long time. That was when my grandfather's grandfather's grandfather led our people to settle in the woods near the Old Ford. It had always been fairly safe here. When I was little, I often gathered fruit in the forest and caught fish by the river with the other children. I never imagined our peace would last so briefly..."

The old woman drifted off for a moment, then started, feeling she should not have said such things. She quickly apologized. "Forgive me, my lord. Once people get old, they tend to ramble on about useless things."

Allen waved a hand to show he did not mind. Useless? This is very useful, he thought, but aloud he asked, "What do you plan to do next? I can arrange for men to escort you home."

The old woman rallied a little, her face full of worry. Her clouded eyes looked at the young leader before her, then back at the survivors. She said sorrowfully, "What plans can we possibly make? Our village is destroyed, and all the men who could fight have been slaughtered. Only these women and children remain. If you are willing to shelter us, my lord, we hope to begin a new life under your authority."

Allen considered it and felt he could agree. He had not thought very far ahead about his group's future development; he had been here for far too little time. As for whether he actually intended to settle here, he needed some sort of explanation, didn't he? He could hardly tell everyone he met that he had crossed over from another world.

Allen's current thinking was simple. If this land already had a ruler, he did not mind pledging allegiance, provided he retained some autonomy.

Besides, the structure of secular power in the world of The Rings of Power was no different from that of early medieval Europe.

No one lived here; he settled here, so the land was his. Anyone who disagreed could fight him, and whoever yielded first lost. Although Allen was reluctant to clash with humans, Dwarves, or elves, he had no objection to seizing territory from Orcs. It would simply make the process more troublesome and take a little longer.

Through his conversation with the old woman, Allen had also roughly worked out his location.

She had mentioned Orcs from the Misty Mountains and said she lived near the Old Ford. If these were indeed the Misty Mountains and the nearby Old Ford that Allen knew, his location was quite clear.

This was Wilderland, east of the Misty Mountains in Middle-earth. The ford she mentioned connected the mountains' Old High Pass to the Old Forest Road along the southern edge of Mirkwood.

To make it clearer, after Azog attacked the company bound for the Lonely Mountain in The Hobbit, the great eagles had rescued them and dropped them near Carl Rock in this area. It was a little far away; another sixty kilometers north should bring him there. Allen decided to visit that famous landmark tomorrow.

As far as Allen remembered, the land between Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains had no ruler at this time, or at least no major power.

Most northern humans were clustered around the city-state of Dale on Mirkwood's northern edge. At most, a few Woodland Dwellers had established villages in the nearby forests.

The strongest person here should have been Beorn, near Carl Rock. He was not easy to deal with, but he lived alone. As far as Allen knew, there were few of his people left-or was he the only one?

As for the Maia living in this region, Radagast would not care about gaining neighbors like Allen's group as long as they did not devastate the environment or disturb his life.

The current time was more than a hundred years after the War of the Dwarves and Orcs. With the Orcs behaving so brazenly, it certainly could not be after the Battle of Five Armies, since that battle had also crushed the Misty Mountains Orcs. Until the War of the Ring, they had spent most of their time keeping their heads down.

That meant it was before the Battle of Five Armies. That battle should have taken place a hundred and some tens of years after the War of the Dwarves and Orcs, though Allen did not remember the exact dates. The span was still too broad for him to pinpoint the current year.

Still, arriving in the Third Age was a good thing. At least Allen knew a little about the major events of this period. Had he ended up in the First Age, when godlike beings fought, he would have had no confidence in surviving battlefields where Maiar were everywhere and elves counted for little.

After all, in The Two Towers, the Ents had marched on Isengard prepared to die. That alone showed how brutal the wars of the First Age had been.

Given the situation, he had no way to return anyway. If possible, Allen hoped his own efforts could shelter some of the northern humans who suffered so many calamities in this age.

He could also witness great deeds as they unfolded. Even if he could not stay long enough for the War of the Ring, he could still take part in the Battle of Five Armies. With a chance to see the treasure left by Thorin Oakenshield's ancestors and that chatterbox dragon Smaug, it would be wonderful. A film could never compare to being there himself.

"We've only just migrated here ourselves, so conditions may be rather difficult for now. But more of my people will arrive in time. I believe life will keep improving. What I mean is, you're welcome to join us."

With no experience in such matters and a somewhat awkward expression, Allen formally answered the old woman's request.

Hearing him agree, the old woman managed a faint smile and continued to keep herself composed. "My lord, thank you for your kindness."

She paused, then continued, "I truly am growing senile. After all this time, I still haven't introduced myself. My name is Dossley Lasing. You may simply call me Doris."

Allen nodded and replied, "Just call me Allen."

Then he called over Firentis, who was bandaging the villagers, and introduced them to each other. He instructed Firentis to help Doris bury those the Orcs had killed and find a way to carry the wounded he had already given emergency treatment back to camp. They were to save as many as they could.

Once everything here had been arranged, Allen remounted and returned to the earlier battlefield. From a distance, he saw Ymira bandaging three Rhodok sharpshooters seated on the ground.

Meanwhile, Alayen was leading four unhorsed Swadian knights and three sharpshooters still able to move as they piled up enemy corpses to burn.

Deshavi stood watch on high ground. Seeing Allen return, she waved in greeting. Klethi-where was Klethi? Oh, she was crouching beside the heap of corpses, searching for something.

Allen was curious about what Klethi had found, but that clearly was not his most pressing concern. By any reasonable measure, he ought to check on the wounded first.

Allen approached and greeted Ymira as she bandaged the wounded, nodding in response to their greetings. Then he noticed two unconscious sharpshooters nearby. Someone had cleaned the blood from their faces. They lay motionless, only the faint rise and fall of their chests proving they were alive.

Ymira finished the bandage she was working on, wiped sweat from her face, and said with a smile, "You're back, my lord? How did things go up ahead?"

Looking at Ymira, who had unknowingly smeared blood all over her own face, Allen found it strange. Why could the kindhearted Ymira from the game still smile at a time like this? Was she accustomed to life and death?

"We saved the people, but the remaining scum escaped."

Allen answered Ymira's question, then crouched and cautiously asked, "How bad are the casualties? These two...?"

Ymira paused, her smile growing gentler. "What's wrong, my lord? The brothers Arnold and Arnod were very lucky. They only split their heads open when they fell. Serves them right for showing off. If they'd broken their necks, nothing could have saved them. Luckily, they're only unconscious now. A few days in bed should see them recovered. We were truly fortunate this time. None of our companions died outright."

As she spoke, Ymira's expression gradually grew downcast. "Unlike last time, when Jarman was shot in the head and just... died."

If they were unconscious rather than killed outright, they would recover in a few days? For a moment, Allen could no longer tell whether this was reality or a game.

Still, since Ymira had said so, Allen felt he should not act too surprised. He would keep observing; something about this group was not quite right. After offering the wounded a few words of comfort and saying goodbye to Ymira, he went to find Klethi and see what the young girl was searching for.

"Found anything fun?"

Allen, who had quietly come up behind Klethi, suddenly spoke.

Absorbed in scavenging loot, Klethi sprang forward at the sound, a throwing knife instantly appearing in her hand.

Then she turned, saw Allen, and gave him an angry look from her grimy face. "Boss, don't suddenly speak behind me like that! I was about to throw a knife at you. My aim's really good, you know. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!" As she spoke, Klethi mimed throwing knives, though of course she did not actually release any.

After fooling around for a while, Klethi produced a pendant from somewhere on her person. It was a small, rough sapphire that had only been given a preliminary polish, with patches of its outer crust still remaining.

That did nothing to diminish its beauty. The exposed portions were a deep ocean blue, shimmering with an enchanting light as it swayed in Klethi's hand. A thin hemp cord was tied neatly around an indentation in the sapphire. Judging by the smooth sheen on its outer crust, its former owner must have cherished it.

"This is for you."

Klethi stepped closer to Allen, lowered her head, and said softly, "Boss, don't be angry with me anymore. Look, if it weren't for me, could we have saved so many people?"

Allen had not actually felt angry. He had merely reacted in certain situations as he thought most appropriate, to avoid arousing suspicion among the others. So far, he felt he had performed reasonably well, though sometimes he did not feel quite like himself.

Taking the sapphire from Klethi's hand, Allen held it up against the sky. Unfortunately, it was overcast. With enough sunlight, the gem would surely have looked even prettier. Then he reached out with both hands and hung it around Klethi's neck.

Although the gem had been scavenged from a pile of corpses, Klethi probably would not care about that sort of thing. At least Allen could see no trace of discomfort on her happy face.

He unconsciously pinched Klethi's cheek, froze for a moment, then caught himself and smiled. "Clean yourself up before we head back." With that, he left in good spirits.

Not wanting to work himself, Allen returned to Ymira and sat down nearby. He chatted idly with the wounded, casually drawing them out to learn how he had behaved in the past.

But after only a few exchanges, he saw young Alayen approaching with a limping Orc whose hands were bound.

"My lord, this one is still alive. Would you like to question him?"

Alayen tugged hard on the rope, and the Orc stumbled to his knees before Allen. Though kneeling, he stared at Allen with disdain.

Allen looked expressionlessly at the Orc kneeling before him. "Hah!" With a cold laugh, he stood and seized his collar. Pulling hard, he slowly lifted him off the ground until their eyes were level.

Staring straight into his eyes, Allen slowly asked, "Who is your master? Where were you taking those prisoners?"

The Orc was clearly in considerable pain. His feet kicked wildly as he tried to find support, and his bound hands flailed. An ugly voice squeezed from his throat. "You dared touch the tribute our chief was sending to his lord. Our chief won't let you get away with this."

"Who is your chief? Azog? Bolg? Or that fat bastard in Orc Town?"

The dangling Orc's face twisted, and saliva dripped from his mouth onto Allen's hand, but he remained defiant and said:

"Don't bother asking, because you're all dead. My chief will bring an endless army to find..."

Allen did not even let him finish before throwing him to the ground. After a few hurried breaths, the filthy creature began to laugh darkly, his laughter filled with undisguised mockery and contempt. "Heh... heh... heh... heh... Be afraid, scum. You touched the tribute our chief was sending to his lord. Soon, very soon, you'll all be killed, captured, enslaved. Our chief will never spare you."

"Enough. I know that fat bastard in Orc Town is your chief. You don't need to keep talking."

When Allen had mentioned the names earlier, the Orc's eyes had shown no reaction to Azog or Bolg. But the moment he heard the words "fat bastard," his gaze changed, telling Allen whose subordinate he was.

Allen waved a hand. "Finish him."

"Yes, my lord."

Alayen answered, turned, and kicked the prone Orc hard, forcing him up before dragging him toward the burning pile of corpses.

"Phew..."

Sitting back down, Allen let out a soft breath and looked at the thick clouds overhead.

"Please don't rain."