《Conflicts of Eriador stories》


 The story of Pedhaer, Luidvens Tale.

    We were late. That was all Glorfindel said as we reached the burned remnants of what once was a proud D¨²nedain village. We had responded to the smoke billowing forth from the thick forest with all haste, driving our steeds through the thicket with all the speed they could muster. And we found only death, desolation and a handful of Orcs that were going through what little that remained. I knew of this village. I had visited before, on several occasion. The D¨²nedain and the Men who lived here were noble and stalwart. Well aware of the danger that the proximity of the Misty Mountains brought. They never failed to have sentries out. Further out than most of them deemed necessary. To find them like this, surprised, slaughtered... I weep for them. They were good folk and saved many lives. We dispatched of what few Orcs we found and we argued with Glorfindel about giving chase. Most of us were in favour, others against. Orcs were hard to track, even slowed down with loot and any force strong enough to demolish a settlement this large would require us to stay together as well. In the end we decided against it and Glorfindel went ahead with the mainstay of our party. A handful of us stayed behind to burn the dead. It was then, after lifting up a pile of timber, that I spotted him. A young boy, no older than a year or eight, crushed under the rubble, but very much alive, if heavily injured. I remember noticing the long knife in his hand, his small fingers clenched around it, stubbornly refusing to let go even as I picked him up and carried to him Langwen, who was the most adept in healing arts amongst us. Despite our small number we still chose to stay put. We set out our own sentry, in case any Orcs returned.


    They did not and over the next weeks we slowly nursed the young boy back to health. He was lucky, although it may sound like a cruel thing to say about a child who just lost his family and friends, but his body took exceptionally well to the treatment. I originally believed that it was perhaps a desire for vengeance that drove him to heal faster than normal. As he came back to his senses, however, that proved to not be the case. He was quiet and didn''t speak much. After asking us who we were and thanking us for healing him, he asked if there were other survivors. It ached my heart to see him ask the question without hope. He had already known the answer. It was only through black luck that he had survived it. It was easy to tell he was D¨²nedain, for even at his young age he showed signs of being educated well, including a sparse knowledge of Quenya in which he introduced himself to us.. We were all worried at his polite tone and how much he retreated within himself, but we knew not what to do. Devedir played the harp and I did the same with the flute while Langwen sang and he just sat there still, looking at us intently for a brief while before his eyes wandered to the piles of ashes that had been the bodies of his family only a short time ago.


    In the end we departed the dreadful place, as soon as we judged the young Pedhaer fit for travel. We set on the road and hoped to find another D¨²nedain encampment for long. Death was common to those brave men and it was all too often that children were orphaned and raised by others from their community. It was much more rare, however, for an entire village to be wiped off the map. The young boy overhead us discussing this and suddenly became full of life. He was adamant to not be left behind. He insisted on going along with us, to give him a chance to repay our kindness and whatever we had expended to nurse him back to health. I considered refusing, but the others overruled me. I relented to their arguments. It was the first time we had seen the boy show emotion and especially Langwen worried what might happen if we were to refuse him. So he came along with us to Mithlond. On the way there we taught him a variety of things, as he slowly grew more used to us and began opening up. Never did he tell us about his family and we didn''t dare inquire, but I could see a fire burning within his eyes. Slowly, carefully hidden, but the smouldering was ever present, as if it was carefully nurtured. He took to the tasks with an enthusiasm I have rarely seen and one that affected all of our moods. He ignored our pleas to take it easy, to be more careful with his still frail body and drove us to the edge of our patience as he continuously ignored our calls for him to rest as he took care of every minor task we put in front of him. It was simultaneously endearing and slightly annoying, but I guess this is simply how human children are. By the time we reached Mithlond he had grown fairly adept at moving through the woods silently and all of us, even our steeds, had taken a liking to the boy.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    In the city his presence was greeted with curiosity, but nobody minded his presence. Human and Dwarven merchants plied their trade there often enough and sometimes brought their children with them as well. The young boy didn''t seem to care much for the splendour of the city, instead focusing firmly on the tasks we gave him, as if he were worried we''d chase him out if he did not fulfil them to perfection. And so we spent the next several years with him as he grew fast and quick. He never grew out of his silent habits, however, eagerly responding when spoken to, but rarely starting a conversation of his own accord. What free time he had he spent roaming the city and we quickly received word of the training grounds that he had found a way into the building and was watching the soldiers train from the shadows. Nobody dared point out his hiding place. Not long after that we found practising with a wooden sword, with which he trained day and night. First on his own, later with me, while Langwen took it upon herself to teach him the basics of the healing arts. Devedir took him through the city as well, at times, as he went to haggle with merchants or help the shipbuilders and their crew. Other times he accompanied the three of us to the Hall of Manwe, where he listened in. Not that he understood much Sindarin, but he tried and slowly improved.


    After a few years had passed, we tried to bring up the idea of him returning to a human settlement once again. The child tried to maintain a neutral facade, but his eyes could not hide how much the thought of leaving us frightened him. He would acquiesce us if we had insisted on it and though we all deemed it wiser for him to return to his own kinsmen, we kept delaying it, month after month, until the months became years. In that time, young Pedhaer trained, learned and grew.


    It was in the eight year that disaster struck. Langwen and Devedir had gone out on a ship, as mariners, chasing after the rumours of Corsair slavers. Sadly enough the rumours would turn out to be true and in the ensuing battle both Langwen and Denevir died. It broke his heart and mine. They had been my companions for centuries and their loss broke something within me. I could no longer bare to live here and began making preparations for my journey to Valinor. Pedhaer, who was no less devastated by the news than I was, saw me prepare and knew that he could not come with. We talked deep into the night. He told me that if I left, he did not wish to stay in Mithlond either. He was not able to voice his reasoning,, but he did not need to. I understood. After eight years, I finally understood the child in front of me. He had never wanted to leave us because everything around him would have been too familiar, too reminiscent of what he had lost. Now, Mithlond was about to become such a place as well. I did not fault him for it. He was still a child. In the end we came to an agreement and visited the market. I explained his situation with some Dwarven merchants who were in good standing and they took pity on the young Pedhaer. We came to an agreement swiftly. Pedhaer would stay with them as an apprentice. He would have to work hard, but he would have a home. I heard many good things about Dwarven hospitality. I can only hope that the tales are true.


    I bade him farewell a few days later. It was emotional and laden and he surprised me by reciting the age old farewell in perfect Quenya, not only to me, but to Langwen and Denevir as well. I tried to, as I had tried in the days before, to have him accept at least a few of my gifts. A sword, a bow, a purse of coin, but he would have none of it. He defended his refusal by saying that he could lose anything I gave him, but the memories of his times with us would live on in his heart forever. I had nothing to counter him with and so said my final goodbyes.


    As I now wait for my ship to arrive, I decided to compile a memoir of my short time with Pedhaer. I feel that history is not yet done with him and should he ever wish to return to Mithlond or to the D¨²nedain, then I have arranged for these notes to be sent along with him. For he is Pedhaer, son of Argonui. Friend of the Elves. M¨¢ra valto Pedhaer. May the light of Elbereth ever illuminate your path.

 The story of Pedhaer, Glalbars Tale.

    I have been reading through my diaries and logbooks of my many years as a merchant and as I compile them into a singular entity, I find myself reminiscing more and more. I have met many creatures along the road and have established many friendships with a fair number of folk, mostly Dwarven, numerous Men. A fair number of Hobbits and to my own surprise and many of my kinsmen''s dislike, a handful of Elves as well. These friendships were founded in between happenstance and necessity, for a merchant must be liked wherever he goes. Though, not for the life of me had I expected the events to transpire as they did, that fateful trip to the Grey Havens. On the way home, me and my kin found ourselves with a young human apprentice. A young lad named Pedhaer, who clearly was off in a bad way. As his Elven guardian had explained, the kid had lost his entire family a short while before. I reckon there was more to the story than just that, given how the lad looked to the Elf, but I do not inquire into Elven business.


    We took the lad with us. He proved himself useful quick, laying low any doubts that Krufrem, Thrad, Frum and I had harboured originally. The kid proved to be intelligent and a good worker, if a bit quiet. We blamed that on his prolonged stay with the Elves, who aren''t very talkative themselves, and it wasn''t like we minded the lad being of the silent sort. He did speak when needed, but otherwise none of us were talkative either. Men and Hobbits love to chat wherever they go. Dwarves are quiet on the road. Even this close to the Blue Mountains, our beloved home, we knew better than to make a fuss above ground.


    It was the end of one of our longer trips. We had gone all across the lands, going as far as Fornor and Amon S?l to trade with the Rangers stationed there. They are few in number, but they are good trade partners. We had passed through Bree and had kept going south. We even came close to Tharbad, although we were part of a larger convoy there. While traders, especially Dwarven merchants, are a welcome sight to the folks living beyond the Greyflood, there are enough dangers there to quickly kill a small group. Then we had looped back, towards the Shire and the Gulf of Lune, stopping by the Grey Havens for a final round of dickering and trading trinkets before making our way back home to Buzra-D?m. We received a warm welcome from our families. Pedhaer made a subtle attempt to stay behind with the wagons but none of us would have it. While it was uncommon for a human to be an apprentice to a Dwarf, we knew of his story and could not help but feel pity for the lad. Aside from that, we Dwarves have a reputation to uphold in regards to hospitality and we did. Even though the lad was terribly young by our standards, we taught him how to drink. Not much, not by a long shot, but enough that after a while he excused himself with emotions better left untouched swimming in his eyes.


    As soon as he had left, the rest of us resumed our discussion on how to deal with him. We had taken him in largely out of pity, aside our indeed existing need for hired help, but now we were rather at a loss of what to do. In the scant few days it had taken us to travel from the Grey Havens we had been able to draw up a measure of the boy''s character and we did not find it wanting, even if he were a bit too Elven by our tastes. In the end we decided to treat him like we would any other young Dwarf. With that properly settled, we began to drink properly and did not stop until the candles were burnt out.


    Over the next months we saw the young lad change from boy to man. And a proper man he was becoming too. While he lacked the natural affinity that all children of Mahal possessed, he revealed to have keen eyes and a Dwarven heart. He grasped the basics well and while his arm was not as strong nor as steadfast as ours, he tried and learned and did not complain when the heat of the forges washed over him for hours on end. Other than that, he had shown interest in our militia training. At first there was a lot of anger over that. Not over his age, but over his race. It was true. Pedhaer had not our stocky built, nor could he run around wearing the armour Dwarves were comfortably, but as we began to debate over it, he himself interjected and joined the discussion. While he was forced to converse in Westron rather than our own tongue, which made him less convincing, the boy defended himself well, vowing himself to learn, to adapt, and not to complain. Thumlun, our captain, put that to the test. Repeatedly. For years on end. It wasn''t until he came home one day with a badly broken arm that we rose up in protest.


    Oh, we also taught him to drink like a Dwarf over the years. That cannot be overstated. I taught him the hidden tricks of smithing. I never bothered with the larger tasks, but with things that required a swift hand and a keen eye he seemed to have no trouble. They happened to be the sort of tasks that most proper smiths abhor, so I did not begrudge handing them over to him. Krufrem, ever the loud-mouth, showed up our culture, taking him deep into the city and far underground, showing him the wonders of our architecture and breweries in equal measure. Thrad taught him how to wield a crossbow and how the mechanics behind it worked, as well as how to properly wield an axe, even though there were some hiccups as Pedhaer quickly outgrew his teacher, not in skill but in height, and it is not easy to teach a human to fight like a Dwarf. His most important lesson, perhaps, was to teach the boy how to hold a shield. It is easy to strap a shield on your arm and consider yourself safe, but us Dwarves have long since perfected the art. Frum, our self appointed historian, took him to the libraries. We hold our ancestors in high regard, as well as our victories and he once confided in me that Pedhaer hid it well, but within the boy burned a bright fire whenever the killing of Orcs was mentioned. Frum, having found himself a brother in arms for his interest, spent many an evening recalling the stories of old, of our greatest victories and our most humiliating defeats to his very attentive one man audience.


    Thinking back, it was strange he got as much done as he did. Between training, learning the crafts, our histories and the finer appreciation of ale, he somehow found the time to be productive as an apprentice as well. It amused us all. He was very human and as such kept running into human issues, things that were so obvious to us we never bothered explaining but were invisible to him. How you could discern the quality of ore. How to manipulate a crossbow so it would last a thousand shots without deforming. How to grip your axe for a quick, low blow. How to make a torch that didn''t blind your eyes to the dark. He was a good man, Pedhaer, by the end of it, when the call came in.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Khazad-Dum had been reclaimed by our kin and we, along with many others, made for the road. Pedhaer came with us. We would be the first group, as we had been getting ready to set out regardless. Our stocks had been fully replenished over the years and none of us could resist the chance to visit that sacred place, to see the Endless Stairs, to cross the Bridge. Our hearts yearned and burned and we set off, along with a score of others.


    At first all went well. We kept our guard, eager and excited as we travelled past the Shire and Bree along the Greenway. We went south, into Eregion and slowly made our way there, seeing surprisingly few beasts along the way. I remember the laughter of Frum as he said that the expedition must have slaughtered them all. If only that had been the case.


    Less than two days out disaster struck us. Our scouts barely got a warning out, their shouts cut short by cruel blades as Wargs and Goblins streamed out of the forest by the dozen. We formed our ranks around our wagons, held fast and withered the assault. Frail arrows shattered across our armour. Mended swords broke on our shields and flesh and muscle split under our axes, but the Goblins were relentless, stoked by a fury we had never known them to possess before. Wargs gathered and charged us, one clustered group of defenders at a time, breaking the line. We tried to make a push, but there were too many Goblins around us. The surviving bands slowly began to walk towards one another, linking up where possible. We knew the battle to be lost long before the day ended, even as Pedhaer stood behind us, a monument of calm in the raging storm, his crossbow hefted above our heads as his bolts slew any Warg within reach. It is no lie when I write that none of us would have made it out if it had not been for him that day. The beasts relied on numbers to overwhelm us, appearing from between the Goblin ranks like wraiths, overrunning us before we could put up a fight. Pedhaer stood taller than us and Goblin alike and called out warnings, overseeing it all, using his height, for which he had so often been ostracised, to keep watch over us all.


    After many hours of fighting we were all exhausted, but we had reached the forest proper. We didn''t know how many of us were still left, if any other groups were alive as well and had been pulling back, step by step, towards Khazad-D?m. We did not think of the wealth we left behind, or our life''s work going up in flames as the Goblins danced around our plundered wagons. We prayed to our forefathers, turned and ran. It did not take long before the Goblins realised we had no intention of staying to fight and their attention shifted away from their loot and towards us once again.


    It became a disorganised melee. I saw Krufrem go down under a Warg, Thrad and Pedhaer rushing to his aid and slaying the beast, but not before my lifelong friend''s throat had been ripped open. There was no time to mourn, for more Wargs and their infested riders were gaining upon us. Thrad Thrad was next, tripping over a root just as two more beasts appeared. Pedhaer fired his crossbow and the one beast fell down as Thrad struggled to get up. Then Frum was there, shield locked in place and axe in hand, shouting at us to run. The Goblin riding the infernal creature stabbed him with a crude spear and while it failed to penetrate his armour, it did save the beast from a killing blow. The Warg sank its teeth into Frum''s shoulder, who howled in pain while I could only watch, helplessly, urging Pedhaer and Thrad to run. I saw tears streaking down Pedhaer''s face, but he obeyed. Thrad did not, however. He picked himself up and launched himself at the Warg, slamming his large axe through the Goblin''s leg and into the side of the beast just as more Goblins began to stream into the clearing.


    I do not know what happened to them. I never saw them again. All I hope is that they died bravely and quickly.


    We did not get much further before we were intercepted once again, but this time fortune smiled on us, for we heard Dwarven horns in the distance. The soldiers of the expedition were nearing! The garrison of Khazad-D?m was coming! All we had to do was make it through this was reach them. I still held hope that we would be able to go back, to save Frum and Thrad. Instead I turned and saw Pedhaer throwing aside his crossbow and drawing shield and axe in its place, one dead Goblin behind him but three more fast approaching. I ceased my retreat and ran back to him. The Goblins failed to kill him, tired as they were, they were no match for a man trained by the Dwarves, who could endure exhaustion far better. When I joined the fray, the Goblins were caught off guard. I killed the first and in that moment of distracted Pedhaer killed a second. The third, in typical fashion for those creatures, turned and ran. So did we.


    Somewhere in the frantic rush I lost sight of him. It is a cause of regret that has stayed with me till this day. I reached the line of Dwarven warriors sent out from Khazad-D?m shortly thereafter and begged them to go into the forest, to find Pedhaer, Frum, Thrad. They refused, instead holding their ground in the clearing as the handful of survivors linked up with them. At the time I was too distraught by worry to see why, but in the end I understood. Only two dozen warriors had come out of Khazad-D?m. Taking the city had been more costly than any of us had imagined and they had to use their manpower sparingly, even more so as the Goblins had become enraged and were bent on extracting bloody vengeance.


    Only seven of us survived that attack and we were brought to Khazad-D?m, where Balin greeted us warmly and bade us welcome. This is my home now. I have lost friend and family to the foul Goblins, their bodies defiled. I will stay here and lend my axe and skill to Balin''s command and extract a bloody revenge for those I have lost.


    For Krufrem. For Thrad. For Frum. For Pedhaer.

 The story of Pedhaer, Duivorins Tale, excerpt one.

    I am Duivorin. Ranger of the D¨²nedain, kin to the Dunlendings. At the request of the Ranger Council I am penning down my memories of Pedhaer, whom they finally realised is more than just a mercenary who joined the D¨²nedain militias in search for a warm bed and some coin. Bloody fools, all of them. Yet I shall obey, because that is what old men do, is it not? Tell their tales to the next generation in the vain hope that they might learn something from it. I have chased out the youngsters as they hovered around me. I have no need for their disdainful looks as I cradle the Crebain skull. Regardless, I digress. What I know of Pedhaer. Where to start? Ah, yes. Of course. How I first met him. Strange how it is so much less long ago than one would think.


    It was a cold and dark day, rain falling all around us, when we found the young man. We had seen the pillars of smoke rise from the forest and knew that Goblins had struck a caravan. I''ll be the first to admit that our thoughts were not ones of rushing over in order to aid the poor victims. If it had been a trade caravan, we might luck out and find useful materials amidst the wreckage. Dunland is a poor land and normally the trades aren''t weighed in our favour, but we have no choice but to acquiesce. We need the iron.


    At best we''d gain a lot of things the tribes badly needed. At worst, we''d kill Goblins and make the border a little safer. Something had been riling them up over the past months and we had seen an increase in their number and aggressiveness. I had heard rumours of Khazad-D?m being retaken, but I had dismissed those as hearsay.


    We found the wreckage of the caravan easily enough. The Goblins and their hideous Wargs were still drunk on victory and not at all prepared for us. Beastslayers are fearsome foes and the fools the Goblins had assigned as sentries did not see them coming until their throats had been slit. The Wargs were no less useful, their sensitives noses clogged by the smell of blood, meat and smoke. We took them down with ease, but rather than rest on our laurels and go over the wreckage we first thoroughly combed out the forest, lest more Goblins lay in wait. I did not need to give orders for that, the men of Dunland know their foes well. If they picked up some of the Dwarven weaponry that lay scattered around, then so be it. The question of why such a large caravan had been passing through this area would have to be answered at a later date.


    It was during that search that we found him. Holmath, one of the eldest amongst us who had traded much of his strength for experience and skill in walking the woods, heard the rasped breath of the heavily wounded man. His party followed him to the source and we found him amidst a circle of dead Goblins, half buried underneath the corpse of a particularly large Warg. He was still alive, but would not remain so if left unattended. Unable to come to a conclusion of what to do with him, they called for me and I was glad they did. A survivor might give me the answers I strongly desired. So we dug him out and brought him to our makeshift camp and I used most of our supplies to stop his bleeding and made sure that death would not claim him. In the meantime the rest of our warband went over what was left of the caravan. Aside retrieving countless of weapons of Dwarven make, we also took care of the dead. Pyres were made for the fallen Dwarves, but we left the foul Goblins and their Wargs where they were. Let their corpses be a warning for the rest of their despicable ilk.


    We stayed there only for a day before beginning our return trek to the nearest Dunlending village. It would be slow going, as we were heavily burdened with weapons, mail and countless trinkets. I do not much enjoy the thought of looting the dead, but necessity trumps all. I also hid my ever increasing worry. When I had begun treating the young man something had felt off to me. It took me half a day before I finally discerned why. He was one of my own kin. I even recognised the birth mark that ran alongside his hip, for his father used to show it off as a sign that the kid was blessed.


    It worried me and for a brief moment I considered letting him die after all. For if I had recognised him, would he not recognise me? In the end there were several reasons why I did not take that dreadful course of action. First and foremost: I am not a monster. I would not kill an innocent young man and he was still a member of my original tribe. Quite likely the last one. It would have shattered my heart to kill him, as if I were spitting on the memories of all those I once held dear. I had not been close to his parents, but that did not matter. If there was one thing I had learned over my many years amidst the Dunland folk, it was that you protected your tribe. Secondly, I had too many questions that needed answering. The man was dressed in Dwarven mail, clearly custom made for him, and was not wearing anything that marked him as a D¨²nedain. He was also my only source of information in regards to the Dwarven caravan.


    No, I needed him alive. And so I nursed him. He had lost a lot of blood, one of his arms had been broken and had it not been for his mail he would not have suffered bite marks on his broken arm, but his arm would have been gone instead. In short, he was in a bad shape and cut all over. I used up most of my gut stitching him back together. It took two days before he regained consciousness and when he did, he did so with alarming force. Not something I had expected from someone who had been at death''s doorstep, but one look in his eyes told me all I had to know. There was a fire blazing within them.


    Our conversation began in a typical ways, as far as such things go, and he asked me about the whereabouts of his friends. He was lucky it was I who had found him, as I could actually converse with him. I told him that he was the sole survivor and he took that about as well as one would expect. Only later on would I realise that the way he took it was common for a man of Dunland, a folk used to war and loss. At the time I had no idea that the pain that had made me all but an outcast amongst my kin was one he had gone through for the third time in his much younger life. He asked me what had happened to the bodies of his friends and I told him we had burned them, as was our custom. He seemed to take some relief in that.


    I asked him in turn what he had been doing there, the caravan in general as well as his personal presence amongst them. I would have assumed he was some kind of mercenary guard had he not been wearing a Dwarven outfit. His voice was cold and without emotion as he answered me and so I came to know that Khazad-D?m had been reclaimed after all. Now I knew why the Goblins had been so restless. It also explained why the caravan had come, for the Dwarves from all over were returning to the Mithril mines. I was glad for this news, for Dwarves had no love for Goblins and having one of their settlements close to our borders would mean that trade between our nations would improve. If one deigned to think of the Dunland tribes as a nation, at least.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    I asked him for his name and he told me. Then he asked me for mine and I hesitated. In the end I only gave him my current name. Herothan. I prodded him for more information, succeeding with ease as his wounded state, both in body and in spirit, made him lethargic and he seemed to care not for what he divulged. So I learned that he had been with the Dwarves for several years, working as an apprentice. I was glad for the answer, as it meant he had no ties to the D¨²nedain, but it left me wondering how he had survived the attack on the village, let alone how he had come to end up with the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, for a child of his age could not have crossed such a vast distance unaided. I knew better than to ask. There was a small chance that he might recognise me for kin and I could not afford that.


    I helped him up and walked him out of the tent, towards the campfire where a roast was being prepared. Wounded as he was, he needed to get some food into him. I was mulling over how I would explain his presence to my fellow tribesmen when he froze. I belatedly realised that when I mentioned we had burned the corpses of his friends, young Pedhaer had thought we had burned their equipment with them. Not, as hotblooded Doman was doing, parading around with it across the grounds.


    Pedhaer left my shoulder immediately and made his way over to the tall Beastslayer. In hindsight I should have stopped him. The young man was unsteady on his feet and Doman was a Turchmen of great renown and skill in battle and apparently was carrying the axe that belonged to one of the Dwarves that Pedhaer had been close with. The conversations fell silent as he made his way over to Doman, visibly unsteady on his feet but his eyes radiating a fiery anger that gave me pause.


    ''Mine'', he said in broken Dunlendish. It shocked us. We had known him to not be of our kin, so we had not expected him to be able to speak our tongue. ''Give back,'' he demanded, pointing at the axe. Doman looked down at the young man, then at me. Then he roared with laughter and gave Pedhaer a solid shove. I expected him to fall. Doman towered above him and Pedhaer had only just escaped death. I had not expected him to remain standing, much less to witness him launch himself at Doman. The Turchmen was caught off guard and took a light blow to the forehead. Pedhaer made use of that to steal the axe from him and immediately backed off again.


    He had angered the Turchmen, however, who felt that something that was rightfully his had been stolen and he kicked Pedhaer in the chest. The young man went down and the axe went flying and Doman went to retrieve it, thinking the situation dealt with. Nothing was further from the truth and Pedhaer, crawling back to his feet, threw himself at his opponent once more. This time Doman was ready, however, and he launched a vicious punch at the young man''s head. Somehow Pedhaer wove around it, with skills that did not suit the way a man fought. The next thing I know I saw Doman staggering back, blood pouring from his nose as Pedhaer has rammed his forehead into it, something that reminded me of the way Dwarves fought. Then Doman swung his fist again and Pedhaer tried to dodge it, but be it exhaustion or because Doman was finally losing his patience, the blow partially connected and Pedhaer was spun around. Doman moved in intending to continue the beating, but Pedhaer fell back, narrowly avoiding the next blow and somehow retaliated and launched a punch of his own that hit him in the side. Doman coughed lightly, but was otherwise unaffected and began beating Pedhaer in earnest. I stepped in then. For one, I was convinced that had Pedhaer been in a proper condition to fight, that blow to the side would have incapacitated Doman for a good moment. For another, I understood why the fight had begun. And lastly, I did not take joy in seeing Doman, no matter how justified he might feel, beat down a man who should be laying down in bed.


    So I pulled Doman back and only the respect for my longstanding contributions to the tribe kept him from attacking me as well. Instead he demanded an explanation and so I gave him one.


    Dunlendings are often made out to be a savage people and to some extent, that is what they are. They are not, however, the uncultured beasts many of the D¨²nedain make them out to be. They can be reasoned with and as I told them what young Pedhaer had told me, understanding grew. Doman, nursing his broken nose, even nodded respectfully at the prone form of Pedhaer as I explained that the axe they had fought over had belonged to his friend. Doman understood. The Turchmen are the most savage out of the Dunland tribes, but they understand these things and so Doman returned to Pedhaer as soon as he was awake, while I translated. Doman wanted to know why Pedhaer wanted the axe back and Pedhaer answered that he needed it to kill the Goblins that had killed his friends. When Doman told him that those Goblins were dead and asked him what he planned to do now, Pedhaer answered in a manner that befit no D¨²nedain, but one that was custom for Dwarves and Turchmen alike.


    ''I will still need the axe, for a blood price must still be paid.''


    And so, with a bit of mediation on my part, Pedhaer was welcomed in our tribe as an outsider, akin to a mercenary of some sorts. He would stay with us until he had repaid us for the value of the axe, the herbs used in his healing and the food he ate. The Turchmen welcomed this, for they respected his oath. The Hebog welcomed this, for they understood the value of having a man who had been trained by the Dwarves in the art of smithing. The Draigmen welcomed this, for they found the decision wise and fair.


    And so young Pedhaer joined the Dunlendings, unaware that he was the second of the D¨²nedain to do so. I shall end the story here, for my fingers are cramping up and the light of day is fading and reminiscing like this has my heart heavy and weary.


    I am an old man, after all. Entitled to my rest.

 Evendim Footmen (unit description)

    Diary of soldier Pedhaer, soldier of the third Evendim Footmen company. Summary of January, Third Age 2983.


    Never let it be said that the D¨²nedain do not know how to drill a militia. I came here after having lived a rather adventurous life, to cut thirty-five years of misery and bad luck short, expecting to breeze through the training and land myself a nice, cosy job as a soldier in their service. Technically I''m one of them by birth. Realistically... My father, my mother and everyone I knew or cared for died fighting while I was nothing but a young chap. Through some type of forsaken happenstance I survived, to make a long story short, and grew up with a lovely burn scar that covers most of my face. Needless to say, most people do not like how I look and growing up this disfigured has dictated my path in life. At least here I got to wear a helmet. I don''t recognise any of the other Rangers that greeted the bands of misfits that signed up along with me, but then again I didn''t expect them to. I doubt any of the veteran Rangers would recognise me. My name, they might recall. Not my face though. Hah.


    Most of men came here with the same expectations as me, I suppose. Three meals a day and finding some purpose in life, preferably in the shape of killing Orcs and Goblins and other ne''er-dowels. Some were in it for vengeance. Others for glory. Others just were strung along by Rangers and were given the choice between being handed over to the constabulary or joining the Evendim squads and help keep the peace. Matter of employing a poacher to catch a poacher, I suppose. Anyway, when the training started the more experienced among us began laughing. I understood why easily enough, half of the blokes couldn''t figure out what the blunt end of the mace was, let alone wield it with any shape or form. The Rangers weren''t with us then.


    I''ll admit to making a scene. I don''t like it when people are mocked for things they weren''t expected to know. These men weren''t soldiers. They were farmers, people who survived misfortune by a stroke of luck, or kids who ought to have been too young to join up for fighting. So I went over and made sure that they stopped demoralising the group before it''d even begun. A unit''s no good if they''re falling apart from the get go. You need unity. There''s a reason the word unit and unity sound so damned similar. Kicking off a division only will see us all get killed in the end. So I kicked them in crotch when they didn''t want to listen. They weren''t bad men, they were just... Well. They didn''t understood the concept of surviving at all costs and they sure didn''t have a fraction of the combat experience I''ve accumulated over the years.


    Of course, that very moment is when the drill sergeants showed up. Couldn''t be bothered to explain it, so I just took the fall and let them punish me. Not like they could do anything to me. Sure, they made me do all the dirty jobs for the rest of the week, but eh, I''ve been through worse. Carrying the bag of stones didn''t slow me down much either. Like I said, I''ve lived an adventurous life.


    By the end of that week the drill sergeants had figured out that I wasn''t going to break and that most of the men had begun looking up to me. Couldn''t say why, really. Not like I did anything heroic. I even annoyed the crap out of some when I corrected their form when the drill sergeants weren''t looking. Figured it''d be more efficient for me to quietly show them than have the sergeants yell at them for half an hour. Again. You know, writing it like that, maybe that''s why they liked me. I didn''t yell at them, merely showed them how it was done. And took a lot of flak in the process. ''Get back to your position!'' Figured it also helped when that one sergeant wanted to show the rest how you wielded a mace by smashing my face in. He certainly didn''t expect me to break his nose with my shield though. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Anyway, they made me a squad leader because of that. One of the Rangers dropped by, saw the men fawning over me, pulled me aside and told me to do it. I don''t mind terribly. I get some wine with my meals now because of it. I share it with the men, of course. I''m only as good as my squad and them liking me will means they''ll fight all the harder for me in the field. It''s not the most nice way of thinking about it, but then again I am not a very nice man. I also help out the drill sergeants.. Well, lead them Those who I''ve not damaged, at least. Their fault really. I understand that the Rangers are short on men, but someone really dropped the ball in that regard. You don''t go around breaking bones to prove a point. I mean, that''s what I did, but that''s a different thing.


    That was two weeks ago. Since then I''ve been drilling the men my way. They''ve cursed and shouted and swore at me, but I explain the purpose of everything to them and they obey without question, even if with a fair amount of vocal protest. I don''t mind. The unit cohesion is at an all time high and even the men who I beat down at the start cooperate with the rest. They''re by no means an elite unit, but they can hold the line decently enough. Real step up from the farmers they used to be. Their stamina and morale have improved, but in the end they''re an impromptu unit. Not terribly tough and reliable, but there''s a limit to how much I can do with the time given to me.


    I trained them to use their shields well, so they have a fair bit of protection against arrows. Mostly Orc arrows, crude things can''t punch through the shields well. Still, if they''ll get targeted by a full enemy unit they''ll start taking losses. Only so much body a shield can protect, really, and they don''t have any proper armour to speak off. I''ll have to talk to the Rangers to see if anything can be done about that. Blokes at least should have some chainmail if they''re expected to hold a line. Would increase their life expectancy a fair bit.


    Then there''s their maces. Simple, crude weapons, but they most definitely pack a solid punch. Not much good when an enemy is half again your height or has a weapon that he can poke you with before you can get close, but if they can get close enough, or if they can hunker behind their shields long enough to get stuck in a proper melee, they''ll reap their fair toll. The weapon itself is good for them. Easy to wield. Breaks bones and doesn''t care if there''s armour in the way, but the men wielding them are, well, I said it before. They''re not an elite force. They''re not bad, oh no, we practised their swings until their arms fell off, but I''d rather not see them tangling with anything more than a ragtag bunch of Orcs. They''re a militia, in the end. Better suited to sitting on top of a wall and waiting for the enemy to come to them than run out in the field and risk being surrounded or outnumbered. Or worse, to face Wargs.


    Anyway, I did the best I could. The men are decently trained and they''ll be marching off to... well they didn''t tell me. Some Rangers will guide them along the way. Not me though. Apparently they liked my training methods and I''m being told to sit here and wait for the next group to arrive. My fault really, I never should''ve gone hunting. Never expected that damned Ranger, the same one who roped me into this training gig, to be keeping an eye out on me. Can''t even shoot a few beasts through the eye to supplement supper with some meat without being called out. Now I''m stuck for another training gig rather than going with my men. Not that they were mine, but I think of them as such. No, now I get to train archers. Given how much damage some of the men managed to inflict on one another with maces, I am rather fearful for my life. Already bothered the healers in the nearby village for some extra supplies. I get a feeling I''ll need them.

 Evendim Archers (unit description)

    Diary of soldier Pedhaer, soldier of the third Evendim Footmen company. Summary of February, Third Age 2983.


    So yeah. Training a bunch of archers. I thought this was going to be easier. See, most of these men were hunters before they joined up, meaning they already have their fair bit of experience. Every arrow went in the right direction and I didn''t end up with dozens of wounded folks from the first day. No, the problem was on my end. I''m good at hunting, see. Back when I hung out with uncle Duivorin and his merry band of Beast Slayers, I picked up a few tricks of them. Let me hunt in peace and I''ll nail any shot I take. The downside of that is that I am useless as an archer when it comes to rapid firing. If I''m alone, surrounded by nothing but nature I can take my time to focus, aim and fire. Under stress... I don''t perform well. I can draw quickly and let loose, but I really can''t tell where approximately the arrow will land, which is not what you want from an archer company.


    It''s at times like these that I wish uncle Duivorin had never kicked me out. I mean, I understood why. I''m not the type who goes out to fight fellow Men. I don''t hold that against him. It''s just that, well. I had a home there, you know? People who looked past the fact that my face looks like a burned out matchstick. I keep my helm on most of the time. Went without it to go to the latrines in the middle of the night once, when we had gone out a ways in the woods to train. One of the lads spotted me. Thought I was one of the wights from the Barrows, come to eat his soul. It would put a man down, if I actually still cared. I''ve gotten used to it, really. The Dwarves, stubborn bastards, refused to let it affect them, but I could see it in their eyes. The Elves looked at me with pity, which was probably even worse. The other folks I met shunned me at best. Attacked me at worst. Only with uncle Duivorin and the tribes did I find a token of peace. Those folks were used to hardship. They didn''t give a damn about my face. I was part of the tribe, the family to them.


    But enough about the past. I''m here to write about the job that the sodden Rangers dumped in my lap. Training the fourth company of Evendim Bowmen. Fancy name for a gaggle of hunters, given some scraps of armour, an old sword, learned how to stand in line and then shoved off to poke some Orcs with arrows from... I would like to say afar, but compared to Beast Slayers their range is rather limited. Their bows aren''t very powerful either and their arrows are simple and fairly primitive. Won''t do much good against armoured foes or Orcs coming at you with shields raised, but I suppose if you throw enough arrows at the bastards they''ll start going down regardless of how good your own equipment is. Speaking of, I should see if I can''t arrange any armour for them. The way they are now, if an enemy starts peppering these blokes with arrows they''ll die in droves. Tunics don''t exactly offer much in the way of protection.


    I couldn''t teach the men much in the way of shooting their bow. I left that part up to the drill sergeants and I mostly made sure none of them behaved badly. None of them did. Apparently the rumours of what happened to the last couple of bastards that thought they could bully the trainees without consequences had spread amongst this group. I have to wonder though, normally the D¨²nedain trained the new squads themselves. What was happening out there in the wilds that they had to hire men from Bree to train the newcomers?  Given that I''m actually starting to get attached to these unruly, unwashed yokels, I''ve started worrying for them. And for the group that left earlier. I''m getting distracted. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    After the drill sergeants managed to convey the basics of volley fire and had brought the men up to a decent level, I took the men for a test. They were fully equipped, with blunt arrows rather than normal ones and cudgels rather than swords, and me and a group of volunteers would try to come close to them with shields. What I didn''t tell the group was that we''d get close regardless. I''ve seen enough ranged battles in my life so far, including the well drilled Elven regiments, and what those guys did to Orcs. The men knew how to shoot a bow and how to do so in group. I wasn''t concerned about that. No, the test begins when the worst happens. D¨²nedain Rangers are trained for it. Elves are trained for it. Even Beast Slayers, although they''re not a fan of it, will hold their ground when an enemy manages to close in enough for a melee to start. A golden rule of mine. Prepare for the worst. And pray it doesn''t happen.


    Still, I went with it. So the hundred strong group fired volley after volley at me and my twenty-odd volunteers charged them. The blunt arrows stung a fair bit, but the shields held the most. In a real fight, I''d have been dead several times over. We closed in at the end though, and given that all the drill sergeants were in my team, it ended about as well as I expected. Which means it was an unmitigated disaster. They abandoned their lines, fought individually rather than as tight groups and even though they had us five to one, we beat them and sent them running within moments. I had gone in with very low expectations and they managed to disappoint me still.


    I told that to the Ranger who came to fetch them, earlier this week. They''re good men. They can be relied on to pepper the enemy with arrows, but the moment they are exposed to counter fire, or heaven forbid, get dragged into a melee, they''ll last for all about five seconds before running away. I hope they''ll never get exposed to a cavalry charge. Poor blokes wouldn''t even get the chance to run if that were to happen. I don''t think they''ll ever learn either. Their archery might improve a bit, but their swordplay will always be rubbish. It''s just not in them. Still, I did all I could given the short time allotted to me.


    Now, I''m preparing for my next job. I don''t know why this keeps happening, but my meals improve with every job change so I don''t dare complain overmuch. I''ve gone hungry often enough in my life and a change of scenery doesn''t bother me. Maybe I''ll even get lucky and see some Orcs from up close. I just hope the men I trained will do well. I know most of them on a first name basis. Many of the hunters even have a home to go back to. I hope they''ll survive their time in the Evendim militia. Anyway, I''m going to stop writing now. My arm is cramping up and I have a long day of riding ahead of me. It''s been a while since I''ve sat on a horse. I wonder how the beasts up here compare to the hillponies down south. Here''s hoping I won''t get chucked off and break my neck.

 Evendim Squires (unit description)

    Diary of sergeant Pedhaer, squad leader of the second Evendim Squires. Summary of March, Third Age 2983.


    It''s the end of March and I finally have time to write and compile a report. This was a... Very busy month, all things considered. A quarter of the unit is dead, half of it is in the infirmary and the rest of us didn''t get out of that little cock-up unscathed either. I got lucky. The arrow hit my left arm so I can still write without a problem. I''ll start with the beginning.


    I joined the unit in the beginning of the month and I found a capable group of men that had seen a fair bit of combat before, which was a first since joining up with the D¨²nedain forces. They all sported an assortment of scars and held their weapons with the easy-going confidence of men who knew how to wield them. Despite that it was easy to see that these were not grizzled veterans. They had experience, a fair bit of training, but their horses were not warhorses and they did not possess the armour or equipment that marked them as proper cavalry. Still, it was nice to meet them and I received a warm welcome in their midst.


    We set out the very first day. Apparently a large force from Orcs had set out from the cold north and was making their way to Fornost under the command of a particularly nasty Orc chieftain. The men, upon hearing this, had different reactions. The ones who had fought the Orcs from the old Angmarim regions showed ill-kempt concern. The ones who had fought with the Goblins from the Misty Mountains were more confident and were looking forward to the battle. The latter failed to notice the mood of the former and those men did not seem keen on sharing their thoughts. So, with my newly minted stripes of sergeant freshly sewn onto my outfit, it fell to me to dampen their spirit. In hindsight it would prove good that I did.


    We met up with several more companies on the way there. A few were like us, but most were either Footmen or Archers. Rangers were gathering in great numbers as well. It seemed like this would be a large scale battle, but numbers on the exact size of the enemy host were still lacking, which concerned me. It meant that the Orcs weren''t letting the Rangers get a clear reading on their numbers. Smart Orcs always equalled trouble for us. Luckily enough by the time we reached Fornost that had changed and we now knew the strength of our foe. Unluckily enough it wasn''t a good number for us. Still, it mattered little. I was strangely excited at the prospect of killing Orcs again, even more so as I vividly remembered their heavy outlines against the fires that consumed my village. I noticed that several men shared my grim, eager outlook and knew them to be dependable. Their lust for blood did not subsume them, but gave them clear purpose.


    The Rangers had us take position near the edge of where the battle would take place. Out of the way, but still in the city, near a gaping hole in the wall. It was a smart decision as it afforded us the mobility we needed to strike and be gone. I did not see many others during that brief time, but from what little time we spent at the mess hall I got a good idea of how our forces were positioned. Rangers were stationed across what towers that were still usable. That was good. The range advantage the height granted them wasn''t for their bows, but for their ability to give orders and direct the troops. The Archer companies were hiding up on the walls. Given how hard it was to get up the ruined structures, that meant they were surprisingly safe from counterattacks. Then there were the Footmen, who were holding key points in the city to box the Orcs in, provided they held the line. I kept those worries for myself. The Rangers knew warfare better than I did. I just knew how to kill the Orc in front of me.


    It was at the dawn of the third day that the Orcs reached us. They did not waste much time, forming up in decent lines before marching onto the city. Our Archers opened fire as soon as they came within range, but the Orcs hefted shields and kept up their advance, picking up speed to close in faster. Still a fair number of Orcs fell. A shield could only take so many hits before it became too unwieldy or simply fell apart and enough arrows squeezed through the gaps to wound or kill a goodly number of the beasts. Then their own archers came into range and our men were forced to switch targets. Or so I heard, at least. I wasn''t there. I heard that afterwards.


    When the Orcs finally entered the city the battle rapidly spiralled out of control. Companies of Squires thundered across the streets to aid besieged Footmen, who fought to the best of their ability to hold the line. It was a closely fought battle and at no point did either side seem to gain the necessary momentum for a victory. Then a unit of Warg Riders came through the breach we were guarding and they seemed as surprised to see us as we were to see them. They paused and that was a mistake. I roared a battle cry and within moments our entire unit was barreling down on them while they were still pressed between the walls. We used our mobility to our advantage in close conjunction with the handful of Rangers on the walls with us. Whenever it seemed to devolve into a melee, I had the men pull out. They obeyed me for some reason, likely because our captain had found himself headless quite early on, but it was good that they did. This had become a hunt and I knew how to lead those.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    We ran away, the Rangers shot down a few Wargs or Riders, until a number of them lost control and turned around to deal with them which was the moment we turned and charged again. We managed to slaughter their entire unit that way, but it wasn''t an easy victory and many of the men lay bleeding, or worse, dead, on the ground. Still, the majority of the unit was alive and somehow I ended up in command. With all the mayhem rapidly unfolding the Rangers on the walls couldn''t give me clean commands either anymore, so I took matters in my own hand. I didn''t know much of battle, but I figured that the Orcs weren''t stupid so I took the men out of the city and rounded it, towards what I hoped would be the unprotected enemy archers.


    As fortune would have it, that turned out to be the case. With their own Warg Rider units having sent out to flank us, they had clearly not expected to be flanked in turn and our unit took them by surprise, reaping a heavy toll amidst the lightly armoured archers. When the first unit broke and began running away, I refused to let myself be drawn after them and after some harsh words I managed to convince the others to do the same. If the city was lost it would not matter how many Orcs we killed out here. So we charged, even more diminished, into the next group. These had seen us coming and loosed a volley into our charge, crippling many horses and killing several men outright, but we still crashed into them. It devolved into another bloody, close ranged melee and I took the men out again, rather than get bagged down and let their numbers overwhelm us. Speed was our watchword. Luckily enough for us our own Archers had been paying close attention and waited just long enough for us to clear the immediate surrounding before another volley slammed into the disoriented Orcs, who broke lines and ran. We performed this two more times, until we decided that the enemy ranks were sufficiently thinned, before thundering into the city at best speed. A good number of us were dead and only a few didn''t sport injuries. I had managed to get myself shot in the process of routing their archers but I did my best to pretend I was fine and hoped nobody could hear my curses or hear my teeth grind themselves to dust as I bit back the pain.


    Then we were in the city and our now unpinned Archers were wreaking a heavy tally on the enemy, who had their backs turned to them. Later I was told that our Archers picking off the enemy was what turned the battle, as their fire arrows burned more than just hides, but at the time I only remember seeing a frightened enemy as one of the Rangers had managed to decapitate the Orc chieftain while their rear was being perforated. So I did what any red blooded man would have done, completely lost my cool and charged into them like a man possessed, amidst several dozen of men stuck in the same mindset.


    Let me write down now, while it was the final straw that broke the pony''s back, as they assumed more units were coming after us, it is never a good idea to put less than a score of men in between a fleeing army. If the Orcs hadn''t been so busy running for their lives and if our Footmen didn''t rush to close the gap as swiftly as they could, we would have died to a man. As it was they were content to pull us off our horses and see us crash into the ground, before running away again. Squires are meant to run down a fleeing enemy and that the Orcs were, but put a light shock unit like ours in the midst of a swarm of enemies and we go down like flies. A lesson learned the hard way. I should have never steered the unit into that mess. I reckon I''ll feel the consequences of that soon enough. The Orcs were on the verge of routing anyway, a few more salvos and they would have run. Our charge made little difference and only got more men killed and even more wounded.


    I have been called to meet with the Ranger Council tomorrow. A message that was delivered by two very Rangers who looked grim, even by their standards. I do not believe they will kill me, but I will admit that the thought of running away has been on my mind for a while now. I think if I try to sneak away while they are still cleaning up the surviving Orcs that are too stupid to run back north, I might have a chance. I won''t though. I am not a coward and I can''t stand the thought of leaving behind another place I am trying to call home, even if I likely will have to do so anyway by the end of that meeting.


    Oh well. We shall see what happens. I am off to find Rubir now. I got more kills than him and that means he owes me a bottle of that swill they call ale here. I just hope that this won''t have been my last entry.

 Brigands (unit description)

    Excerpt from Ranger ''Stalker'' Hinruin. Sixth of December, Third Age 2983.


    Brigands. Scum of Middle-Earth. They are Men who are not Evil by nature, by circumstance of birth or have been forced into it by a higher power. They take the path of Evil by choice and that makes them all the more dreadful. They are cowards at heart. They do not wield their blades with much skill, will run when faced with great opposition, yet one should not underestimate them. Shunned as they are by the more civilised folk of Eriador, they were no longer welcome in the homes of Men, Dwarf, Elf or Hobbit. Orc nor Goblin will tolerate them. Troll and Warg will eat them. Even the wildmen from Dunland and Edenwaith despise them. With good reason if you ask me.


    The Men I tracked down belonged to one such group. There were eighteen of them. They gather in sizeable numbers, as is their custom, but never too great, for greed runs rampant amongst them and they are quick to distrust one another. Larger groups will always fall apart. In that way they are preferable to the more numerous Orcs and Goblins. The young Amran and I had been staking out this particular group for weeks before we struck. The call had gone out in Bree that a small merchant caravan had been ambushed. A lone guard had managed to escape and warn the Breelanders, but by the time the Greenway Riders arrived on the scene it was far too late. The merchant, his assistants and the three guards were dead and robbed of their belongings. The Riders filed a report and increased the numbers of this patrol, but the road is long and they are few. We are fewer still, but this is our task and we do not shun it.


    We found their trail within half a day. Within five we caught up with them, stalking them unseen from amidst the trees. They thought themselves safe, with their makeshift armour cobbled together of what they could steal. I recognised parts of the armour that were freshly stolen from the guards. One of them was toying with a golden locket that still had the picture of the previous owner''s wife in it. Amran nearly shot him at the sight, but I managed to calm him down. They are eighteen, we are two.


    We followed them for two more days. Amran grew more restless with each passing hours, not understanding why I refused to strike. I kept the boy busy, made him think of ways that the two of us could take on nine times our number. He countered by saying that they were weak, unskilled, and cowardly at heart. I explained to him that skilled as we D¨²nedain Rangers are, we can only block one blade at a time. That if we shot them, they would run and hide and we would likely not get them all. In the end the boy understood the importance of trapping them all at once, and that we could ill afford risking heading back for more of our brethren lest we lose them and another innocent life would be lost in that time.


    In the end our solution proved simple. They entered a cave that was their hideout and most of them went in, leaving four men outside to guard it. I knew that cave. It only had the one exit and that was blocked. Amran wanted to shoot them from cover, but I refused. Our arrows were few and the road was long. So we charged, our blades shining brightly under the moonlight. The first of the brigands never saw me coming, my blade whistling through the air as I cut through his neck. The young Amran was slightly slower and the second brigand had time to let out a surprised yelp before he too was felled. The last two raised the alarm, as I had planned, but with their brittle swords and feeble skill they were no match for us, even for a simple Ranger such as I, or a youth in training such as Amran. We left the bodies where they were and ran into the woods, quickly drawing our bows. The rest of the brigands came out, panicked at the sight of their dead comrades and searched the thicket for the cause. They were unsure what to expect. We were more myth than reality. Orcs and Goblins were a much more likely threat, especially during the night, one even we are wary of. Many things lurk in the dark, after all.


    We loosened our arrows and two more fell. Panic bit deeper into them and they tried to blend into the woods. They did not make a stand, did not fall back into the cave, no. They panicked and ran, trying to hide. They were good at it, but we D¨²nedain are masters of that art. Between their emergence in the cave and their run to the forest, six more fell, leaving us with just eight more foes. The rest retreated into the cave and I knew they went to fetch their own bows. I signalled Amran and we charged after them, taking them by surprised as we joined them in a melee. It was short and bloody, as even as they were no blademasters, they had us outnumbered and Amran and I struggled against their superior number, but it ended when one of the elderly brigands recognised me for what I was and threw his weapon down, begging for mercy. The four other survivors followed his lead. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Amran looked as if he wanted to kill them. I understood his feelings, his father had been murdered by men like these. Then I saw him stumble. He had been wounded. It was not a life threatening wound, merely a deep gash across the leg, but he would no longer stalk the forest until it healed. I bade him to sit down and made the brigands bring up their feeble supplies. We had our own but they were limited and what they had would serve them no longer. We had left no wounded. The elderly brigand who had been the first to surrender treated my younger comrade with surprising skill and curiosity gained the better of me as I asked him where he had acquired it.


    His tale was one all too familiar to me. One of the countless little villages that dotted the woods of Eriador, near the Misty Mountains. It had been raided by a group of Goblins. Left destitute and without a family, he had done whatever he could to survive. The tales of the others came forth, encouraged by their leader''s confession. In my heart I wept for them. Safeguarding the lands was our task, our edict, but they are many and we are few. Brigands are Men who walk the path of Evil by choice. So we are told. So we are trained. We quickly learn that the choice other than banditry is often death, but we have no choice but to discard that, even as our hearts weep for them. Evil must be cut down, no matter how and where it took root, even if it sprang forth from our own failings. Amran is shock by their words, I can tell, even as he tries to hide it. His anger wars with his natural compassion. He will make a good Ranger. Someone better than me shall explain to him why we must hunt the brigands. I am not eloquent enough for such a task and I do not believe the young man would lend my words the same veracity as he would those of a veteran Ranger.


    After some time, we depart for the road once again. The brigands ask me what will happen to them. They follow me, armed with only short knives they are not a threat for me or even for my wounded comrade, who is supported by the elderly brigand. I tell them the truth. They will be handed over to the guards of the Greenway, where they will likely be sentenced for heavy labour, or hanging. It is for the best, I tell myself. Word of their fate will spread and will discourage others from following in their footsteps. I can see them sag, but they try not to run. Fear of me keeps them in line. It is fear well earned; had they tried to run I would have struck them down. Instead they accept their fate.


    Once we reach the road I am surprised to see a large patrol of Greenway Riders storm towards us. It appears a new Orc raiding party had entered the lands. Led by a tall, cunning Orc they had laid waste to several holdings yet, and they always bade a swift retreat before anyone could catch up with them. Their sergeant told me that his men were moving to support the troops already in the area, in an attempt to catch the raiders if they set foot on the road, but I could tell by the man''s voice that he held no hope for it. The Orcs did not tread the path. Behind me I heard the shuffling of the Brigands. It seemed that their tale would be renewed once again.


    I made a decision then. It is unorthodox, perhaps, and maybe the Ranger Council will condemn me for this, but I could not choose otherwise. I send Amran back with the Riders. He protested but I would have none of it. I offered my captives the choice, silently, so the Riders would not hear me, and they all agreed to come with me. I had the Riders give weapons and clothes, rations and equipment to my new team as I introduced them as mercenaries. They had skill in woodcraft, far more so than all but a handful Riders. The raiding party could be no more than two dozen strong, and I knew of another Ranger, Herthaf, to reside in that area, as well as some clanfolk from Rhudaur that were loyal to our cause. We had a fighting chance. A chance to prevent more tragedy to unfold, to keep Evil from planting down another root that we would later have to cut down. A chance for the brigands at redemption.


    Taking my small party with me, we bade the Riders farewell and made haste across the road, towards the west and our quarry.

 Hearths Defenders (unit description)

    Excerpt from Ranger ''Stalker'' Hinruin. Fourteenth of January, Third Age 2984.


    It took us three days to meet up with Ranger Herthaf, who had gathered a surprisingly large host of men, all of whom had similar backgrounds as the men who had chosen to follow me. The veteran Ranger smiled at my perplexed face and took me aside, where the men could not hear it. They thought it to be a council of war, the Rangers discussing how to best deal with the troubles that awaited us. It was, but it was far more than that.


    Since time immemorial it has been a common saying amongst the Rangers. The dangers are many and we are few. Often we are too few. Our sword arms are strong and our eye sight keen, but a small host of Men cannot hope to stand against an army. So we sought people sympathetic to our cause. It turns out that Rangers draw these men towards them. Men without hope. Men without homes. Men who have chosen Evil and were later persuaded to abandon their path. It is not taught, as one cannot teach a man strength of heart. Yet it is expected. It is seen as a sign of maturity in a Ranger when he ceases to simply hunt down Men who have chosen poorly, and instead redirects them onto a new path. We take one of Evil''s blades and re-purpose it for our own ends.


    So I joined Ranger Herthaf, and my host joined his. Together we had three dozen men at our disposal. Men once hopeless. Once outlaws. Forged anew under the banner of the D¨²nedain and the leadership of the Rangers. They fight not for us, but for the men living in these lands. For those who still have a home. A hearth. One of the Rangers of old baptised these reformed men with a name they proudly carry on their lips. They are the ones who have lost all and now defend the hearths of others. They are the Hearth''s Defenders. A thin line of men, young and old that are often all that stand between a village and an Orc raid. We are few and so are they, but they are with more than we. I look at them as they move through the forest, with more speed than one might expect, and watch them with pride in my chest. I cannot put it to words eloquently. I am not well versed in such things. But even so I understand that they fight for Good. That even in the darkest places the light still shines. So I march with them.


    Ranger Herthaf and I scouted ahead of our small host and we tracked down a large raiding party. Going by the footprints it was a mixture of Snaga and Orcs, accompanied by two, perhaps three Wargs.  They numbered around five to six dozen. They are many and we are few. The men are not disheartened by this news and we march on with greater speed, for Herthaf told us of a village ahead. The Orcs march slower than us, the forest slowing them down and whilst they are driven by the desire to slaughter, we are driven by the desire to safeguard. In the end, our desires proved superior and we managed to reach the village before the raiders and we took up position in between those we sought to protect and those we sought to waylay. If luck would have it, the villagers would never know of the danger they were in.


    As it was, luck was on our side. We later discovered that a dozen enemies had split off from the main force, returning towards the mountain, no doubt laden with their ill-gotten gains. We would pursue them in due time, but first we had the battle to deal with.


    Our men waited in the forest, hidden from sight, until the enemy drew near. Ranger Herthaf and I stood behind their lines and waited, our bows drawn and ready. A Warg Scout came out of the dense thicket, sniffing the air as it slowly advanced. A shiver ran through our lines and I understood their fear. Wargs are vicious, ferocious creatures. It sensed our men, smelled their fear, and our bows spoke in unison as we silenced both beast and rider before it could further discourage our host, or worse, give away our position. Our men advanced, creeping through the thickets and soon we found the main enemy line. They were five dozen strong. They are many and we are few. But they were not aware of our presence. Two more Wargs were with them, but they were too deep in the enemy ranks for us to have a clear shot at them. So we signalled the men and their charge began.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    The Orcs and Snagas were taken off guard by the charge. Some javelins were hurriedly thrown but the men''s shields deflected the weakly thrown missiles. Then the melee began. They fought with valour and with determination. Snagas fell under their advance as spears were thrust between shields. For one blissful moment it seemed as if our plan would go off without a hitch. Then one of the Orcs in the back began rallying his force and the Snagas were pushed aside by their taller brethren as they made a crude, but brutal counter attack. Our lines were pushed back, the Orcs'' brute strength overwhelming the men, forcing them to give ground or die. Many fell to the ground, bleeding, only to be finished off by the cowardly Snagas who hid behind the tall Orcs. Ranger Herthaf and I circled around, firing our bows as quickly as we could, claiming many an Orc. One of the Wargs tried circling around the battle, but I intercepted it and I drove my sword into its gullet before it could do any harm. Its rider was thrown to the ground and was disposed of.


    Still the battle went on and our line kept diminishing even as they retreated, struggling to maintain a cohesive formation. Exhaustion began kicking in, for these men were not accustomed to the brutal demands of war. Morale began sagging. Even as Ranger Herthaf and I kept running around to inspire and encourage them, there was only so much we could do. In the end we were pushed back all the way to the outskirts of the village, where a brief lull in the battle arose in which I quickly surveyed our forces.


    We were down to half our strength and Ranger Herthaf and I had run out of arrows. The men struggled to stand, shields and spears shaking in their tired hands, sweat and blood running across what little armour they possessed. I could see the fear in their eyes as they looked towards each other and us for encouragement and finding little. On the other end of the field stood our foe, down to half a dozen Snagas and about as many Orcs as we had men. They too were tired, but less so than ours. Behind them was the final Warg Rider, bolstering the morale of his troops and further reducing ours. He made ready to charge.


    That was when the elderly brigand who had joined me looked behind him and saw the houses in the distance. The smoke curling out of the chimneys. The fearful gazes coming through the windows. Something changed in him. I could see the resolve hardening in his eyes.


    ''Men!'' he shouted, his voice full of vigour and righteous rage. ''We are all that stands between that village and the vile Orcs! We will not falter! We will not flee! Behind us are hearths! And we are the Hearth''s Defenders! Raise your spears! Hold fast! And kill all those infernal Orcs!''


    The shout was picked up by the other men, lighting a fire within their hearts. The Warg Rider noticed this too late and was not met by a group of nearly broken Men, but by a stalwart, determined force. The Warg crashed into their shields, snarling and biting to no avail as they stabbed it with their spears. Its rider lashed out from above, wounding one before suffering the same fate as its steed. The Orcs'' charge faltered at the warcry raising up from our host and Ranger Herthaf and I joined them, taking the fore as we lead a charge of our own. The Orcs'' resolve wavered, then broke and we cut them down to the last, feeling neither pity nor remorse.


    In the end it was done. Our losses were severe and those who survived sank to the ground, crying for those who had fallen and weeping even more for those we had saved.


    I am not a veteran Ranger. Not by far. But at that point I understood the importance of these men. They may carry fragile shields, simple spears and little to no armour and they are certainly no soldiers proper. Yet once reminded why they chose to fight, they are a sight to behold, for they will fight to the last when struck by this righteous rage. Truly, they carry their name with honour.

 Deepmine Warriors (unit description)

    Excerpt from Ranger ''Stalker'' Hinruin. Twenty-ninth of January, Third Age 2984.


    After we left the wounded in the village and taking a brief, much needed rest, Ranger Herthaf, the six men still capable of travelling swiftly, and I set off to track down the final group of Orcs that was in the area. The men felt confident. They had scored a victory despite being outnumbered and they boasted to one another about the kills they had made and the village they had saved. Physically, these men had not changed much since Ranger Herthaf and I had recruited them, but mentally they had matured greatly. Their morale in battle would be more steadfast, their weapon arms a bit more keen. I hoped it would be enough.


    Unlike our men, Ranger Herthaf and I did not share their confidence. Normally we would only be outnumbered around two to one. Given that we had restocked on arrows, this should have tilted the balance of the upcoming battle in our favour. Yet, as we started tracking down this second party, we found reason to worry. One of the Orcs, presumably the leader, given how Orc society functions, was leaving behind deep tracks and it was unlikely that he was not bothering to hide them. That was unusual. Raiders, as a rule, concealed their tracks as best they could and the rest of the raiding party''s tracks were visible only to Ranger Herthaf''s and my eyes. Given how easy to track the other footprints were, that meant that the final Orc was either enormous, or heavily armoured, or both. Not a comforting thought. The larger Orcs did not usually dwell around these parts. Such creatures lived up north, past the forsaken realm of Angmar. A place where even Rangers not dared to go near. Gundabad. The ancient Dwarven fortress.


    Regardless of what Orc was awaiting us, we still had a duty to fulfil. The D¨²nedain guard these lands, and so Ranger Herthaf and I gave chase, only to encounter yet another problem. It seems that the Goblins were afoot in force. We crossed a particularly tall hill when we caught sight of them, as well as a small Elven force, battling it out in the distance. We had drawn closer to Rivendell than I had assumed, for otherwise no Elf would venture so far from his home.


    The Elves were, as always, thoroughly outnumbered and going by their light armour, they were only a vanguard, perhaps no more than two, three dozen strong. It was hard to acquire an accurate count on beings so nimble as they are. The enemy, however, were easier to count, as they approached the Elves while maintaining a solid formation, a rarity for Goblins. They were with roughly a hundred men spread across five units of twenty. Even from this far I recognised them. I had come up against them on a few occasions and they were not foes I enjoyed battling. Deepmine Warriors, as the Goblins called them. In typical fashion they were split in two lines. The units in the front were armed with shield and sword, those behind them with bows. Unlike the fearsome Orcs from Gundabad, who donned scavenged armour from the fallen Dwarves, the Goblins had to contend themselves with what they could make themselves. It was subpar quality by any professional standard, but against the people of Eriador it made them even more dangerous.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Given how they advanced towards the Elves, shields heft aloft despite that they offered little protection against the keen eyesight of the Elves, let alone their swift arrows, I could tell that they had received proper training. They did not rout or break from the onslaught, but steadily closed in while the bowmen behind them spread out and fired back. Ranger Herthaf smiled at the sight, easing my concern that the Elves might lose. He had far more experience than I and shared what he knew of the creatures with me. They dwelled deeper in the Misty Mountains and held some status, which came as no surprise given their crude, light armour. For Goblins, he told me, they were disciplined and capable fighters, able to hold their ground in larger engagements. One could almost call them brave.


    As a new group of Elves entered the fray, jumping into being from behind the Goblin bowmen and rapidly began cutting them down, his smile widened into a grin.


    ''Of course, no Goblin has ever been blessed with actual courage,'' he told me as the Goblins, now beset from two sides and their numbers rapidly dwindling, broke formation and tried to flee, only to be mercilessly hunted down by the Elven warriors.


    We waited a few moments more, preferring to let the Elves kill any remaining Goblins rather than run into any survivors. While in their current numbers they posed little threat to Ranger Herthaf or I, the same could not be said for our men. In a fight with equal numbers, things would not end well for our party. Once we were sure that no more Goblins were left alive, we continued on our path. We struggled to reacquire our trail in the midst of the battlefield. Goblin corpses, broken swords, splintered shields and arrows littered the area and we had to steadily expand our search. It took a while for us to pick up our foe''s tracks, but I made use of the time to study the dead Deepmine Warriors. Like all Goblins, they were not truly a threat on their own, but if we are few, then they are very many. A Goblin is never alone, after all, and when fielded in large numbers they become a force to reckon with.


    For now, however, I put aside that knowledge. The Elves have returned to Rivendell after a short conversation with Ranger Herthaf, one that I was not privy to, and we set off once again, ever nearing the Misty Mountains.

 Durub (unit description)

    Excerpt from Ranger ''Stalker'' Hinruin. Sixteenth of February, Third Age 2984.


    I write this from Rivendell. I am alone, at present. The Dwarven Travellers who brought me here, a kindness I shan''t soon forget, have long since departed and the Elves have retreated silently, presumably sensing that I would rather be left alone with my thoughts. Or maybe they do simply not deem me worthy of their time. I would not think less of them for it. My current worth has been determined in the cruellest of way and my abilities have been found wanting. Yet here I am. I have even spoken with the Lord of Imladris, Loremaster Elrond, himself, about what has transpired on the slopes of the Misty Mountains. I am penning down my experiences, ignoring the ache in my ribs and arms, for they are worth more than I am.


    Originally it all went well. Our party were quick to track down our foes and we were gaining on them with surprising speed. Before a full week had passed we had found them, still more than a day''s travel away, as the Misty Mountains are treacherous to navigate even for Rangers, let alone for the men of our small party, but we had them within our sights. No Goblins were amongst this raiding party. They were Orcs all, Eleven of them in total. They seemed to posses a skin more pale than I am used to of their kind and normally such a thing would have been a cause of wonder and concern, were it not for the hulking giant that sat amidst them. The creature stood a full head above the others, clad in heavy armour with a thick, if small, shield attached to one leg and a vicious, long sword to the other. Ranger Herthaf motioned me to move forward, to scout ahead and so I did.


    By the end of next day I was only a scant ways behind them and when they set up camp for the night I was shocked by their behaviour. These were not the mindless, unruly creatures we were used to face. They acted in unison, much the same our apprentices did under the leadership of a Veteran Ranger. Tasks were split. Guards were stationed while others gathered firewood and set to making a fire for the night. Once that was done, they moved on to preparing dinner. I vividly remember my surprise at the sight of them roasting their meat, rather than devouring it raw. They ate, then switched out the guards while they made ready for the night. Even the tall Orc took up a guard post, despite being the leader. I had spent enough time amongst my kin, as well as amidst the ranks of the soldiery of Bree to recognise him for a good leader who cared for his men. It was beyond belief. I had never heard of Orcs displaying such behaviour.  Uncertainty and worry clouding my mind, I slowly made my way backwards, rejoining Ranger Herthaf and telling him what I had seen. His weathered face creased in worry, but in the end our plan was unchanged. We took up positions, slowly as to not alert our quarry, and waited for the first light of dawn.


    The song of our bows was the first sign the Orcs had that something was amiss and despite their armour two of them went down, screaming loudly even as life left their bodies. Our men charged and our bows sung again. The enemy reacted with speed, rolling from their mats and jumping up, shields and blades swinging into place. Ranger Herthaf''s arrow killed another, further evening the odds, but my arrow only wounded the last sentry. It mattered little, for our men, having learned much from their previous battle, charged him together. The Orc was forced to block the spear with his own blade and that created a hole in his defence. Our Hearth''s Defenders made good use of this and stabbed him through the seal of his armour, the shaft cutting deep into the flesh of his neck, never once stopping their charge and forcing the Orc to the ground. With their three sentries and one of the others down, the odds were now slightly in our favour, but neither Ranger Herthaf or I felt confident, given the imposing size of the final Orc.


    Our men howled insults and taunts at the Orcs, staying well clear from the campsite and our arrows whisked between them once more, Two more Orcs went down as they charged our men and ignored their own defences in turn. That left five. Black Speech rolled around the forest and I nearly dropped my next arrow in shock. I looked to Ranger Herthaf, whose years of experience allowed him to maintain his composure. Even so, I saw him falter slightly before another arrow went out. This time it claimed no kill. The leading Orc had called the rest of the creatures back and they had reformed, shields at the ready. Ranger Herthaf''s arrow had struck true, through a wooden shield and penetrated the arm of its wearer, but the Orc did not falter. Another shout went out and they charged as one, releasing a terrifying warcry as they charged. Our men grew fearful, but held the line. I shot once more and so did my veteran companion. I struck one in the leg and he tripped over the shaft, falling to the ground. Ranger Herthaf somehow shot in between shield and armour and another Orc went down with an arrow in his neck. Then their charge hit, and despite that our men outnumbered them two to one, it availed them little.


    The tall Orc left the safety that his companions provided him and slammed his shield into one of our men, forcing him back through brute strength. His weapon held high, it came down on another, who hefted his shield in defence. The vicious blade carved through both it and the man holding it, cutting him open from the throat to the belly. The other Orcs luckily fared less well and crashed into the others. One of our men died in that exchange, but the offending Orc was heavily wounded in turn and the other was brought down as the two men facing him cooperated, suffering only a glancing cut in exchange. In the midst of the melee Ranger Herthaf could no longer fire and he exchanged his bow for his blade, rushing forward to join our men.


    Our Hearth''s Defenders fought valiantly and with skill. One of them abandoned the line to shove his spear through the fallen Orc, finishing him off, while the wounded Orc was caught in a disadvantageous fight with another, the beast''s sword arm hanging limp with half a spear jabbed through it. The other three jointly tackled the tall Orc. A wise tactic, but one that proved to be insufficient. He ignored the first spear, stepping forward and using his thick armour to push it aside and slammed the sharp side of his shield into the man''s throat, all but cutting off his head. Before the second man could line up his thrust the sword cut through the air and his head went sailing. The third man faltered and tried to flee, only to be cut down without mercy. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    I saw an opportunity amidst the death and shot at the wounded Orc, hoping to take out the last remaining threat in order to let us fully focus on the leader. Somehow the tall Orc knew it and stepped in front of the arrow. The arrow penetrated the plates covering his arm, but the Orc behind him was saved. The tall Orc spoke again and pointed to the forest behind him, before he took a short step forward and broke through our Hearth''s Defender''s guard with a brutal blow. The smaller Orc seemed confused for a moment, then shook his head. Our last man charged the tall Orc with what I can only ascribe as fanaticism, but found his spear shoved aside by his foe''s shield, and lost his head shortly thereafter. The tall Orc shouted again, more insistently this time and the other Orc nodded, before running off towards the woods, intending on fleeing.


    None of this made sense and for a cursed moment I could only gaze at the scene unfolding before me when Ranger Herthaf''s orders brought me back into the fold. I brought up my bow and shot the retreating Orc in the back.


    The tall Orc seemed to freeze for a moment and in that moment Ranger Herthaf struck, his sword dancing in the light of the early dawn, but the Orc reacted with more speed than I thought possible and brought him his shield in time. He bellowed a furious warcry and charged him. Ranger Herthaf knew I was still nearby, knew that I still had three arrows left, and fought accordingly. I waited patiently as my friend and leader fought cautiously and kept himself out of my line of fire. Even so I could tell that he was struggling, for the Orc''s blows were sharp and calculated. I shot again and my arrow lodged itself in between the plates on his side. The Orc roared and lashed out with a dangerous slash. Ranger Herthaf ducked underneath it, but was slammed back by the Orc''s shield. Rather than further engage him, however, the tall Orc turned around and ran for me. Despite his armour the beast ran fast and it seemed to know exactly where I was hiding. I threw my bow to the side and drew my sword and steadied my hands, bracing myself. We were with two, I thought to myself. The beast was alone.


    My duel with the creature was thankfully brief. Never in my life have I taken blows that heavy. I could barely muster enough strength to keep my sword in my hands. Every attack I parried, every blow I blocked, I could feel the strength behind them. It was inhuman. Then Ranger Herthaf caught up with the beast and the duel intensified. Despite having him outnumbered, the Orc possessed considerable skill and although it had two arrows lodged within his flesh, it still kept fighting on, without succumbing to pain or tiring. Ranger Herthaf''s blade found weak spots in the beast''s armour and cut him at every opportunity, while I failed to penetrate the thick plates all together, only serving as a distraction.


    Time seemed to slow down and it felt as if the duel was neverending. Soon enough my arms were burning from exhaustion and sweat was dripping down my body. How the Orc, encased in armour and bleeding from a dozen wounds, still kept on fighting, I did not understand.


    Ranger Herthaf seemed to realise this too, that the Orc was tiring less fast than we were and that we would lose if we could not alter this fight. The light in his eyes told me that he had a plan. If only I had known what it was. I might have been able to save him.


    ''Vile beast!,'' he spat, taunting him. ''You''ll not leave this place alive!


    ''Neither will you, Ranger!'' the beast growled from underneath his helmet. ''You will pay for killing my brethren! You are growing tired, I can see it! I can smell it!'' He lashed out with another vicious attack and I could only narrowly bring my sword up, the sheer force of the blow knocking me back into the tree behind me and I felt my ribs break.


    ''Your welp will die with you! You will not stop me! You will not stop us! We will come down the Mountain and reclaim what was ours!'' the Orc continued as he turned away from me and focused on Ranger Herthaf, who only smiled in return. Then he charged the Orc. The beast roared and slammed his sword deep into Ranger Herthaf''s side, whose smile did not waver. Only then did the Orc seem to realise his mistake, as the dying man brought his own sword up and shoved it straight through the creature''s heart. Both fell down and I raced to my fallen brother.


    I was too late. Life had already left him, the cut too deep. I could only gaze in his eyes as the last warmth left them. A Veteran Ranger, an honourable man. One who contributed so much to the safety of Eriador and asked nothing in return. A brother. A father. A hero.


    The gurgling of the Orc drew my attention and I turned to face him, sword in hand, rage clouding my thoughts and desires for vengeance drowning out my conscience. The beast saw the hate in my eyes and laughed, even as blood dripped out of its mouth.


    ''You have beaten me, Ranger, but you cannot stop us all,'' it groaned, its voice growing weaker with every syllable. ''More of my kin...'' it whispered, the wind howling around us. ''Will come.''


    A group of Dwarven Travellers found me after I had lit the funeral pyre for Ranger Herthaf, and carried me down to Rivendell, where I reside now. Since then I have spoken with the Elves about this Orc and I have learned much. They were thought to be a creature from legends, or times long past. Durub, they are called. From up north, past the treacherous realms of Angmar. From Mount Gundabad. Loremaster Elrond has told me that the Snow Orcs who reside there are of a different breed than their kin to the south, far more monstrous and dangerous, and the Durub the most of all. They have survived countless trials to attain that rank, having scaled the walls of Gundabad itself while their fellows assail him, both on the way up and once he had reached the top. A violent, vicious cunning that sees only the toughest, most dangerous of their kind survive. If it was only that. If it was only their strength, their armour, then they would have not worried me so. No, their true threat is that they are disciplined. The Loremaster has opened my eyes and made me see the truth, even if in my hate I did not wish to, for in their way, the beasts too form bonds akin to our own. They care for their kin as they lead them into battle. They inspire them to greater feats, fill them with courage no matter if they lead them from the fore or the fray. Having witnessed such a beast care for the Orcs under his command, I am truly frightened and hope that I can deliver my report to the Council of Rangers as soon as I am able.  For they must know of this threat from the North. And of my own failure to save Ranger Herthaf.

 N?ldorin Archers

    Excerpt from Ranger ''Stalker'' Hinruin. Eight of March, Third Age 2984.


    My ribs have sufficiently healed that I am now once more fit enough to take on the road. I have remained in Imladris for too long already, even though Elrond has told me that messengers have been dispatched to the Ranger Council. It is not that I dislike being here, it is the opposite. This place feels like home all too easily. I find myself wondering if I could not stay here, just a while longer. I cannot afford such longings. I have my duty to uphold.


    I have learned much in my stay here. I befriended one of the ancient N?ldorin Elves, named Silmeno. He is part of a company of the famed N?ldorin Archers. I have heard much of them, for they are the stuff of Legends and their levels of skill are things every Ranger strives for. They are masters of bow and blade, and while they prefer the former only a fool would assume they were any less dangerous with the latter. He is old, far older than I am and in his presence I felt like a child, yet for some reason he treats me like an equal. As the days went by and he kept visiting me, we grew closer and I told him, at his insistence, of the worries plaguing my mind. Of my fallen brother, Ranger Herthaf. Of the men I could not save. Of my own lack of skill.


    In typical Elven fashion he did not chastise me, nor did he pity me. Instead he looked at me with compassion and understood. He told time and experience would eventually allow me to make peace with the memories that haunted me. He had a faraway look in his eyes when he spoke those words, and I can only imagine at what he had gone through. I have merely lived for a handful of decades. He has lived for centuries, if not more.


    For the final of my issues, he bade me I accompany him to the training grounds, where his unit was training. There I saw the N?ldorin Archers in all their splendour and glory. As the sun illuminated the training field, their golden armour glistered in the rays of the sun. Their weapons, sleek and artistic while still maintaining their lethal and elegant look, were wielded with a calm confidence and certainty that I envied.


    They were split in groups, practising against one another. They started off with a simple exercise, firing at target dummies an incredible distance away. It was unreal, even at this incredible distance the accuracy of their volleys was a sight to behold, few arrows going astray. Their bows sung in the daylight and their arrows flew straight and true. Their movements were calm and collected, as if nothing could perturb them. In all honesty I believe very little could. These Elves were the ancient protectors of Middle Earth and did not seem as if petty things such as morale would affect them easily.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Next came the close combat drills. They smoothly exchanged their bows for swords, their role in battle robbing them of a shield, and then they engaged one another in a string of duels. They danced around one another, blades whistling through the air as they displayed their incredible martial prowess. We D¨²nedain pride ourselves on being able to switch between bow and blade with ease, as well as being proficient with both, but these Elves put my meagre abilities even further to shame and I am not ashamed to admit that I believe only a few of our veteran Rangers could have kept pace with them. Seeing them, I understood how the Elves had withstood the hordes of Orcs so many years ago. Imagining row upon row of these stalwart warriors, clad in heavy armour, unwavering in their duty, shooting down countless Orcs before joining in melee, continuing their courageous charge even long after us Men would have been exhausted, brought a tear to my eye.


    Under Silmeno''s guidance, while slowly nursing my broken ribs back to health, I trained with these Elves, who had perfected their art over the course of millennia. I felt akin to a child called in front of the elders, but they were kind, all, and they too understood the weight of the duty we D¨²nedain carry, as they carry a similar one. Just like us, they are few, and the enemy is many.


    I leave them now. I shall miss them dearly. They have taught me much and given me so much more. They have instilled a new confidence in me and my skills with bow and blade have improved remarkably under their careful tutelage. I know I am not a match for them, that a handful of days of training do not equate to centuries, but they have taught and I have learned.


    It is now with a heavy heart that I depart the lands of Rivendell and set forth to the Council of Rangers, where I shall give my report on the Orcs of Gundabad.


    I can only hope that my paths will take me here again.

 The story of Pedhaer, Duivorins Tale, excerpt two

    The first light of dawn breaks early, but it finds me awake, just as it always has done. Some elderly rangers may claim that their age has weakened their bodies and that they so require more hours of rest, but those are excuses. In Dunlending society men do not rest, no matter their age, and neither shall I subscribe to any such nonsense. I may not be able to start writing before the day of dawn brightens the pages, but I have no need for eyes to make ready. The ink is prepared and my pens lays in my hand. Last time I wrote, on the orders of the esteemed Council, about Pedhaer and how I came to meet him. I shall continue that, but this is three weeks later. He had healed in that time and while the rest of our band had gone back to the village with what we had salvaged from the caravan, he had stayed behind in our frontward camp. Now, fully healed, he wanted to join us on our patrols. That is where I shall start the telling.


    Pedhaer had been largely silent during the past weeks. He spoke little, but listened a lot. He was being subtle about it, I suppose, for most of the Dunlendings failed to notice it. A pair of eldery men from the Hebog noticed this, as did one from the Draigmen. The latter took him apart as often as he could and began instructing him in their tongue, while the former gave him a thousand and one small chores to do. Chores he took to with exceptional eagerness, even if it only showed in his hands. Dunlendings know how to watch the hands, however, and they saw his skill. Using what meagre supplies we had, he fixed our equipment, banded twines and twigs together, fixed tents and busied himself with whatever minor tasks he could perform without straining himself. The Hebog also took note that, in his spare time, he attempted to repair his damaged crossbow. They tried to talk him into explaining its mechanisms to them, but he played the fool. It fooled them, but not Ogothar, his Draigmen teacher, who was greatly amused by it all, understanding the young man''s loyalty to his Dwarven family.


    I had been worried, at first, but as the days went past and he still did not recognise me, those feelings eased. Even more so since he asked very little questions and none about how it came to pass that I spoke his tongue. In turn I asked him little about his past. He seemed as reluctant to talk about his past as I was about mine. Instead I busied myself teaching him some basic herblore while I treated him, only to discover that his ability was near equal to my own. He knew some effects that I had not known about, but to my amusement he confused herbs easily. Only years later would I learn that this was because he had only seen drawings of these plants, back when he had studied with the Elves.


    As such it was that when I finally declared him healed, a young, but not disrespected Pedhaer, immediately volunteered for patrol duty, something the Turchmen in general and Doman in specific cheered for. The tall man had taken a shine to the young firebrand, as he had called him, and was looking forward to seeing him in action. I tried to caution against it, but was quickly overruled by the sheer enthusiasm that Doman had inspired in his fellows. It was his right, they argued. A blood price had to be extracted.


    So the men prepared. They covered themselves in earth to mask their scent, so that Wargs would not spot them, They painted on their signs of the Crebain, for Strength and Luck and the Feudkeepers shaved their heads clean and drew the symbols of their old grudges on their bodies. They would go into battle without armour, should they find one. None offered to do this for Pedhaer, for while he had earned a sliver of respect, he was an outsider still.


    Then they set off, the group a two dozen strong, hunting for nearby Goblins. Pedhaer was carrying his axe along, his crossbow still left behind in disrepair, and a small, Dwarven shield that he had traded his armour for. I expected their patrol to be slow going and boring, for Pedhaer was likely to make a ruckus going through the forest, as only a Dwarf can make.


    It was to great surprise that when they returned, more than a day later, that the men looked at the youngling with a strange sort of respect. It wasn''t until the wounded were treated and the men had washed off blood, gore, paint and dirt alike, that I heard the full story.


    The young man had been far more silent than any had given us credit for, even if it still fell short to what the Dunlendings expected of their own at that age, but he had slowed them little. It wasn''t until they reached the shadows of the Misty Mountains that they had been forced to call for a halt, for they had spotted prey. There were four orcs accompanied by a dozen Goblins, but what had concerned them was the tall, pale Orc in the centre of the group. I felt my heartbeat quicken for I knew all too well what kind of vile creature that was, and where it came from. The Durub from Gundabad were no prey. They were hunters of their own.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    The Dunlendings, however, knew not this creature, but were wise enough to recognise the fearsome foe for what it was and planned for it accordingly.


    Most of my kin think the Dunlending brutal and savage, that they only charge headfirst into the fray and think only of glory. Yet there is more to them than that. They employ tactics and cunnin as well as the best of us, knowing that the ambush is a mighty tool and one they use all too well. A trap was set and sprung.


    A dozen arrows rained from the trees and struck down the Goblin sentries. An alarm was raised and the dark creatures roused themselves. More fell to the merciless arrow rain, but before they could form up the Feudkeepers struck from behind, Pedhaer in their midst. The Goblins charged them and were immediately cut down from behind as the others kept firing their bows and by the time the battle truly began only the Orcs were left standing, archers at their back, Feudkeepers to their front.


    The Durub was no fool and knew that the invisible archers would have to cease fire as soon as they closed with the humans and so they threw themselves into the melee with abandon, even as outnumbered as they were.


    I shuddered when I heard this, for a Durub is a mighty foe and its heavy weapon can cleave through men and armour alike.


    It was here that Pedhaer proved himself to all around him, for he rushed and met the Durub directly. Doman recalled how he had no time to shout a warning, for they had Orcs of their own to kill. To his surprise Pedhaer did not die when the blade came down, but somehow bounced it aside with his shield, without it breaking. In great detail he told of us of the duel with the Durub, as Pedhaer danced around the pale Orc, only deflecting or dodging his blows while the Feudkeepers mercilessly slaughtered the other Orcs, using their numerical superiority to drive their spears into them. The Durub, at one point, tried to interfere but discovered quickly that a Dwarven axe easily cuts through Orc armour. Even if poor Pedhaer had miscalculated and could only narrowly duck behind his shield as the Durub hit him. Once more the shield held, but Pedhaer was now unarmed, his axe laying on the ground, but the Durub was bleeding from a deep cut to his thigh where the axe had bitten deeply into its flesh.


    The Durub, eyes alight with a hunger for vengeance, advanced on Pedhaer, planning on cleaving him from head to toe, but once again Pedhaer narrowly skipped to the side, the heavy blade finding naught but air. The edge of the young man''s shield, however, found the Durub''s helmeted head. In the short time it took the Durub to stagger back from the impact, four spears struck his armour and drove him to the ground, but were unable to penetrate the metal. Not that it availed the Orc any, for Pedhaer was quick to reclaim his axe and drive it into the Durub''s skull, ending its life.


    It was a glorious kill, even if the Durub had been heavily distracted and outnumbered, but it did made me worry. Why was a Durub this much to the south? They had no business here and it concerned me, even moreso with the rumours coming from Isengard. What was going on in the world at large while I was here? I would need to ask questions.


    But that would wait. For now we had half a dozen lightly wounded and though Pedhaer hid it well, he had fractured his wrist. I would tell him off for trying to block a Durub''s blows with a shield later, but for now I was wondering how well the Dwarves had trained him that it was his wrist that was fractured as opposed to his entire arm. Or how he had dodged the other blows. Dwarves were not known for their agility in combat.


    In any case, I no longer had any cause to worry over Pedhaer fitting into the group. His eagerness to learn with Ogothar, his Dwarven learned skills at fixing anything that needed fixing and his combat prowess had earned him enough respect to sit at the campfire at night. It was strange how quickly the Dunlending bonded to a lone man if he shed blood with them. I had killed a large Warg, Pedhaer had killed a Durub. If this were to ever become a tradition, the next of our kin who wanted to enter the Dunland tribes would have to kill a Cave Troll.


    Now there''s a thought that puts a smile on my face, but I see the sun setting once more and hunger claws at my stomach. I think I shall find myself a good meal, before joining the youngsters on the training ground. Reminiscing about those times lights a fire in my weary bones and they shall not rest before I have reminded at least a handful of youngsters of the taste of dirt and humility.

 House Oiomiril (WIP)

    Bartherdir Oiomiril


    With the lands of Barketta restored to their former glory and once again flying the banners of House Oiomiril proudly, Lord Bartherdir Oiomiril has returned to the forefront of the realm of the D¨²nedain. While their strength has waned since their glory days from ages past, they are nevertheless still a force to behold, even if they seem to lack the discipline of House Emeryar or the gleaming armour of House Tanocostar, foregoing the tactical finesse of the shield wall or the heavy armour of the knights. Instead they chose to focus, as they always have, on the ways of the mace and the crushing power of this weapon.


    From a young age, as befits the future Lord of House Oiomiril, Lord Bartherdir has trained aggressively with this weapon. Before he assumed the mantle of Lord, when his father still lived, he often travelled the North Downs and made excursions as far north as the cold lands of the Angmarrim. Not one to shirk from battle and often all too eager to join the fray, his slight lack of tactical acumen and patience does not diminish his capabilities as a leader of Men, for he makes more than up for that with the skill to inspire the men under his command as heavily armoured Angmarrim, tall Orcs or savage Wargs all fall under his fell blows. A giant of a man whose body is covered in scars, he bears a silent grudge against the terrors of the North that once ransacked the Kingdom of Arnor and is quick to rush to the frontline whenever the forces of Angmar are near.


    Lord Bartherdir is not a subtle man and prefers a direct approach over everything else. He will not mince words under any circumstances and while this may make him not suited for any situation where diplomacy is required, it does make him beloved by the local populace, who see him as an inspiring hero, a man of the people, who will not stand before any injustice, no matter how small. He is at heart, however, not suited to sit in a palace, for he will quickly grow restless unless he is taking the fight to the ancient enemy. While he has no love lost for the Orcs of the Misty Mountains, it is on the field of battle against the Angmarrim that his rage burns truly brightly, lighting a fire in the hearts off all those near to him as he and his retinue drive a deep wedge into enemy lines, time and time and again, shrugging off wounds that would fell lesser men, their maces reaping a deadly toll amidst their foes.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Only when the fortress of Carn D?m is razed to the ground, when the last banner of Angmar has gone up in flames and when the Witch King is well and truly dead will House Oiomiril cease their unrelenting offensive against the North, for they have sworn to not dwell in the lands of their forefathers until justice, the one truth this noble House upholds before all others, has been served to the Evil from the North.


    So have sworn the ancient lords of House Oiomiril. So has sworn Lord Bartherdir.

 House Tanocostar

    Bregoldir Tanocostar


    With Ann¨²minas restored to its former glory, the walls of this great city have begun to flourish with life once more. Gone are the dark times that haunted House Tanocostar, as their Knights once again have donned their armour and stand vigil at the gates, for Lord Bregoldir has returned. The veteran ranger, who had in times past stubbornly refused his seat on the Council, has now resumed his rightful place as the Knight-Commander of the Knights of Arthedain. Despite his oaths as a Knight, he holds in his heart no love for battle and would not venture far from his native lands unless duty permitted him no other choice, instead preferring to safeguard the lives of his people.


    He is a stalwart defender, an educated, noble man who has lead the members of House Tanocostar through many heroic, unsung victories in the wild, ever vigilant and protecting the innocent behind them with blade and shield in hand. This was before the great city was restored and now, with the smiths hammering away day and night and the horse breeders raising steeds of war, Lord Bregoldir has taken back to the saddle. He has donned his gleaming armour and patrols the city and its vicinity with sharp eyes, ever vigilant for Evil in all its forms. No Snaga, Orc, Goblin or traitorous Men can sneak past him or his retinue of stalwart defenders. For he is the armoured heart of Ann¨²minas! And he shall never again permit darkness to fall over its lands.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    As much as Lord Bregoldir prefers to remain in the city and apply his considerable intellect and wisdom into guiding it towards further prosperity, there are times when the armoured heart must become a mailed fist and while it is not in his character to seek war, neither does he shirk from it and when called to defend the ancient lands of Arnor, he does so with great skill. When Lord Bregoldir takes to the field, the creatures of Melkor shiver in fear as the retinue of House Tanocostar charges into their ranks, lances and naked blades glittering in the light of day, devotion in their hearts and Elendil''s name on their lips. As kind and gentle as he is when amongst his kin, so full of fury he becomes when those he protects are threatened.


    Yet, once the battle is done, he wastes little time and always seeks to return home as swift as his steed can carry him. For in Ann¨²minas is where his heart lays and now that it is back in the hands of the D¨²nedain, after generations of painful longing, he would gladly sacrifice his life to keep it safe, a trait shared amongst all members of House Tanocostar.

 House Emeryar

    Garaven Emeryar


    In a bygone age House Emeryar were the proud guardians of the grand fortress-city of Fornost Erain! Tall where their banners and stature and mighty were their skill at arms! Now, over a thousand years later, there is as much left of the once glorious House Emeryar as there is of the city they were sworn to protect. Yet, even when at its most desolate, tall men, shrouded in clothes and wielding long spears tread the empty pathways of the city, their eyes ever watching for danger as they darted from shadow to shadow. For just as the city remained, even as a ruin, so did House Emeryar!


    Lord Garaven, a man with a plain appearance and no outstanding features, commands his House with the experience only a humiliating defeat can teach. He knows that in terms of numbers, they are no match for the black might of Angmar. He knows that in terms of industry, his small band of loyal retainers is no match for the tireless industry that goes on in the Misty Mountains. A thousand years ago, when his ancestors made a final, heroic stand against the overwhelming forces of Evil, House Emeryar paid for this knowledge with their blood.


    Gone are the days of glory where House Emeryar stood against their foes in the light of day, proudly marching over road and field to engage the Orcs and their foul ilk in a bloody melee! Now, under Lord Garaven''s whispered command, these men charge from the depths of night, out of places unseen, spurring their mighty steeds on to greater speed before delivering a swift, crushing blow to the enemy. Speed is their watchword, for these lightly armoured men know better than to stay in close quarters with their long spears. Countless losses have driven Lord Garaven, a quiet and careful man, to spend what few lives that remain under his command with care. He is not one to be taken by surprise and can listen to the land like no other and he has imparted this knowledge onto his men. Driven by a desperation he buries deep within himself, he watches on in horror as the Angmarim invaders draw ever closer to what is now mockingly called Deadman''s Dike.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Now, with Fornost Erain restored, House Emeryar fights all the harder, once again in the possession of a home to protect and oaths to uphold! As such, the warriors of House Emeryar fight unlike most other D¨²nedain or men of Arnor. They do not face the enemy, they hunt them down. They do not use arrows, heavy blades or rows of pikes to slaughter their foe, but subterfuge, speed and ambushes. Lord Garaven has travelled far north and seen the numberless armies of the dark forces of Angmar and knows that he cannot win this way. So he lets them come, allows them to draw near, before he and his men charge out of cover, terrifying the enemy with their mighty charge that, when unleashed upon an unsuspecting flank, rivals even that of the fabled Knights of Arthedain. With long spears in hand, light shields in place, they swiftly slaughter anything in their path, be it Orcs, Snaga or even the much hated Wargs. Then, the moment their charge drops in momentum, he and his men turn to disappear in the forest once more.


    Hidden and unseen, eyes ever watching as they travel far along the northern border, Lord Garaven leads House Emeryar, fighting ever so fiercely to protect their kingdom restored.

 Duke of Girithlin

    <u>Duke Theriion of Girithlin</u>


    As Cardolan has been reclaimed and restored, the Lords of the land have returned, to the great joy of its inhabitants. In the once great city of Girithlin, now much reduced in size and glory, Lord Theriion has taken up residence, moving into his ancestral home once more after centuries of forced absence.


    The lands of Girithlin have, in ancient times, served as the breadbasket for much of Arnor and Lord Theriion, more than any other, knows the value of this, for no army can fight if their stomach is not filled. To this extent the elderly Lord has, for the duration of his life, further enhanced his knowledge of the land. Whether this lays in agriculture or strategical acumen matters little to him, for they are two sides of the same coin. In both regards he is a master of his trade, a man who would rather nurture than destroy and who would love nothing more than see Girithlin grow in power and wealth. He spends his nights dreaming of endless fields full of grain, surrounding the city and during the day he works to make this true.


    The nobles of Girithlin have a long tradition of being wealth focused, foregoing the aggressive combat that seems to be more suited for the rest of the Dunedain in exchange for a broader, economical skillset. They are less likely to find enemies, as only a smattering of clans surround them, who are no match for the tall walls of the city. Yet one should take care not to underestimate the Duke and his armies, for while they are not keen on going to war, neither will they shy away from it when the time comes and from all fiefdoms in Cardolan, Girthilin is the most populous and they can draw on formidable manpower should the need arise.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Lord Theriion is no incapable commander either, for he and the other nobles of Cardolan have spent years guarding the southern border of what once was noble Arnor. They patrolled the Greyflood river and made sure no dangerous excursions of raiders of Wildmen made it across, combining their skills into a potent, lethal force, making up for their smaller numbers with skill. With Cardolan reformed and his city and lands restored to him, he is less eager to move far away from the regions entrusted into his care, but those he will defend all the more fierce, for they contain his home, his retainers and his subjects, all of which he holds dear. When the horn is sounded and the Duke of Girthilin marches to war, he does so in the best gear his wealth can afford him and with his most capable retainers by his side. Clad in thick armour, wielding towering shields and heavy swords, Lord Theriion and his men will cut a path through anything foolish enough to threaten the peace of Girithlin.


    While not a master of the offensive skills of war, he more than compensates in his abilities to defend. When he leads his men from behind the city walls, his troops cheer and rest assured, for the armies of Girithlin have never tasted defeat when Lord Theriion leads them in the defence.


    A strong, capable man, who prefers peace and therefore prepares for war. A Duke of Girithlin, last in a long line of nobles closely intertwined with the city. A wise man, who is rumoured to be able to make even the deserts of Harad bloom with life.


    He is Duke Theriion of Girithlin and with Cardolan restored, he shall fight nobly at your side.

 Tharbad Fortress (Ruined)

    Once upon a time this fortress stood tall, keeping a careful watch over the Royal Road that connected the kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor. Once upon a time loyal retainers made their home here and stood guard on the walls. Patrols reached out far and wide and the city grew in splendour, safeguarded by its mighty walls.


    Now much of that splendour is gone, along with its inhabitants. When the Great Plague struck in 1636, TA, its slow fall began and it was complete by 2919, TA, when the great floods that followed the Fell Winter devastated Enedwaith. Still, the abandoned fortress stands tall. Or perhaps not entirely abandoned yet. Shadows still move in the ruins, making good use of the shelter to be found there. Ancient armouries can sometimes be cracked open. Old storehouses are sometimes found underneath the rubble.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    The fortress is ruined, but even a ruined fortress is still mighty and whoever holds it can reap the benefits from what once was. Perhaps... It can even be rebuilt.

 Tharbad Fortress (Rebuilt)

    The splendour of old has returned to the once ruined city of Tharbad! No longer holds decay sway over its mighty walls and royal halls! Workers, craftsmen, architects and engineers have toiled endlessly to restore this mighty fortress to its former glory, and now this grand work is finally complete!


    The once abandoned armouries are now filled with sharp swords and glistening shields! Smithies blow smoke into the sky, stables are filled with noble warhorses. Banners and flags wave proudly in the sky and soldiers patrol its walls and streets. With all of its decrepit facilities having been repaired and rebuilt, the armies of the D¨²nedain now control a mighty stronghold. A powerful base from which they can sally out, be it to protect the city proper or to launch powerful invasions upon the forces of Evil. Behold, Men of the Wild, for the guardians of old have returned! Behold, creatures of the Dark, for the successors of Arnor have reclaimed their heritage!If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    And they shall suffer no invader!

 Tharbad Bridge (Ruined)

    Located on the river Gwatho, or the Greyflood if you ask the locals, the city of Tharbad was constructed as a major trade centre, located between the Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor. Great was the wealth that moved between through this port-city. Great trade fleets weighed down their anchors in the ford of Tharbad. Countless caravans crossed the mighty bridge that spanned between the two halves of the city, before departing on the well guarded Royal Road that lead to the North. Even from the South, goods and merchants entered the city, for while the river provided easier methods of transport, the land route was not neglected either.


    But that was long ago, and the once glorious bridge is now nothing but a wrecked ruin. Few dare to cross it, for the footing is treacherous and more than one traveller has met his gruesome end after a long fall down. As Tharbad was abandoned in 2912, TA, decay slowly began to take hold of the city. The waystations fell in disrepair. The bridge no longer was maintained. Still it was used, if more sparingly now that the once proud garrison of the city no longer patrolled and protected the paths. Entirely abandoned it never was, for the route was too practical and the alternatives too few. Even when the bridge itself could no longer support caravans and only permitted small parties to pass through, it still saw use. The facilities that had once promoted trade still existed, if often buried under rubble, pillaged by bandits, raiders or the locals themselves, or reduced to rust by the hand of time itself.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    It now stands as a monument of ages past. Of splendour long gone. A memory of what the might of Arnor once held. And perhaps, to the ambitious, a relic to be restored...

 Tharbad Bridge (Rebuilt)

    The city has begun to flourish and under the careful gaze of the best architects of the realm, the bridge has been restored to its former glory! No longer do merchants have to traverse around broken stones, dangerous pathways and damaged roads. They can now travel, for a small fee of course, across the mighty bridge!


    Waystations dot the long trek and patrols of the Thans, soldiers whose sole task is to protect the bridge and the roads leading up to it, safeguard the traders and travellers. As the city itself now bustles with activity, this glorious project has been welcomed by its populace. The bridge, beyond being a sign of returning wealth, is also a point of pride to the citizens. It is a sign that the might of Arnor''s descendants has not yet faded away. With the road to the South still a ruin and the road to the North often raided by bandits or Orcs, the bridge provides a welcome, safe path to the many merchants of Middle Earth who roam far and wide to ply their trade.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    Truly, it is a sign that the might of Men is returning and that the power of the Dark is fading! Praise be to the D¨²nedain, for they have brought order, peace and wealth to the city once again!

 Citylords Palace (Ruined)

    The grand palace of the Citylord of Tharbad was once the crowning jewel of this proud city. Now it is nothing more than a wreck, picked clean over the many centuries. It has lain abandoned since 2912, TA, and has only been used for rudimentary shelter since. Occasionally, when a larger group takes possession of the city, some of its old rooms are restored to something resembling functionality. A handful of scribes or officials will roam the halls for a while, taking tally of taxes and making sure the ruined city is properly run.


    After all, even though there are no golden banners, no silken carpets and no brightly burning braziers to be found, the building itself remains functional. Tharbad was abandoned, not sacked, and as the last nobles and lords left the city for brighter horizons, they took their treasuries and valuables with them.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Where once hundreds of servants toiled, where dozens upon dozens of scribes meticulously tallied away in their ledgers, where countless administrators slaved away in civil disputes and where the mighty nobles and lords of Arnor and Gondor alike lavished in luxurious rooms, now only silence reigns. The palace stands empty, a ruined monument to the once-glory of Tharbad. It would be a near inconceivable task to rebuilt it, but should a wealthy,mighty and ambitious ruler succeed in this, would it not be worth the prize?

 Citylords Palace (Rebuilt)

    The tall, iron-wrought gates are wide open! The entrance way paved with shining cobblestones! Flags and D¨²nedain banners wave proudly atop the towers and guards outfitted in gleaming breast plate and polished halberds stand guard at every corner. Luxurious guest rooms filled with finely crafted furniture and hand-woven carpets fill the wings and scribes hold their heads high as they rush from desk to desk, their liveries proudly displaying the colours of the D¨²nedain reclaimers. Gone are the days of the ruined palace, for it now stands rebuilt in all its splendour and glory!


    After many months of endless toiling and the expenditure of vast fortunes, the population of Tharbad now once again takes pride in its most prestigious building! The palace, crown jewel of the city, stands once more. The descendants of Arnor, or their chosen administrators, once again rule over the city, its wealth and its populace from the comfort of the palace, a place rightfully reserved for them. While one might expect that the excessive expenditure required to rebuilt this bastion and the arrival of dedicated administrators who make sure no tax goes amiss might be a cause of annoyance for the populace, this is far from the case. Instead, the citizens of Tharbad take immense joy in having the palace rebuilt and their connection with the royal line of Arnor restored!If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    A symbol of luxury, a symbol of might, a symbol of the golden days of old. A symbol that the power of Arnor still exists and that its descendants are no less mighty than their ancestors. Proud the palace stands! Proud its people are! For the D¨²nedain! For Arnor!

 Duke Rossendir of Tyrn Gorthad

    With the restoration of Cardolan and the open return of the D¨²nedain of old, the city of Tyrn Gorthad has opened its gates once again and Duke Rossendir strides into the light of day once more after having fought the expeditions of Angmar for centuries. While their blades have lost their gleam and their thick plate armour have lost their glitter compared to the glory days of old, the men wearing them are of the same blood as their ancestors. Undiluted Numenorean blood flows through their veins, their heritage kept pure, their family tree clear. The Duke and his men are proud of this and this is reflected in how they carry themselves.


    On the battlefield they arrive as a storm. Their honour and duty demand they meet their foes on the field of battle in open conflict, whenever and wherever they can be found. Yet they know that secrecy is their strongest weapon and that marching to war with their noble banners held high is inviting disaster on their much diminished forces, so Lord Rossendir developed a simple, brutal and highly efficient tactic.


    Upon being informed that an enemy is near, for they never venture far from their homeland, the retinue of the Lord of Tyrn Gorthad marches to war. They do so swiftly and without sparing themselves or their horses, for their stamina is strong and they are well versed in the art of forced marching. Then, upon reaching their foes, Lord Rossendir''s straight forward and direct character blossoms as he leads his men in a brutal, unstoppable charge. One can only imagine the fright instilled into the D¨²nedain''s foes when met with such force, banners held high, lances held low. While the sun no longer reflects of their battered shields, bruised plates and well used blades, the men wielding them are no less lethal for that, and the charge takes the small band deep into the enemy ranks. What few foes their lances leave alive, are quickly silenced by their blades. Once they are sure no enemy lives to tell the tale, they disappear once again, their honour satisfied and their lands safeguarded.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Lord Rossendir is not a simple brute, however, nor does he purely rely on his impressive strength. He is a smart man, handsome and charismatic, as befits a noble of his status. Even so, despite how beloved he is by the common people and how a word of his can quiet a crowd, he is ill suited for the daily running of a city. He is a warrior first and foremost, a commander who inspires loyalty and strength in his followers, who puts fear into the heart of his enemies and is forever on the offense. He refuses to huddle behind a wall in fear, but will search out the foes of the D¨²nedain wherever they might hide.


    As such, he is not only a general of great renown, but also an adept logistician. He knows how to press his army to get the most out of the men. Although he is not overly accurate where it concerns bookkeeping. As a noble, after all, must treat his men lavishly if they are to fight and die under his command.


    And now he has come to fight for you, my Lord. Lord Rossendir of Tyrn Gorthad, last in a long, pure line of true blooded Numenoreans, pledges his sword to your cause, and with it those of his men. For Cardolan! For the D¨²nedain! For Arnor!