Chapter 10: The Orcs of Minhiriath

Gandalf's beard twitched. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then finally managed to say, "If Smaug were so easily slain, my friend, the Dwarves would not have been homeless for centuries, afraid to return to their mountain."

Tarnes removed his helmet, setting the silver-white helm aside. He took a deep breath of the cool night air and met the wizard's gaze. "What the Dwarves cannot do does not mean that I cannot, Gandalf," he said, his voice earnest. "You may not believe it, but I have slain many dragons in my time. I have even defeated the kings of their kind. If you need my aid, I can kill this Smaug for you. Alone, if I must."

A flicker of memory, sharp and exhilarating, shot through him: the roiling scarlet lightning of the Dragonlord Placidusax, the deathly flames of Lichdragon Fortissax. The memory of those battles sent a thrill of excitement through him, a feeling he had not known since leaving his own world.

Gandalf took a slow puff from his pipe. "Perhaps you do possess such power, Mr. Tarnes. But can you guarantee a single, decisive blow? If not, a wounded and enraged Smaug will unleash his fury upon the Men of Lake-town, who live in the shadow of the mountain." He leaned forward, his voice low and serious. "And I do not know what the dragons of your homeland were like, but Smaug is nearly one hundred and fifty meters from snout to tail. His scales are like steel, and his fire can incinerate a man in an instant."

Tarnes listened, his expression sober. He did not dismiss the warning. He knew better than to grow arrogant. Even the most common dragon in the Lands Between demanded one's full attention; a moment of carelessness meant being burned to ash or crushed between stone-like fangs. He had survived not just through strength, but through a healthy respect for his enemies. To underestimate a foe was the first and most fatal mistake—a lesson he had learned in blood.

Seeing Tarnes fall silent, Gandalf assumed his point had been made. But when Tarnes spoke again, the wizard was once more taken by surprise.

"One hundred and fifty meters," Tarnes repeated, his voice calm. "Larger, indeed, than most foes I have faced. But size alone will not make me afraid. I give you my word, Gandalf. When you need me, I will do everything in my power to kill it."

Gandalf glanced at Rogier, who had been listening quietly. The wizard's eyes seemed to ask, Is he always this… resolute?

Rogier smiled faintly, sensing the unspoken question. "His courage is not recklessness, Master Gandalf. He feels fear, as any sane man would when facing a superior foe. But he masters it. He fights, and falls, and rises to fight again, until he is the one left standing."

Gandalf chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "It seems I still have much to learn about you, Mr. Tarnes. I will accept your offer. When the time is right, I will seek your aid. But that time is not now. I have not yet finished my work in the North. Besides," he added, his gaze sweeping over the ruins, "you and your friends have your own fortress to build, do you not?"

Tarnes understood. The young Erdtree needed protection. He could not leave. He turned back to the simmering stew, adding a handful of dried vegetables. "You are right, Gandalf."

"I know your courage now," Gandalf said. "When I return, I am certain this place will be much changed."

Tarnes smiled. "I promise you, it will be."

"I believe you," the wizard said, his tone shifting. "And now, when might we enjoy that magnificent soup? The Hobbits have spoiled me with their cooking, and a bowl of hot stew shared with new friends is the perfect ward against the chill of this wilderness."

Tarnes was about to answer when Nepheli's urgent footsteps approached. She knocked sharply on the stone wall of the house. "There is an unclean stench on the wind," she warned, her eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the Erdtree's light. "Something wicked approaches."

The easy warmth of the room vanished. Tarnes sighed, looking regretfully at the nearly finished stew before kicking over the stones of their makeshift stove, extinguishing the fire. He and Rogier exchanged a look. In perfect sync, they rose, drew their weapons, and moved outside.

"Can you tell where they are coming from?" Tarnes asked, pulling his helmet back on.

Nepheli raised her battle-axe, its steel gleaming in the moonlight. She pointed the tip east, then north. "There," she said. "And there. The wind from those directions carries the foulness."

Rogier, his rapier in one hand and his staff in the other, asked, "Could it be a wild beast?"

Gandalf, who had followed them out, shook his head. "No animal would willingly approach such a bright light in the dead of night. It means danger."

As if on cue, a chorus of howls ripped through the silence, chilling and unnatural. In the darkness, startled birds erupted from the trees.

"Wolves?" Rogier asked, his brow furrowed.

"Not ordinary wolves," Nepheli said grimly. "Those are far more dangerous. Rogier, prepare your sorceries."

Tarnes and Gandalf exchanged a look of grim understanding. Though Tarnes's face was hidden, the wizard could feel his exasperation. "It seems you recognize that sound, Mr. Tarnes," Gandalf said.

A note of weariness entered Tarnes's voice. "I do. On my journey here, I was attacked by them—and the Orcs who ride them—many times."

Rogier's rapier began to glow with a brilliant blue light as he infused it with Glintstone energy. "Orcs?" he asked. "What are Orcs?"

"They are a cruel and evil race, loyal to the darkness," Gandalf explained, his eyes fixed on the shadows. "And the wolves are Wargs, their mounts. A large warband must be near. Did they see you on your way here, Tarnes?"

Tarnes thought for a moment. "I fought a patrol, but I left before they were all slain. I fear the survivors may have led their masters back to us, following my trail."

Gandalf glanced at the Erdtree, a beacon in the night. "Or perhaps," he said gently, "they were simply drawn to the light."

Tarnes understood. The tree was too conspicuous.

"Can you control its brightness?" Gandalf asked.

"I cannot," Tarnes replied, a note of frustration in his voice.

Gandalf sighed. "Then give me a blade. It seems I will have need of it. From the sound of it, there are fifty or more."

Nepheli turned to the wizard, her expression stern. "No. You will stay in the house. I will not have an old man fighting at my side. I will protect you."

A smile touched Gandalf's lips. "Thank you for your kindness, good warrior. But just as those are no ordinary wolves, I am no ordinary old man. A wizard does not hide while his friends face the enemy."

Before Nepheli could argue, Tarnes produced a one-handed sword from his pack, its blade slender and golden, and handed it to the wizard. "Believe him, Nepheli," he said. "Especially since he is a spellcaster." He then moved to her side and whispered, "We will keep an eye on him. I have known many proud warriors who refused to admit their age. Time, in the end, defeats them all."

Nepheli nodded almost imperceptibly. "I think so too."

Gandalf, whose hearing was sharper than they knew, simply smiled. His attention was fixed on the blade in his hand. "A holy sword," he murmured, feeling its power. "And you simply lend it to me." He channeled a bit of his own magic into it, and the blade erupted in a brilliant golden light, mirroring that of the Erdtree. The tree seemed to respond, its own light intensifying, feeding the power in the blade.

"It is a Coded Sword," Tarnes explained. "Its former master had ties to the Erdtree. It can channel its power. I thought you might wish to study it more closely."

Gandalf fell into a practiced swordsman's stance. "Then I shall…" He trailed off, his eyes widening. "Wait. What are you doing?"

Tarnes had produced a pile of stones that shimmered with an unstable blue light. "Cuckoo Glintstones," he said, a grim smile in his voice. "We will need them. I do not like facing a horde unprepared. Rogier, help me set these."

As Tarnes began digging shallow pits, Rogier infused the stones with his own magic. They worked quickly, planting the stones in the paths the Orcs would take.

Gandalf looked at Nepheli, a baffled expression on his face. "Is he always like this?"

Nepheli hesitated, then shrugged. "His methods are… unconventional. But they are always effective. We have learned to trust them."

They finished just as the low growls of the Wargs grew louder, closer. Tarnes then produced a handful of cracked ceramic pots crackling with golden lightning. He handed them to Nepheli and Gandalf. "Lightning Pots. Throw them into the thick of the enemy. But not too close."

Gandalf, now juggling a staff, a holy sword, and three explosive pots, looked utterly bewildered. "This is the most complex battle preparation I have ever witnessed."

Tarnes's eyes, hidden behind his helmet, narrowed. He could see them now, dark shapes moving in the shadows. "Complex?" he said, his voice a low growl. "No. You will love it. Trust me."

***

(End of Chapter)

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