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Chapter 55: The Sword Yet Unnamed
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 16:21:34 +0000 UTCSwish—
With a sweeping stroke, Eric's sword cleaved through yet another warg, igniting its coarse fur in flames. The beast let out a gurgled howl before collapsing, unmoving.
Riding atop his faithful warhorse, Eric chased down the scattering orcs, giving the dwarves behind him precious time to regroup.
"Shoot the horse!" bellowed the orc chieftain.
A group of orc archers fumbled to notch arrows, drawing back their crude bows and aiming for the charging steed.
But hitting a full-speed warhorse from a distance? They might as well try shooting the moon. Even if they somehow landed a shot, the most they'd achieve was scratching off a few hit points. In fact, judging by the stacks of hay blocks Eric kept in his inventory, the beast could stand still and let them exhaust their quivers without much worry.
As for Eric himself? The occasional arrow barely made his health bar twitch. These days, common weapons barely registered against his defenses.
Hooves thundered across the plain. Eric cut down each fleeing warg with practiced ease, the fire-lit blade whistling with deadly rhythm.
Then, a horn blew in the distance—familiar, noble, and clear.
Doooom!
A battalion of elves clad in silver-grey armor thundered across the horizon. They hadn't yet engaged the orcs but had already formed into battle lines, orderly and disciplined.
What followed was more of a cleanup than a battle. The orc lieutenant tried shouting his warriors into formation, but his voice was quickly drowned by the shrieks of dying orcs.
"Retreat!" he screamed—and then promptly turned tail and ran first.
He'd known this skirmish was a lost cause the moment that terrifying man joined the fight. The plan was to stall Eric, kill the dwarves, and vanish before reinforcements arrived.
Too late. Not only had they failed to kill anyone important, but now a company of elven cavalry had joined the fray.
Game over.
Within minutes, the plains were emptied—those orcs who hadn't been incinerated or trampled had vanished into the hills, howling in panic.
Eric scanned the field. Gandalf and the dwarves were nowhere in sight. He figured they'd already taken the hidden path into Rivendell.
Once the orcs were cleared, the elven cavalry regrouped and trotted toward Eric, weapons sheathed.
"Well, it's you again," said a familiar voice.
Lord Elrond rode forward, his hair silvered by moonlight, an amused smile playing on his lips.
"You've grown stronger since we last met," he said, slowing his horse beside Eric. "Rumors of your deeds have reached even my halls."
"I'm honored," Eric replied politely, saluting with his blade. "I assure you, I didn't bring the orcs this time."
"I was wondering about that," Elrond murmured. "They've been unusually active near our borders."
Eric shrugged. "This time, it's... complicated. Let's just say they're almost here."
"They?"
Elsewhere, at the gates of Rivendell—
"Mithrandir," said a tall elf descending the marble steps, greeting the wizard with a bow.
"Ah, Lindir!" Gandalf greeted warmly.
"I heard you crossed the Ford of Bruinen," Lindir remarked in Elvish.
"I must speak with Lord Elrond," said Gandalf, his tone turning serious.
"He's not in the Hall at the moment."
"Not in?" Gandalf frowned. "Where is he?"
Before Lindir could answer, a horn rang out at the valley's entrance.
A column of elven riders crossed the slender bridge in disciplined formation.
"On guard!" shouted the dwarves. They quickly formed a protective circle around Bilbo, weapons drawn and suspicious eyes fixed on the incoming elves.
"Wait—is that... Eric?" Bilbo squinted from the middle of the group, scrambling to the front.
"Elrond," Gandalf greeted as the elven lord dismounted.
"Gandalf," Elrond returned the nod. "Mellonnen." He greeted his old friend with the grace of the Eldar.
After handing off his helm and sword to Lindir, Elrond fell into conversation with Gandalf, his brows furrowed in thought.
"Three orc raids in such a short time... It's unusual. Last time, they were drawn by a certain dangerous human. And this time?"
"That would be... us," Gandalf admitted.
Eric strolled over just then, casually handing his reins to a stable elf.
"You all know each other?" Elrond arched an eyebrow, glancing between Gandalf and Eric.
"That's what I wanted to ask," Gandalf muttered dryly.
He stepped aside to present the dwarves. "Allow me to introduce—Thorin, son of Thrain."
"You and I have never met," Thorin said stiffly, staring up at the tall elf.
Elrond studied him a moment before replying, "Your bearing reminds me of your grandfather. I knew Thror when he still ruled beneath the mountain."
"Really? Funny. He never mentioned you," Thorin replied coolly.
Elrond took a slow breath, choosing diplomacy over pride. He turned to an attendant and instructed in Elvish, "Light the fires. Prepare wine. See our guests are well treated."
"Did he just insult us in his tree-speak?" Gloin growled.
"No, no, he's inviting us to dinner," Gandalf explained with a sigh.
The dwarves huddled.
"Well, if food's involved, we can let that go," one muttered.
They followed their hosts—albeit with the enthusiasm of people headed to a dentist.
Later that evening…
The dwarves stared at the dining table in stunned silence.
No meat. No stew. No roast. Just… leaves. Raw ones.
"Are they seriously eating this?"
"This is what I feed my pony when I run out of oats!"
"Eric's rations taste better than this—and they're compressed hay cakes."
They grumbled, picking at their salads like children punished for misbehavior.
"Can we ask Eric to cook?" someone whispered. "If he makes it, I'll eat grass."
At another table, Kili winked at a slender elf.
"I don't like elves," he said, "but that one's kind of pretty—"
"That's not a girl," someone muttered.
Pffffft—
Dwarf laughter exploded down the table. Kili sank into his seat, face burning.
Meanwhile...
Eric sat with Gandalf, Elrond, and Thorin. They were discussing weapons, and Elrond was inspecting each blade in turn.
"Elven craftsmanship," he said, examining Thorin's sword. "Orcrist. Forged in the West by my kin. May it serve you well."
Despite Thorin's earlier snark, Elrond's voice carried no bitterness—only genuine hope the blade would live up to its legend.
Then Gandalf added, "Why not take a look at Eric's sword as well? He's been cutting down wargs and orcs left and right with that thing."
"Oh, this old piece?" Eric grinned and unslung the weapon. "You already looked at it last time."
Even so, he handed it over.
Elrond took it in both hands, more carefully this time. He turned it over, eyes narrowing.
"I can say with certainty," he murmured, "that its craftsmanship rivals the finest blades of the First Age."
He paused.
"And… unless I'm mistaken… it has changed."
A faint glow pulsed from the blade's surface—barely visible unless one looked closely.
"It radiates heat. Magic, perhaps. It feels… sharper. As if the flames and blood of battle have awakened something dormant."
He handed it back with a solemn nod.
"It may soon be time for you to name it."
Eric blinked. "A name, huh?"
He looked at the blade thoughtfully… and felt his usual affliction creeping in—chronic name indecisiveness.
Meanwhile, under the table, Bilbo discreetly slid out his own short blade, inspecting it with new interest.
Balin leaned over. "No offense, lad, but I'm not sure that even qualifies as a sword. More like a fancy letter opener."
Bilbo sighed and quietly returned it to its sheath.
The banquet ended peacefully—though the wine had received more praise than the food. The dwarves agreed on one thing: even Eric's travel rations were better than Rivendell's salad bar.
Eric knew the elves had meat, of course—they'd served him venison on his last visit. Tonight's vegetarian feast was a subtle act of diplomatic revenge. After all, you don't insult a host and expect roasted lamb in return.
That night, under starlight...
Elrond knelt beside Gandalf and Thorin, reading the ancient moon-runes on Thorin's map by firelight.
Elsewhere, Bilbo stood by a railing, staring at the breathtaking valley, completely entranced.
Eric, meanwhile, was back at the stables, explaining to a very confused elf that no, the horse didn't need hay or apples.
"Just… don't feed him. Trust me."
He was also asking about Aglanir—the elf who had once graciously hosted him. Eric had invited him to visit his fortress, but judging by elven timekeeping, Agra probably thought Eric had only been gone a couple of days.
Still, now that he was back, it wouldn't hurt to bring a small gift of thanks.
Far away, atop Mount Gundabad…
A battered orc captain crawled to a pale, muscular warchief.
"W-we lost the dwarves, master," he whimpered. "The elves ambushed us…"
Azog slowly turned, towering over the coward.
"I don't want excuses," he growled.
The smaller orc trembled. "They had help… a terrifying human… I barely escaped with my life—"
Crack.
Azog seized him by the throat and lifted him effortlessly.
"You'd have been better off dying out there!"
With a sickening snap, the orc's neck twisted. Azog tossed the body aside, where it was quickly dragged off by hungry wargs.
"Place a bounty on the dwarves," he snarled. "I want their heads."
ROOOAAARR!
The orcs shrieked and scrambled onto their wargs, ready to spread out in search.
Just before they rode, a scout crept forward.
"Master… there's something else. We saw a city. Big. Quiet. East of here."
Azog's eyes darkened. His clenched fist trembled with barely contained rage.
"Stay away from it," he ordered.
He didn't need to ask whose city it was.
Long ago, two orcs had returned from that fortress—terrified, broken, spreading stories that made even battle-hardened warriors shiver.
No one had dared go near it since.
And after what happened in the valley of the Anduin… that fear had turned into hate.
And that hate… into dread.
