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Chapter 54: The Hunt
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 16:20:44 +0000 UTC"Oi, old man!" Eric sheathed his sword with an exasperated sigh. "You really had to steal the kill when the troll was one hit from death?"
Gandalf, as unapologetic as ever, leaned on his staff and grinned.
"A wizard is never late, Eric. Nor is he early. He arrives precisely when someone's about to get flattened."
He gave the three stone-troll statues a satisfied knock with his staff. The trolls had been mid-sprint when petrified by sunlight, and now stood forever in some vaguely ridiculous poses—arms flailing, eyes wide. Gandalf seemed quite proud of his impromptu artwork.
"At least no one lost an arm this time," he remarked.
"We have Eric to thank for that," Thorin said, emerging from the rocky shadows, his expression composed, as if their earlier squabble had never happened.
"These trolls came from the Ettenmoors," Gandalf muttered, his eyes narrowing as he examined the black ichor dripping from Eric's sword. "That's troubling."
The Ettenmoors—a grim, desolate stretch of land bordering the Misty Mountains—wasn't exactly known for sunshine and picnics. It was a breeding ground for trolls, orcs, and all manner of unsavory things. If creatures from there were pushing this far south…
"The last time trolls dared to travel this far, evil had its claws deep in the world," Thorin murmured.
Eric and Gandalf exchanged a look. There was a hidden weight in their silence, something only the wizard and the swordsman seemed to share.
Perhaps, Eric thought grimly, Sauron wasn't quite as dead as everyone hoped. You could burn his body, hack him into meat, but evil had a way of leaking back in, like mold behind a wall. The Dark Lord might have lost his Ring—but that didn't mean he was gone.
Gandalf, catching the flicker of doubt in Eric's eyes, shook his head and turned his gaze to the nearby cliffs.
"Trolls don't wander in daylight," he muttered. "There must be a cave nearby."
Eric was already ten steps ahead—literally. He'd vaulted over a low ridge, torch in hand, and found a cave entrance buzzing with flies and reeking of rot.
"This way!" he called out.
The dwarves followed, most of them gagging as they clamped hands over their noses.
"Smells like something died in here... then died again," Bofur wheezed.
"Troll hoard," Eric replied simply.
The cave opened into a large chamber glittering with treasure. Gold coins, jeweled trinkets, and silver goblets lay scattered like dragon scales across the floor. Chests overflowed with valuables—more than any of them could hope to carry.
"Hit the jackpot," someone whispered.
A few dwarves immediately began burying the excess loot in makeshift holes, grumbling about "saving it for later." Meanwhile, Thorin picked up a pair of ancient swords from beneath a veil of cobwebs.
"These weren't forged by troll hands," he said, frowning.
"Nor by any man," Gandalf agreed, taking one and inspecting it closely. "These blades are from Gondolin. Elven-made. First Age."
Thorin, upon hearing "Elven," made a face like he'd tasted spoiled mead and dropped the sword instantly.
"This," Gandalf continued with a faint smile, "is the finest sword you'll ever hold."
Thorin glanced down, muttered something about "accursed irony," then promptly picked it back up and slid it into his belt.
Eric, meanwhile, studied the swords with narrowed eyes. He recognized them at once.
Glamdring and Orcrist.
Twin blades of legend. Glamdring, once wielded by the High King of the Noldor, Turgon himself. Orcrist, its sister blade, forged to slay orcs by the dozens.
"Mind if I take a look?" Eric asked.
Without hesitation, Gandalf handed him Glamdring. Thorin, after a short grumble, handed over Orcrist.
Glamdring: +9 Attack
Orcrist: +9 Attack
Just like Eric's own ancient blade—balanced, wickedly sharp, and pulsing faintly with enchantment.
"They're fine swords," Eric said at last, "but not necessarily better than mine."
With a flourish, he drew his own sword. The moment it left its sheath, even in the dim cave light, it glinted like moonlight on frost.
If Glamdring was a fire, Eric's sword was a winter storm.
"You could do worse," Gandalf admitted, taking his back.
Thorin, grumbling something about "smug humans," did the same.
They carefully concealed the rest of the treasure in the cave, and prepared to move on.
As they filed out, Gandalf noticed something shiny buried near the exit. It was a dagger—Elven-make and sharp enough to shave the bark off an Ent.
He handed it to Bilbo.
"Real courage," he told the hobbit gently, "isn't about knowing when to kill. It's knowing when not to."
Suddenly, a cry rang out.
"Something's coming!"
Gandalf was outside in a flash, staff in hand. Bilbo stared at the dagger a moment longer, then dashed after him.
It was a false alarm—thankfully.
A brown-robed figure came loping into view atop a sled pulled by rabbits the size of sheep.
"Radagast," Gandalf muttered.
The eccentric wizard looked out of breath.
"Gandalf! Something's wrong in Greenwood," he said urgently. "The spiders—they're growing in number. Big ones. Nasty. They're not normal—they're spawn of Ungoliant!"
The name made even Gandalf pale.
Ungoliant—one of the oldest evils, a monstrous spider born of the Void itself. Gone now, or so the legends said. But her children? Her children still haunted the world. Shelob was one. And even Sauron had feared her.
"I visited Dol Guldur," Radagast continued. "It's worse than we thought. Oh—and I found this."
He pulled out a blade tightly wrapped in cloth.
It was the Witch-king of Angmar's sword.
Gandalf stared at it, expression grave.
Howls shattered the air.
A warg lunged from the ridge.
Eric met it mid-leap and cut it down in one stroke.
But more came.
"A scouting party!" Gandalf shouted. "Which means a full pack is close behind!"
"We have to run!" someone cried.
"The ponies—" a dwarf sputtered. "They've all bolted! Except… Eric's."
Bilbo sighed.
So much for making things easier.
"I'll draw them away," said Radagast.
"I'll finish them off," said Eric.
They stared at each other.
"You'll never outrun Gundabad wargs," Gandalf warned the brown wizard.
"Oh, won't I?" Radagast smirked. "Let them try catching Rhosgobel hares."
There was no more time to argue.
Moments later, the plain erupted into chaos.
Eric rode like a thunderclap through the grass, slicing down wargs with terrifying precision. Half the pack chased him, howling in fury.
The other half went after Radagast, who zigzagged through the terrain with wild abandon, cackling as he went.
Gandalf led Thorin and the others through a hidden path, though not without trouble.
"Forget the madman on the bunny sled!" barked the orc captain chasing them. "Focus on the dwarves!"
With more wargs turning back toward Gandalf's group, the pressure mounted.
Behind a boulder, Bofur peeked out, watching Eric dismantle a pack of wargs like it was a tavern brawl.
"…I take back everything I said," he murmured. "He's not bluffing. That human's a menace."
"Just be glad he's on our side," Gandalf muttered. "Now move! There's a tunnel ahead!"
