The sun finally climbed lazily over the treetops, its bright rays filtering through the canopy, scattering fragments of light onto the ground. The soldiers, who had been on edge throughout the night, could finally relax and take a breather.
"Is it over?" A dwarf looked at the rising sun and asked.
"Hahaha! Those damned dark-skinned fiends will have nowhere to hide in broad daylight!"
"Eh? Where are our ranger allies? Have them check if those blackskins have truly retreated."
"By my beard! I miss cheese, jerky, and strong ale!"
…
"The sun is up!" Rynar lifted the tent flap, allowing the gentle sunlight to spill inside. The warmth on his skin was soothing.
"Looks like this farce has finally ended." Caslow stretched and walked out.
"I'll go tally the results of the battle and send the rangers out to scout the area. Also, let the soldiers return for some food and rest." With that, Caslow briskly departed.
"King Rynar, thanks for the hospitality, but I should get some rest as well. My arms are sore from swinging my axe all night, hah! I'm getting old!" Balin laughed heartily as he bid Rynar farewell.
"Farewell, Lord Balin. Don't forget breakfast! And don't oversleep—we have to be on the road this afternoon!" Rynar waved and reminded him.
"Hmm? Lord Omsk, do you need something?" Rynar, about to drop the tent flap and sleep, turned his head only to see his "First General" Omsk comfortably seated, indulging in his dessert as if he were at home. The sight made Rynar both amused and exasperated.
"As expected! Those kitchen maids are biased… The honey in the king's pastries is way more than what they put in ours!" Omsk wore a blissful expression, completely ignoring Rynar's dissatisfied look.
"Uh… That's my snack. And I think we all need some rest right now." Rynar's forehead twitched. Where had his once mature and dependable hero gone? Had Caslow led him astray?
"No worries, Your Highness. A great king must learn to share with his loyal knights." Omsk nodded sagely while savoring Rynar's exquisite pastry.
"Take it! Get out! I need to sleep!" Rynar, eyes red from exhaustion, shoved the plate into Omsk's hands and pointed at the door, roaring in frustration. After an entire night of tension and no rest, Rynar was ready to devour anyone who dared block his sleep. He meant it—he wouldn't let even the gods stop him!
Shoving and kicking, he finally ejected Omsk from the tent and immediately collapsed onto his hammock like a dried-out salted fish, lying completely still.
"Omsk likes sweets? This mighty warrior has tastes like a maiden? What a glutton! The trolls probably won't attack again after the beating they took last night. If we continue westward, we should reach Karlrock Ford, as Lance described. According to him, it is occupied by the druid skinchanger Beorn. It's the only human stronghold left in this valley." Though his body rested, Rynar's mind raced. Every decision he made concerned the lives of over five hundred men under his command.
"Forget it. Sleep first. To hell with everything else. Not even the High King himself could stop me from sleeping right now. I'll deal with everything else later!" Eventually, the bed's irresistible pull won, and Rynar fell into a deep slumber, abandoning all further planning to fate.
…
"Your Highness, this was a large tribe!" As soon as Rynar emerged from his tent, Caslow, who had been waiting, rushed over.
"Explain." Rynar took the towel offered by a nearby guard and wiped his face as he listened.
"We killed nearly four hundred trolls last night! And all of them were adult warriors! No old, weak, or sick ones among them! You should know, there aren't many troll tribes left in Middle-earth capable of mustering four hundred battle-ready warriors!" Caslow gestured excitedly.
"What are our casualties?" Rynar didn't care about enemy losses—he only wanted to know if his men were safe and sound.
"The rangers from Lordaeron suffered the worst—they're all injured in some way… Fortunately, none were fatal. The Dunwenian heavy swordsmen… those guys are just exhausted. The city guards are in good condition. As for the royal guards… their only casualty was one unlucky fellow who twisted his ankle while cleaning up the battlefield due to his heavy armor…" Caslow's expression was oddly amused.
"Oh no! A twisted ankle? Such a grievous wound! Such a tragic loss! So you wasted my time telling me all that just to say everyone's fine, huh?" Rynar exaggerated dramatically.
"Next time, get to the point! Don't make it sound like we lost half our men the moment I step out of my tent!" He shot Caslow an annoyed look.
"Uh…" Caslow grinned but said nothing.
"By the way, how are our dwarf friends?" Rynar asked.
"Hmm… They seem to be doing just fine!" Rynar had barely taken a few steps before he smelled the distinct aroma of strong dwarven ale and saw them dancing and singing merrily.
"Honestly, I think the dwarves didn't even get their fill of battle last night. Their heavy armor alone would've taken the trolls forever to break through." Caslow shrugged. Dwarven craftsmanship was renowned throughout Middle-earth, after all.
"Have our men eat and rest! Tell Balin to keep his men in check! We leave after lunch! I don't want to see a bunch of drunkards!" Rynar frowned at the reveling dwarves. He was in a hurry to complete his mission and earn the Dragon Knight's title. Besides, Nyx was waiting for him back home—he had no time to waste.
"Understood, Your Highness!" Caslow nodded and left.
"Omsk! Are you a pig?! Did you not eat breakfast? Where's my dessert? The special pastries Nyx made for me? That huge platter? All gone?!" Not long after, Rynar's anguished wails echoed through the camp.
"Ahem, Your Highness, that was a generous royal gift from you… A whole plate, yes, this morning!" Omsk gestured with his hands, looking utterly wronged.
"You ate an entire plate in one morning?! Are you a Behemoth?!" Rynar was devastated at the loss of Nyx's lovingly made treats. As he stared at Omsk's pitiful expression, he wanted to slap himself—why had he been so foolish? Since when did Omsk have such a sweet tooth?! Rynar was heartbroken.
"Well done, knight! Because of you, we shall have no more delightful pastries on this journey, because… you! Ate! Them! All!" Rynar's sarcastic praise was dripping with grievance.
"Pfft—" In the corner, Caslow, watching Omsk get scolded like a child, couldn't hold back his laughter, letting out an unholy snorting sound.
…
A few days later.
"Finally! We made it out!" Rynar gazed at the vast plains ahead and sighed in relief.
"Damn! I hate dense forests!" Balin exhaled.
"Caslow! Check the map and see where we are!"
"Karlrock Ford?" Caslow's lips twitched as he looked at the hand-drawn map. It was a miracle Lance had managed to navigate using this mess of doodles.
"Hey! We've been here before! This is Beorn's land!" Balin recognized the area from their journey during the Lonely Mountain expedition.
"Good. That means we didn't take a wrong turn. Caslow! Send the rangers to scout ahead! Everyone else, stay put!" Rynar commanded.
"Wait… Karlrock Ford? A ford? Where's the river? Where's the mighty Anduin?!" Omsk suddenly had a terrifying realization.
"Oh crap… Are we lost?!" Rynar stood frozen in shock.
"Dragon god help us! What kind of pathfinding is this?!" Omsk patted Caslow's shoulder, expressing his "admiration."