In this world, only a rare few will raise their swords against what they do not understand. Even the elite warriors of Gondor, brave as they are, will bow their heads and flee at the cry of the Nazgûl; even the fearless Eldar will weep loudly when faced with an approaching Balrog.
It is not that soldiers lack courage, only that the weight their enemies bring is simply too immense.
Before them, the black-armored warrior wielding an elven longsword seemed to transform into a looming shadow, cast across the entire battlefield.
The Shadow of War.
Yes... how could someone like that be remembered only in tales from the East?
Everything connected together, and the heavy dread pressing on their hearts grew all the heavier.
Clang.
At last, someone could no longer hold onto their weapon, dropping it to the ground involuntarily.
All this happened in just a matter of seconds.
When Garrett arrived, the encirclement was immediately torn open with a massive gash. The Ranger company followed close behind, charging forward with heightened tension.
But to their surprise, the Haradrim they passed did not attack at all.
Could it be... were all these people actually allies?
Kane was utterly confused, but that did not stop them from following Garrett in the breakout.
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"These useless fools! What are they doing, why aren't they attacking!"
Behind them, the enraged commander hurled the barely-breathing Tret aside, kicked him viciously, then raised his blade and roared:
"After them! Stop them!"
"Anyone who falls back, execute them on the spot!"
Rumble...
The army surged forward, mûmakil close behind.
Only when the last line of soldiers had marched past did the commander turn, kicking Tret once more. This time, two of his ribs snapped instantly, leaving him gasping for air.
At last the commander's fury cooled, if only slightly. Grabbing Tret by the throat, he lifted him into the air and said:
"You coward. I'll teach you one thing, a man of iron will can always await his chance, but the wavering man is doomed to die."
"M-my lord..."
Tret gasped desperately for breath, tears streaming from his eyes.
"I-I didn't mean it, I swear, I didn't mean it. My foot slipped..."
"Useless wretch."
Thud.
He was thrown back onto the ground.
"If not for you jostling against me, that arrow would have pierced his heart!"
"You couldn't even show the most basic loyalty. Men like you will never be one of us. Don't even dream of returning alive."
"You are nothing."
"The horse is ready," the lieutenant said as he led forward the commander's steed.
The commander spared not another glance at Tret, mounting his horse with ease.
"How shall we deal with him?" the lieutenant asked.
"Leave him. Let the insects bite him in despair, let the vultures peck out his eyes. Let him slowly repent of his disloyalty."
With those final words, the commander spurred his mount and galloped away.
The lieutenant cast one cold look at the man on the ground, then followed after.
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Elsewhere,when the company's command shifted into Garrett's hands, the change of leadership was obvious, the morale of the unit soared.
Their captain had been calm and wise, but Garrett was something else, he carried the aura of a living legend. One glance at him was enough to fill their hearts with confidence.
Though his command style was direct, even aggressive, it carried a kind of fierce beauty.
And when he charged through the storm of arrows at the very front, single-handedly hacking through the Haradrim shield wall, tearing open the encirclement by brute force, nobody could think of it as a flaw.
A legend has his own way of being legendary.
Why bother with clever maneuvers, if you can simply break through?
"Charge!"
At Garrett's cry, the Rangers drew their gleaming blades, following close at his flanks like wings, tight-knit, yet never hindering his movement.
Meanwhile, Kane rushed behind, frantically signaling to reform the company's formation so it could better adapt to Garrett's style.
Thus they formed a wedge-shaped spearhead with Garrett at the tip, driving forward relentlessly. Every obstacle ahead was violently shattered by his strikes; with a single sweeping slash he felled groups of enemies. The men behind merely had to clean up, the broken soldiers whose spirits had collapsed, whose weapon swings were limp and weak.
This was the company's first attempt at a frontal assault. But it hardly mattered what lay ahead, Garrett would always cut through with one strike, leaving the enemy demoralized.
The sense of safety was overwhelming.
Without this temporary leader at the very front, the company would have been annihilated. Their remarkable success in breaking out was almost entirely his doing.
The breakout worked flawlessly: the Haradrim forces in front collapsed at the first clash, offering no true resistance. In an instant, the company burst through the encirclement, leaving the northern interception forces behind.
But still, the enemy's sheer numbers could not be denied.
Thump... thump...
From behind came both the roar of war cries and the thunderous rumble of marching feet.
Garrett stopped and turned, before him stretched an endless host, a vast army closing in from all sides.
And behind them marched three mighty mûmakil, with archers and spearmen mounted on their backs, glaring down, ready to rain death at any moment.
Because of their presence, this night would never again know peace.
"You keep retreating," Garrett said to Kane.
"And you?"
"I'll stay, and get better acquainted with them."
"That's far too dangerous."
Kane spoke quickly: "Please trust me. We may only be eighty, but each one of us has survived dozens of battles. No matter what it takes, we'll get you to Gondor."
"Dangerous?"
Garrett chuckled. "Then you're right. I am an adventurer."
"Enough."
He patted Kane's shoulder. "If we waste more time, their arrows will be here. Take your elites and withdraw. Stay sharp. After all, I'm just one man, I can't catch everything that slips through."
"I hereby return command to you. I can't fight freely with you all still here."
Kane fell silent, feeling as though a mountain was pressing down on his chest.
Not from fear of war or death, but fear that this legendary lord might gamble too much. His position was far too important. If he fell here... would not all the North of Middle-earth be thrown into chaos?
The consequences would be immense.
"I..."
He drew a deep breath, hesitated, then finally made his decision: "May the Valar watch over you."
"Withdraw!"
He signaled, and immediately the Ranger company fell back northward, leaving Garrett alone.
Absurd, none here were blind. Hadn't his earlier display been outrageous enough?
When the company retreated, the Haradrim host quickened their pace. Yet after advancing another hundred paces, they noticed, one lone figure still stood behind, unmoving, not following the main force.
"Oh?"
By moonlight, the commander gazed at that dark silhouette, face hidden, and felt a burst of amusement.
Confidently, he gave his order: "Crush him. Leave him alive."
The earth shook as the legion advanced.
Garrett raised his elven blade high, the moonlight flashing from its edge with a blinding, icy gleam.
Whizz.
An arrow flew, striking him squarely in the head. But he merely tilted back slightly, never shifting a step, and plucked the shaft out as though it were nothing, then fixed his gaze on the archer who had loosed it.
That look made the commander's heart skip a beat.
"Tricks," he muttered to reassure himself. "Just tricks. Let's see how long you can keep up the act."
At last, the army drew near.
Boom!
Like a volcanic eruption, several burning bodies shot skyward and crashed back to earth. Even the mûmakil shied, halting and stumbling sideways.
"What!?"
The commander's eyes widened at the chaos.
So many men, and they couldn't handle a single man?
Just a mere lord?
He roared, "Out of my way, let me—"
Whoosh.
In moments, flames spread in a great circle. By that light the commander finally saw the man's face, and with it came a wave of terror rising from deep within.
Boom!
The mûmakil's thunderous steps dragged him back into memory, two years past, when he'd marched with burning faith and zeal under the Dark Lord's summons, leading the vanguard of tens of thousands toward the North.
Back then he'd been just a lowly soldier, stationed at the side of an adjutant, all but invisible.
He had seen it with his own eyes: that Shadow of War. Like a phantom, he had appeared beside the commander of thirty thousand, and with a single sword stroke, lifted him into the air. The great commander had no time even to scream before his life was gone.
He had cut in alone, and everything in his path was torn apart, crushed without resistance. Even the mighty mûmakil.
He could withstand their trampling.
Thud!
The sound of shattering rang out as the massive feet of a mûmak struck. The runic shield around Garrett cracked apart at last, bursting into fragments. His belt flared, triggering its long-dormant emergency mechanism, releasing a shockwave that blasted everything nearby away.
Caught off guard, the war-mûmak lurched forward, its great bulk collapsing. The tower on its back toppled and shattered to pieces.
The deafening crash tore the commander from his memories. Looking on, he saw the same scene as before, the past overlapping with the present. As expected, the next instant the mûmak was engulfed in fire. Its agonized trumpeting filled the night as its legs thrashed helplessly. Soldiers gaped in horror, stumbling back.
Then the man's gaze turned on him.
Before the commander could issue an order, his horse was already backing away in panic, snorting heavily.
With a rush, the soldiers cleared a path, straight to their commander.
After all, he had said it himself: let him face him.
Their obedience was absolute. Not a moment's hesitation.
The commander clutched at his chest, his heart hammering, breath harsher even than his horse's.
His lips trembled. At last, from the saddle, he spoke:
"Can we... come to terms?"
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150 = +1 bonus chapter
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100+ Advance chapters!