"Can't go back?"
Hearing Farodon's words, Eric suddenly felt a strange sense of déjà vu.
To most people, that sentence wouldn't make any sense. Only those who understood the wizards' true mission could grasp its weight.
There had been five of them originally—five wizards sent to Middle-earth to aid the Free Peoples against Sauron. Three were stationed across the heartlands of Middle-earth, while two went far into the East. After a time, one of those two traveled even farther south into Harad.
Neither of those regions was small. In truth, the East and the South together rivaled the size of all the western lands combined. The problem, however, was that both territories were largely under Sauron's shadow. The Easterlings had long been his allies, and the South, especially Umbar, had even developed its own cult devoted to the Eye.
Most maps only showed snippets of those distant lands: Rhûn in the East, home of the Easterlings, and Harad in the South, where the Corsairs of Umbar ruled. But those were just small corners of vast realms.
To the west of Mordor, the lands still flourished in diversity. There was room for life, trade, and growth. But the farther one went East or South, the more oppressive the darkness became.
On most maps, Mordor seemed to take up only a small patch of land on the edge of Middle-earth. Yet that was an illusion born of ignorance. The truth was far grimmer. Maps ended at Mordor not because the world did, but because beyond it lay lands too deep in Sauron's grasp for any cartographer to return from.
It wasn't the Free Peoples surrounding Mordor—it was Mordor surrounding them.
That was why the Lonely Mountain could never be lost, and Angmar could never be allowed to rise again.
If those two places fell into Sauron's hands, the western realms of Middle-earth would be like a piece of meat trapped between a monster's teeth, waiting to be chewed apart.
There was no Arnor anymore. If Angmar truly rose again, a few wandering rangers could never hold the North.
Unless, of course, Eric decided to move his home right up to Angmar's front gate.
"I never knew the East was like that," Eric said quietly. "That's valuable information."
Farodon grinned and shrugged. "Glad I could help."
He then turned his attention to his plate, tackling his roasted meat and bread with the kind of enthusiasm only hunger and good ale could bring.
Eric leaned back, eyes tracing the map laid across the table. His gaze settled on the fog-covered regions to the far East.
When the Easterlings eventually finished fighting among themselves, their next target would almost certainly be Dale.
In the old timeline—the one that belonged to the stories—eighty years later during the War of the Ring, Bard's grandson Brand had fallen defending Dale and the Lonely Mountain from the Easterlings. King Dáin Ironfoot had fought beside him to the very end, standing over Brand's body until both were slain.
The assault had struck like a storm, cutting down both a Dwarf king and a Man king in one blow. For ten long days, the Easterlings besieged the two allied kingdoms. Only after the One Ring was destroyed and Sauron's fall shattered their morale did the surviving Men and Dwarves rally to push them back.
Eric exhaled slowly. "The East always brings trouble."
Across the table, Farodon finished the last of his ale with a satisfying gulp.
"I just had an idea," Eric said suddenly, drumming his fingers on the wooden table. "A bit of an… impromptu adventure."
Farodon's brow twitched. "An adventure? That sounds suspicious already."
Eric's lips curved in a small smile. "Yes, an adventure. I'll probably need some help too. Preferably from someone fast, experienced, and familiar with the area."
"Where exactly are you planning to go?"
"East."
"You could have just said my name." Farodon sighed and shook his head. "You're lucky I like you."
Eric chuckled.
"I'd help if I could," Farodon continued, "but I've got my own matters to handle. Haven't been home in a while, and I should check on my people."
"Something wrong with them?"
"Not exactly. They're still out there, roaming the wilds as usual. But lately… most of the other scouting groups in the area have vanished. It's as if they've abandoned the patrol routes."
"Maybe they just realized this area doesn't need guarding anymore," Eric said.
"That's ridiculous," Farodon started, then glanced up at the armored figure sitting across from him—the living legend who had single-handedly driven half the Orc tribes out of the North—and wisely shut his mouth.
"…Right. Never mind. Still, I need to reestablish contact with my kin. If I hadn't run into you on the road, I'd probably be on my way already."
"Where are they hiding these days?" Eric asked.
"In one of our safe havens. And no, you can't find it on any map."
"That makes me even more curious," Eric said with a grin. "Tell you what—let me come along. I'd like to see where you all disappear to."
Farodon considered it for a moment, then nodded. "All right. If you want to come, I won't stop you."
And just like that, their plan was set.
They settled their bill, gathered their gear, and left the inn behind. The road led them southward, through stony hills and dry valleys until they reached a lonely, wind-swept ridge.
"This is it," Faldon said, pointing ahead. "South Downs."
It was a bleak, colorless stretch of land east of the Barrow-downs and south of the Weather Hills. Sparse tufts of brown grass clung to rocky soil, and the air smelled faintly of dust and rain. Nothing green thrived here, and the silence pressed in like a weight.
A true wilderness.
"You're telling me your base is here?" Eric asked, scanning the horizon. Not a single sign of life moved across the hills. "Even Orcs wouldn't bother setting camp in this wasteland."
"That's where you're wrong," Farodon replied, grinning as he waved him forward. "Orcs come here all the time."
Eric raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yep. They come here… and then my kin suddenly appear from nowhere and make sure they don't leave."
Leading the way, Farodon continued, "Out here, no one can detect our presence. Without the right signals and markings, even we'd have trouble finding our own camps again."
He squinted at the ground, frowning. "Let's hope the markers haven't changed while I've been gone. Otherwise, this will be a long walk."
They moved in silence for a while. Then Farodon suddenly raised his hand.
"Hold up," he whispered, crouching low.
Eric stopped beside him. "What is it?"
"There's a problem," Farodon said quietly, brushing the dirt with his fingertips. "Something's been here."
A cold feeling crept up Eric's spine.
"Which direction?"
"This way."