[500 powerstones Bonus Chapter]
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Upon the jagged stone of Carrock, stood the watchers of the Ancarim tribe, one of many hill-tribes scattered throughout the upper Anduin Valley. These were hunters and wardens of their people, stationed to guard against the creeping dark things that often stirred westward in the Misty Mountains. From this vantage, they kept their vigil — ever wary of the beasts born of shadow.
At the sound of a name, a hush fell over the men atop the rock.
"Did he say… Kaen?" one of them stammered, voice straining against disbelief.
"If there be no other Kaen Eowenríel in Middle-earth," came the answer from below, voice ringing clear across the river, "then yes, it is I."
There was silence — then a joyous outcry.
"By the mountain winds! It's him — the Hunter returns!"
"Quick, fetch the boats! All of them — they have a host with them, near a hundred strong!"
A flurry of movement followed. More than a dozen small boats launched swiftly from the eastern banks, gliding down the calmer waters beside Carrock. As they approached the shore, a man clad in rugged furs leapt into the shallows, heedless of the water, and splashed his way toward the returning figure.
"Kaen, my lord!" he cried, arms flung wide.
Kaen stepped forward with a warm grin and caught the man in a fierce embrace. "Andric," he laughed, clasping the broad-shouldered man. "You've grown stronger still. That chest of yours could batter down a troll."
"You're one to speak, my lord," Andric chuckled. "You look like a king now — regal and commanding. Are you certain you haven't drunk a potion of nobility?"
Andric, it turned out, was the captain of the Ancarim hunters — son of Ankharan, the tribe's chieftain and a stout ally from days gone by. One by one, the other hunters disembarked, their faces bright with mirth and recognition, crowding close to clasp Kaen's hand and greet his companions. They had once stood shoulder to shoulder with him, battling trolls and orcs that strayed from the mountains into the valley. A year had passed, yet the bonds of brotherhood still held fast.
Though their weapons were simple — axes of iron, spears of bone and flint — their frames were thick with muscle, hardened by a life of wilderness hunts and ceaseless skirmishes with the beasts of the dark.
Now, they turned their eyes behind Kaen — toward the gold-armored guard that stood arrayed in proud formation, each man towering and battle-hardened. Curiosity danced in their gaze.
"These are your soldiers, my lord?" asked one, wide-eyed. "They look like they could fell a hill-troll with a glance."
"Look at their armor," another whispered, awestruck. "Finer than chain or leather — I daresay not even an orc's arrow could pierce that."
"Pierce it? You'd be lucky to dent it with a war-hammer."
"That suit's got to weigh a hundred pounds. And yet they move as if they're wearing feathers. What kind of strength must they possess?"
Andric's gaze drifted beyond them to a small company of shorter figures — stout, broad, and heavily armed.
"And who are these?" he asked, gesturing toward the Dwarves. "And what of Caden, Zakri, Mundar, Lairon, and the others? Are they not with you?"
Kaen nodded. "Let me introduce you."
He gestured toward the Dwarves.
"This," he said, "is none other than Thorin Oakenshield, heir of Erebor, Prince of Durin's Folk, and rightful King under the Mountain."
"This is Balin, Thorin's steward and a Dwarf of great wisdom."
"Here are Fíli and Kíli, his nephews — young and full of fire, and of the royal line of Durin."
"Also among us: Dwalin, Bofur, Ori, Bombur... and others whose names you shall come to know."
Though these highlands lay far from Erebor, the tales of the Lonely Mountain had reached even here, borne on wind and whisper. The tragedy of Smaug, the ruin of Dale, the wars of Dwarves and Orcs — these were tales passed down through generations, etched into song and memory.
To the hillfolk, Thorin Oakenshield was legend.
To the Dwarves, these legends were wounds that never healed.
Thus, when Andric and his hunters heard the names, they bowed low, their eyes alight with reverence.
"Welcome," he said solemnly. "Yours are the stories of our childhood. We grew up on the sagas of Erebor."
The Dwarves returned the gesture with dignity, though a flicker of sorrow stirred upon their brows. What was legend to men was bitter truth to them — loss, exile, and long years in shadow.
Sensing the weight in the air, Kaen stepped in.
"Caden, Zakri, Mundar, Lairon, Cathril, Ameliah — they march behind us with the main host. Ten days' journey, I'd wager."
"Main host?" Andric blinked. "How many?"
"Five thousand," said Kaen.
The words fell like thunder.
Andric gaped. "Five thousand?" he echoed. "You mean… a real army?"
To put it in perspective, though the valley held perhaps one hundred thousand souls scattered across thirty or forty tribes, no single force among them could muster more than two hundred warriors. Across the entire Anduin Valley, their total strength barely reached what Kaen now commanded alone.
Andric drew a long breath, wonder in his voice. "Kaen… I know not what you've endured this past year, nor what mountains you've climbed. But it is clear you've carved a path beyond anything I can imagine."
Kaen smiled. "On the far side of the Misty Mountains, beyond the great sea of trees, in the lands of the West, I founded a kingdom —Eowenría . What you see before you is but the vanguard."
Andric's mouth fell open. Around him, his hunters stared as if he had declared himself a star fallen from the heavens.
"A king? You truly are a king now?"
"Our monster hunter… has become a king?!"
"Your Majesty," said one, trembling with excitement, "please, tell us of your kingdom. Of your battles. Of your journey."
"Gladly," said Kaen, his eyes shining.
"But first," he said with a gesture to the boats, "let us cross the river. The tale is long, and we shall tell it as we walk."
"Yes, yes, of course!" cried Andric. He turned to his men. "Bring every vessel we have — help the King and his army across!"
Then, to one of his runners: "Go swiftly! Tell my father, Ankharan — the Guardian of the Valley has returned. The Hunter rides again, and he brings a host with him!"
…
Thus they crossed the Anduin, from west to east, into the heart of the valley.
As they marched, Kaen recounted his tale — the perils of the mountains, the cleansing of the Troll-woods, the founding of his realm, the gathering of armies.
Every word was a spark that lit the hearts of the tribesmen. Awe and admiration danced in their eyes.
These men had once fought beside him. Now, they followed in his footsteps, gazing upon him not only as warrior and friend — but as king.
Side by side, they walked toward the hillfolk's camp, beneath a crimson autumn sky.