Walking west from Thornfield Village for an hour brought one to vast hills covered with green vegetation. Further west lay Woody End.
Little Shepherd usually grazed his flock here. Upon arriving, Aedric sent him back with the excuse that "what comes next isn't suitable for children to witness."
Then Morgan led the way, finding the "B" mark Bilbo had left on a tree trunk. Before long, the three successfully converged.
"Over there." Following his pointing finger, Aedric's gaze pierced through layers of trees, finally discovering a small camp on the valley's slope.
Several scattered tents were sewn together from colorful rags, haphazardly arranged around the campsite. Leftover bones and dried excrement lay everywhere—dirty and chaotic, matching people's usual impressions of them.
Two Snaga of similar build rolled in the garbage like drunkards, fighting over a damaged sheepskin. A campfire burned at the center, with a sheep carcass that appeared tortured suspended above it. One could tell it hadn't died peacefully.
Seven or eight Snaga sat in a circle, staring at the sizzling, oil-dripping roast while chattering about something. The distance was too great to hear clearly.
"Morgan, can we get closer?" Aedric wanted to know these creatures' conversation content, so he looked down at his companion.
Regarding stealth, only he had the most experience.
"Possible." Morgan wasted no words, saying quietly: "I'll find a position where they can't smell us and advance slowly. Watch your feet—don't step on branches. These creatures have sharp hearing too."
The three moved carefully down the slope. Morgan led ahead, occasionally stopping to raise his head and sniff the air, then leading Aedric and Bilbo in circles around the camp.
Soon, the distance between both sides decreased. Yet the orcs in the camp remained completely unaware—they didn't even post sentries, only gathering around the campfire or fighting over sheepskins.
A rabble indeed. Not even as competent as Gray-skin, Broken-tooth, and Bakus.
Realizing this, Aedric's heart settled considerably. Easy to eliminate.
The breeze carried air filled with fresh plant scents, faintly mixed with the aroma of roasted mutton. Though certainly lacking cumin and chili powder, just the smell of roasted fat was sufficiently enticing.
The orcs' voices reached his ears—harsh as broken gongs. They chattered noisily:
"Gone, all disappeared!"
"That damn inn has no one left."
"Barbara and Bakus, those bastards, promised us supplies but didn't deliver."
"Bastards, absolute damn bastards!"
"Making us catch sheep ourselves."
"All shut up!" A Snaga who appeared to be captain scolded: "What's there to complain about? Don't we have food now?"
He carved the roasted sheep with his knife, watching the hot oil emerge, wiping drool before comforting his subordinates.
"We can find food ourselves. That village has not only sheep but also cattle and chickens. Once we charge in, there'll be tender little things for us to eat. As much as we want."
"Slurp." He swallowed saliva, pulling out a rag from beside him.
"But." A small, dark subordinate voiced doubt: "That village is surrounded by wall-high thorny trees, very thick. We can't burrow through or climb over—no way to ambush."
"Fool!" The captain threw the rag at the dark one's face, cursing: "Waste like you only knows eating—what can you think of? The chief already has a plan. We'll use fire!"
"Fire?"
"Right! Hurry up and use cloth to catch the oil dripping from the meat—what are you standing there for? Mess this up and you won't even get bones to gnaw!"
Hearing this, Aedric's heart jolted in alarm. Thornfield Village earned its name from the large circle of thorny shrubs growing around it, planted long ago by the first settlers with great effort.
They wanted to use the thorns' long spikes to defend against beast attacks. This method proved quite successful. Creatures like wolves and wild dogs didn't dare risk torn flesh by forcing through.
Villagers had lived peacefully inside for ages, even picking wild berries in autumn. But against fire—that would spell disaster!
Many dead shrubs inside hadn't been cleared in time. Since animals couldn't enter, neither could the Hobbits responsible for maintenance. But fire could.
A few cloth strips soaked in animal fat would suffice to ignite the entire thorn wall!
Aedric instantly understood their plan. They'd wait for the great fire to start, then launch surprise attacks when village residents came out to fight the flames—inevitably resulting in massacre.
"Eliminate them and interrogate that chief's location!" "Strike first!"
Aedric's expression turned vicious, even the mutton fat fragrance in the air becoming irritating. He glanced down at Bilbo and Morgan, his right hand gripping the sword hilt gradually tightening as he slowly drew Mithreleth.
Morgan crouched low, vanishing into the trees' shadows. Bilbo paused, not understanding what was happening until Aedric raised his left thumb and drew it across his throat.
Only then did he realize—battle was beginning! He lowered his head, hastily gathering some stones.
I only came out to gather herbs!
At this moment, the battle over sheepskin finally ended. The scarred victor raised his trophy high, shouting excitedly.
"Mine, this is mine!" Suddenly he lowered the sheepskin and sniffed with his arched nose. As if smelling something.
His half-closed black eyes snapped open as he extended his arm, shouting: "Human scent approaches us!"
Aedric's heart leaped, every muscle tensing instantly as he gripped his long sword with both hands, his right foot stepping forward to launch a charge!
Wait—that's not my direction!
Aedric widened his eyes, following that black, withered finger's direction. Sunlight pierced the clouds, casting brilliant rays.
Several cold stars became streaks of white light, flying from the opposite forest. Arrows borrowed wind's force—both swift and accurate.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—the Snaga gathered around the campfire couldn't react before suffering ranged attacks. Three creatures were directly shot through the chest. Their screams grew weaker before quickly falling silent.
"Kill these filthy things." A battle cry rang out as five tall figures charged from behind trees.
They wore gray tight-fitting clothes and leather boots. While running, gray chainmail showed beneath, with dark green and gray-black cloaks behind bearing octagonal pins that gleamed dully in sunlight.
Their long swords and short spears attacked with extreme ferocity, every move targeting vital points. Clearly possessing rich combat experience.
The orcs launching hasty counterattacks had just raised their weapons when meeting the attackers' seemingly crushing charge. Screams, roars, desperate fighting, panicked flight.
In one encounter, seven or eight Snaga were reduced to just three survivors. The survivors' courage shattered as they fled in panic, coincidentally running toward Aedric's direction.
"Kill them!" Seeing this scene, Aedric cried out, then gripped his long sword and charged forth, both arm muscles surging.
Though still slightly uncomfortable, this didn't prevent him from dancing Mithreleth into bright afterimages, striking like lightning at the nearest orc.
Swish—cold light flashed, leaving two corpse sections severed at the waist on the ground.
The following Snaga's pupils contracted sharply. In terror, he actually threw his curved blade away, trying to buy his life an instant's reprieve. Then turned and fled.
Clang—Aedric's arms moved slightly, using his sword to precisely deflect the blade before pursuing and thrusting forward with accumulated force.
Mithreleth pierced the Snaga's chest, black foul blood rolling down the blade to the ground.
The last one immediately reacted, running toward Aedric's left.
"Stop him!" "Take him alive!"
With these shouts, Master Baggins leaped from behind trees, raising his arms to hurl a fist-sized rock with force. Smack—it struck the target's shin.
The fleeing Snaga tumbled headfirst to the ground. Before he could struggle upright, Morgan emerged from behind trees, pressing a dagger to his throat. He didn't dare move again.
At this moment, the young Ranger bearing a short spear also pursued, watching the three suddenly appeared figures with full alertness.
"Who are you?" He roared loudly, drawing his companions' attention while raising his short spear.
The previously noisy battlefield instantly quieted. Only the crackling of fat dripping into flames remained.
"Torg, stay calm. Look clearly—those before you aren't orcs." The one speaking to stop him was a robust middle-aged man.
His weathered face bore time's marks, with mostly white gray hair, yet gray eyes still flashed with keen light, appearing sharp and capable.
"Yes, Halladrak." The young man lowered his spear, obediently retreating.
Halladrak approached. Looking at Morgan, he felt somewhat familiar, raising his brows to speak: "I know you—you're the cook from the Golden Wheat Sheaf, Morgan!"
His tone then filled with regret. "I'm sorry about what befell the Golden Wheat Sheaf family. Two months ago I warned you that shadows around the Shire were deepening, that isolated inns would always be watched by malevolent eyes. You should've moved away!"
Morgan pressed his lips tight, offering no response. He knew the other spoke correctly—facts had proven this.
But he wasn't the owner. The Golden Wheat Sheaf family's fate was decided by Old Wheat Sheaf, and stubborn Old Wheat Sheaf wouldn't abandon his family's generational business for a wilderness Ranger's few words.
Besides, he now lay buried in the inn's back garden vegetable patch, unable to make any decisions.
The scene grew awkward again. At this point, Aedric took up the conversation, trying to ease the atmosphere.
"Pleased to meet you here, Dúnedain, heirs of Arnor's kingdom." Their attire and hair color, especially that "Star of the Dúnedain" pinned to their cloaks, clearly indicated their identity.
Halladrak's face showed surprise, his expression immediately growing serious. The other had spoken in Sindarin—the elven tongue, definitely not usable by ordinary people. Moreover, correctly identifying their identity showed vast knowledge and an extraordinary background.
"You are?"
Aedric sheathed his sword, introducing himself: "I'm Aedric, from the distant south. By the way, Elladan and Elrohir of Rivendell are my friends."
"I've heard your name—you're 'Forever Guest of the Grey Havens.'" The previously serious Halladrak suddenly relaxed, even using respectful language.
After seeing Aedric's cloak and sword clearly, he was even more certain. Previously, Rangers near the Grey Havens had encountered Lord Círdan.
"The entire wilderness spreads tales of your fearless rescue of Isa and Carl from dozens of times your number in orcs."
Even the young Rangers cleaning the battlefield turned with idol-worshipping gazes.
"Really?" Aedric touched his nose, somewhat surprised inwardly. I remember Luna was the main force—I was at most a meat shield?
"Certainly!" Halladrak stepped forward, respectfully bowing: "The Dúnedain are grateful for your heroic deed."
The Dúnedain's relationship with Elrond traced to the distant past. With current circumstances severe and dark forces resurgent, both sides grew ever closer.
Aedric saving Isa and Carl amounted to saving their ancestors' relatives. For a people like the Dúnedain, gratitude was naturally expected.
"No need for such courtesy. With evil's minions growing ever bolder, every justice-hearted person would act without hesitation when encountering such things."
After speaking, Aedric also sighed with relief. With this relationship, he'd saved considerable trouble. Rangers wouldn't easily trust strangers.
"Halladrak, can you tell me about these orcs' situation? I'm temporarily staying in Thornfield Village—came here because a villager lost a sheep."
This sentence switched to Common Speech. His earlier Elvish served partly to emphasize his identity—simply put, showing off. On the other hand, it drew closer to his counterpart.
Now this seemed unnecessary.
Halladrak instinctively turned to look at the sheep roasting over the campfire, suddenly understanding. His face showed a smile, appearing more intimate: "Certainly. Let's chat aside—it's too messy here."
"Good." Aedric turned back, drew his thumb across his throat, and followed.
"Bilbo, d'you know what they were just saying?" Morgan stabbed the orc dead and came beside Bilbo, asking quietly. He couldn't speak Elvish but was extremely curious.
"I understand a little." Master Baggins knew some Elvish, frowning: "Seems Aedric saved some Elven person and became friends with some harbor. Very respected."
Then he turned to Morgan: "I remember you two are already teammates? Go listen—they're not speaking Sindarin now."
"Right." Morgan reacted, cleaned his short sword on the orc's corpse, and followed.
"Half a month ago, my kinsmen discovered these creatures' tracks in the south, but lacking manpower, we never acted." After both sat down, Halladrak opened up.
"We spent time gathering forces, then discovered them targeting Hobbit flocks, leading to this attack."
"Understood." Aedric nodded, asking again: "I just heard these orcs seem to have a chief. Do you have information about this?"
"Torg tracked them." Halladrak waved over the young Ranger from earlier: "Better let him speak."
"Master Aedric." Torg scratched his head, lowering it shamefully: "I'm truly sorry for my overreaction earlier."
"No matter." Aedric only now noticed the other was perhaps in his teens—gaunt, with hard features and thin build. A newly adult child.
"Relax, young man. Just speak slowly."
"Mm." Torg nodded stiffly.