Chapter 9: Warg Attack (Part 1 of 2)
John Stark rode low in the saddle, the vast Rohan plains stretching endlessly before him, their golden expanse swallowing the wind's mournful wail and the steady thud of his horse's hooves. His borrowed sword pressed against his thigh, its weight a cold reminder of the danger ahead, his white-knuckled grip tightening with every distant warg howl that tore through the silence like ragged claws. The system's hum vibrated in his skull, an insistent alert rather than comfort, its presence a secret he clung to with desperate focus, the leather reins creaking under his strain.
"Stay sharp, or it's warg dinner time," he thought, his legs aching from the long ride, the horse's warmth seeping through his trousers.
He dismounted near a low, rocky ridge, its jagged edges casting long shadows, signaling Éowyn to hold back with a sharp gesture. His senses sharpened, honed by countless deaths, the air thick with a rank, musky scent of predator and the metallic tang of old blood that churned his stomach. The ground bore deep warg paw prints, their size a grim testament to the beasts' power, a faded chalk drawing of a child's stick figure half-erased nearby hinting at a lost moment of peace.
[SYSTEM: Stealth Mastery: Lv. 3. Don't spook the beasts. Warning: Enemy Pack Size: Large. Opponent Strength Index > Player Strength Index.]
He pushed the warning down, forcing the HUD's glow into the recesses of his mind, rubbing his eyes to mask the effort as instinct. Kneeling, he studied the tracks, the sheer number sending a chill down his spine—too many for a random pack, a military probe orchestrated by Saruman's hand.
"Like tracking in a bad Jurassic Park sequel," he whispered, the anachronistic quip a shield against rising terror, his voice barely audible over the wind.
He crept up the ridge, using shadows and scrub as cover, his movements precise despite the pounding of his heart. Below, nestled in a ravine, lay the warg lair, its shaggy inhabitants snarling, their teeth glinting in the faint sunlight, orc riders—short, heavily armored—patrolling with cruel efficiency.
He reversed course immediately, his steps urgent yet calculated, the time for scouting replaced by the need for action.
He returned to Éowyn, his face a mask of calm that hid the system-driven confidence flooding his stats, the wind tugging at his cloak.
"Orcs on wargs. A full pack, Éowyn. We can't retreat; they'll reach the village by nightfall."
She didn't flinch, her jaw tightening with resolve, shouting orders to the half-dozen riders who flanked them. Horses snorted nervously, their nostrils flaring at the scent he carried, steel clanging as weapons were checked, the sound a harsh counterpoint to the plains' quiet.
John felt the Rallying Call skill hum in his throat, his voice rising loud and resonant.
"Listen up! These are beasts and the cowards who ride them! They rely on terror! We give them none! We hold the line!"
[SYSTEM: Rallying Call: Lv. 3. Lead, don't bleed. They look convinced, hero.]
He turned to Éowyn, his eyes fierce with desperation masked as courage, the wind whipping his hair.
"Wargs? Just oversized puppies. We hit the choke point, cut off the riders, and the beasts will break." His anachronistic humor served as a shield, passing as outsider bravado.
Éowyn gripped her sword hilt, a flicker of raw fear for her people flashing in her eyes before she smothered it, her knuckles whitening.
"You speak a strange tongue, Stark. But your heart is true. Follow my lead."
They positioned the riders on a grassy hill's crest, forming a shallow V, the only defense against a cavalry charge, the wind now carrying the faint, terrifying echo of orc war horns.
John stepped aside, his body trembling with controlled panic, pretending to study the terrain, his fingers sifting through the grass, the HUD blazing with data.
[SYSTEM: Quest: Repel Wargs. Reward: +3 random stat. Tactics Hint: Flank hard left. The Orc-riders rely on wargs' speed, not skill. Saruman has beast masters training these packs.]
The "beast masters" note confirmed his fears—this was Isengard's work, a coordinated assault.
He suppressed the HUD, the effort draining his Stamina, the data sinking into his subconscious like a buried weight.
He bit his cheek, forcing a frown to hide his grimace at the system's voice.
"Tactician? Don't trip over your ego, or I'll be warg food."
He pointed to a small group of riders, his voice steady.
"You three, stay loose on the left. When they commit to our line, hit their flank hard and drive them into the rocks."
The decision was made, orders given, the ground vibrating with a low thrum.
The howls grew close, primal and deafening, a sound like fate closing in.
"Die or win—pick one," he thought, drawing his sword, its cold steel grounding him.
He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Éowyn, ready to die again for victory.
In a quiet moment, John adjusted his sword belt, a memory of tying shoelaces in a frantic race surfacing, Éowyn's steady gaze meeting his, her nod a silent pact amid the storm.
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