When Grinwald Dulod, Lord of Dessen, charged with ten of his guard against the two trolls, he did so with death already in his heart, and by his deeds he showed the true weight of lordship.
One of his men was the first to fall, struck aside by a troll's massive club, his body dashed to the stones with a sound that chilled the blood. Spears and swords flashed, yet against the hide of stone they were as twigs against iron.
Grinwald was no Dúnadan. At sixty-two winters, he was already in the dusk of mortal years. But though he was aged, he remained a warrior of topmost skill, and with long seasons of battle behind him he twisted and slipped narrowly past each blow. Again and again he struck at the joints of the troll's limbs. The cuts could not pierce deep, yet at least they hindered, and for a time he held them at bay.
But strength ebbs with age. His arms grew heavy, his movements slower, each dodge more labored than the last. One by one his guard fell, until he stood almost alone amidst fire and ruin.
Anger gave way to a grim stillness. As he glanced across the burning town, his heart turned to those sheltered within the castle. He remembered his youth, when Dessen had known peril, yet never a night so dire. He heard the harsh laughter of the Orc-chieftain, and a question welled unbidden in his weary mind: Why does the evil never end?
From the day he first gripped a sword as a boy, Grinwald had fought to guard his people. He had seen his father slain by Orcs, and now he walked the same road. Perhaps, in some bitter tomorrow, his son Torvin would also die upon the field, defending the land of his birth.
Evil spread like weeds, and shadow clung like an ever-falling dusk. Warriors died beneath steel and flame—yet where, he wondered, was the light of hope?
A thunderous blow came. One troll's club smashed into his arm, and agony burst through him as the bone shattered. His body spun through the air and struck the ground, his right arm hanging limp and broken.
"Father!"
Torvin' cry came from the walls above, his eyes red with grief as he loosed arrow after arrow. Yet his shafts struck sparks only, glancing off the troll's stony hide.
The Orc-chieftain's laughter rang out, harsh and cruel. "Crush the old man before their eyes!" he bellowed to the trolls. "Pulverize him—let the worms watch as he is devoured alive!"
Grinwald's mind swam, but he forced himself up, gripping his sword in his left hand. His guards were slain; his only companions were the fire and the wind. He drew one last breath, lifted his blade, and roared with all the strength left in him:
"Unto death—for life!"
….
But then—
A sudden sound of iron biting flesh, the crunch of steel cleaving hide. The foremost troll stiffened and toppled with earth-shaking weight, its skull split wide.
Grinwald stared. Torvin upon the wall stared. Even the Orc-chieftain's face twisted with disbelief.
A great war-axe jutted from the back of the fallen troll's skull.
"Light has come! Hope endures!"
The cry rose from behind the Orc host. All turned, and there they saw it: a mass of men, bloodied yet unbroken, surging through the flame-lit streets. At their head came the Rangers, and with them strode Ryan Eowenríel, his cloak streaming, his blade raised.
"Kill! Kill! Kill!"
"Worms of darkness—die where you stand!"
"For our homes! For Dessen!"
Battle was joined anew. Arrows from the Rangers found the hearts and throats of Orcs, while Idhrion and Erken carved a path at Ryan's side, their weapons felling foe after foe. The men of Dessen, driven by grief and wrath, threw themselves upon their enemies with savage courage.
The truth of Middle-earth was plain: an Orc, grown to full size, was no stronger than a man. Their victory had come by treachery and troll's might. But now, pressed by the unyielding fury of Men, they wavered and broke.
"Hold them! Hold these worms!" shrieked the Orc-chieftain, swinging his hammer in rage. Yet no swing, no roar could stem the flood of men that surged against him.
On the walls, Torvin saw the tide turn. Hope blazed in his eyes.
"To me!" he cried. "All who can fight, man or woman—take up arms and follow me!"
The gates of the castle groaned open, and Torvin led his warriors forth. They struck at the remaining troll from every side: spears into its legs, blades into its back, hands clutching its hide as they sought its eyes.
Torvin himself rushed to his father's side.
"Father! Speak—are you hurt?"
"I am whole enough," Grinwald answered, though his voice was ragged. With his left hand he offered his sword. "My arm is broken. I can fight no longer. Take this—by it I name you Lord of Dessen. Go now, my son. Guard our people."
Torvin bowed his head once, solemn and unflinching, then turned and strode into the fray, blade flashing in the firelight.
Grinwald watched him go, pride and sorrow mingling in his eyes. In Torvin he saw himself, younger, fiercer—and now tempered with a resolve even greater than his own.
His gaze wandered across the battlefield, and at last it rested upon Ryan. In that young Ranger, commanding men who had rallied to him with fierce devotion, Grinwald saw more than a fighter. He saw the bearing of a king.
Even Arathorn II, whom Grinwald had once glimpsed in days long gone, had not borne such a light. This youth was more than a warrior—he was born to lead.
This one, Grinwald thought in silence, is a true king. And if the years are granted him, he will achieve greatness beyond reckoning.
….
Amid the clash and chaos, Ryan felt that gaze upon him, and for the briefest of moments, his eyes met Grinwald's. Then the tide of battle drew him on, and he turned toward his true quarry—the Orc-chieftain.
"For me!" he cried. "Clear a path—I will cut down their leader!"
"Yes, my lord!" his companions answered. Arrows flew, blades hewed, and Idhrion and Erken forced a road through the press of foes.
Thus Ryan came face to face with the chieftain. Neither wasted breath on words. At once hammer and sword clashed, sparks bursting as steel rang upon iron. The force of it drove both back a pace.
Ryan steadied first, springing forward, his sword descending in a mighty stroke toward the Orc's shoulder. The chieftain raised his hammer to block, teeth bared in surprise.
Again and again their weapons met, iron upon steel, until the Orc faltered, driven back beneath the Ranger's onslaught.
Then Ryan saw his chance. With sudden force, he drove his boot into the Orc's gut. The brute toppled backward, sprawling helpless on the ground.
In battle there is no time for second chances. A single mistake brings death.
Before all eyes, Ryan's blade fell, swift and merciless, and the Orc-chieftain's head was hewn away.
He lifted the severed head high, crying aloud across the din:
"Their leader is slain!"
"The chieftain is dead!" voices echoed.
The hearts of Men soared, while the Orcs broke. Fear and chaos seized them, and they fled.
So ended the struggle for Dessen, for the battle was won in that moment, when the head of the chieftain fell.
And even as the cries of victory rose, a pale blue light shimmered before Ryan's eyes, a panel only he could see:
[Battle Settlement...
Enemies slain: Orcs × 15, Orc-chieftain × 1
Experience gained: 75
Total experience: 100/100
Level advanced to 2.
Reward: Complete strengthening of body and soul ×1.
Permanent buff unlocked: Warrior Growth Rate ×3.]