Ryan drew forth the kingly sword, Glamdring, and the steel shone coldly, catching the wavering light of the torches so that fire itself seemed to dance upon its blade.
In the true tale of the world, this sword bore with it a cycle of fate. For it had once been the blade of Turgon, King of Gondolin, whose realm perished in fire beneath the balrogs and the hosts of darkness. And more than six thousand years later, this very sword would pass into the hand of Gandalf the Grey, who in the black halls of Moria fought a balrog with it, closing the circle of destiny.
Now it lay in Ryan's grasp, the weight of history in his hand.
With care, he sheathed Glamdring once more and secured also Orcrist and the short-sword that would one day be named Sting.
The chamber itself had once been a granary of Rhudaur, and its hewn stone kept the hoard preserved against decay.
At Ryan's order, the Rangers set themselves to labor, sorting and reckoning all that was within. When the count was done, they had measured their gain:
—Gold and treasure, some 5,300 coins in all.
—More than two thousand pounds of grain.
—Fifty-five suits of mail and lighter armor.
—Twelve suits of heavy harness, with fitting arms to match.
Though some were marred by rust or wear, the greater part could be restored to full use. With such supplies, Ryan knew he could arm and raise a host of two or three hundred men.
So it was that, by horse and burdened back, they bore the treasure in journeys to the ruined village. And as each load was carried, hearts grew lighter and laughter sounded among them. For in their hands was the seed of hope.
….
That night they sat about the fire in a great circle, faces aglow with flame and triumph. Never had their fortunes seemed so fair.
Ryan, silent until then, pondered the path before him. He desired not merely wealth, nor wandering victories, but a realm—his own people, his own land, and the power to defend it. For that, he must first build an army.
But here lay the difficulty: he had but twenty-four Rangers. Brave, loyal, skilled—but too few.
To raise more, he would need men. And men dwelt not in the ruins, but in the towns and villages near at hand.
Through the heart of the Troll-woods ran the Great East Road, a lonely path through a dangerous land. Westward, beyond the woods, flowed the River Hoarwell, and upon its banks stood the lone township of Dessen, a fortified outpost counting a few hundred souls. To the east, the road crossed the loud waters of the River Bruinen, which guarded the hidden valley of Rivendell, the Last Homely House. Around which villages and towns counted a considerable number of souls. There, for gold, soldiers could be found.
And of gold, Ryan now had plenty.
….
He rose, and with a gesture called all to stillness. His voice rang clear in the firelight:
"My kinsmen! Tonight we sit no longer as wanderers scraping for bread. We have won wealth and store, coin and food. This means we have gained the right—the power—to dream.
"I hold in my heart a vision: that the glory of ancient Arnor shall rise again! That in these northern lands a kingdom of strength shall be built, and all the Shadow that dares assail it shall be broken and cast down!
"I will see our people gathered again—the Dúnedain no longer scattered into tribes, but one folk, dwelling once more amid the ruins of our fathers. The day will come when even the Darkness itself shall tremble at our return!"
His words struck like a spark in dry grass.
For Arnor—Arnor was the wound that had never healed. The lost kingdom of the North, the grief of a thousand years. Every Ranger carried that sorrow. And though many generations had struggled to restore it, they had dwindled, grown fewer, grown weaker. Hope had seemed forever beyond their reach.
But now, looking upon Ryan in the glow of fire, this young Ranger, it was as if a king stood before them. His words rang not as dreams, but as prophecy.
The fire burned within their chests.
Ryan's voice rose once more:
"These are great words, yes. Like the vows of a child they may seem, for they will take long years to be fulfilled. But I believe it: we shall see them done.
"For we are the Dúnedain, heirs of Númenor. In us flows the blood of kings, as noble as any Elf, as enduring as stone.
"So I ask you now: will you follow me—not a king of birth, not of royal blood, but a Ranger—into the making of a kingdom?"
….
"I swear it—my lord, unto death!" cried Idhrion, and he sank to one knee.
"I swear it—unto death!" shouted Alaina, Arion, Elger, Ailin, Erken, and all the eighteen Rangers. Their voices thundered like one, and they too knelt, fire blazing in their eyes.
They followed Ryan not for his strength alone, nor for some ancient line of kingship, but because he had won their hearts by wisdom, foresight, and courage. In an age when the royal blood of the North lay hidden, Ryan was to them the light in the dark.
He bore himself as a king, with words of vision and hands that acted with purpose. In him, they believed, Arnor might rise once more.
….
When their oaths were sworn, Ryan gave his commands:
"Idhrion, Erken—you shall take five men and a thousand gold. Go east to the villages along the Bruinen, and there raise five hundred soldiers."
"Alaina, Arion—you likewise take five men and a thousand gold. Go west along the River Hoarwell, to Dessen and its neighbors. There too raise five hundred soldiers."
"Each man shall have one coin for settlement, three silver pennies per month for pay. Food and lodging will be given here, though until they arrive, each must bring his own provision."
"Elger, Ailin—you shall remain with me. We will return to Dessen to bargain for weapons and food from the merchants. The rest—guard our stores here until we return."
"Yes, my lord!" they cried as one.
….
At dawn the next day they set forth, each band toward its own road, voices lifted in the songs of the North—songs of Númenor, songs of Arnor, songs of wandering and of hope.
And in their hearts they carried a vision: a kingdom reborn.