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Middle-earth Adventure Journal! - 20
🕑 Added 2025-09-22 14:18:03 +0000 UTCChapter 20: Cave
Scattered torches illuminated the entire cavern. Like a pitch-black night sky with only scattered stars.
Looking across, rather than bringing joy at seeing light, the vastness and gloom instead caused fear to well up from the depths of one's heart.
A great fire burned at the center, illuminating the chaotic and clamorous orcs. They appeared extremely busy. Dragging and pulling, pushing and carrying.
Flat feet trampled on stone, creating an extremely strange rhythm. Clanging hammering sounds echoed from darker corners in the distance, faint red light flickering intermittently.
Harsh roaring arose—they seemed to be singing!
Crack! Smash! Black caverns!
Grab and drag! Lazy slaves!
Down, down to orc-town,
Get to work!
Ding-dong, thrum-thrum! Hit and bash!
Hammer and tongs! Great hammer and anvil!
Spears and scimitars! Helmets and mail!
Rumble, rumble, deep underground!
Ho, ho! Boy!
Whip-crack, smack! Lashing whips!
Pound hard, strike fierce! Weeping and wailing!
Work, work! See who dares slack,
Only orcs may drink deep, only orcs may laugh loud,
Only orcs may kindle fires, only orcs may pillage.
More slaves, more meat, more treasure!
After one great fire, we'll go take them!
Listening to this eerie song sung in strange tones, somehow Morgan's heart filled with waves of terror.
By the weak firelight, he saw some slaves bound in chains, including several small, thin figures among them. They stumbled along, gaunt and wasted, carrying materials for forging weapons and armor, serving those orcs wielding hammers and striking sparks.
Any slackening brought cruel lashings and merciless curses. Plus unrestrained, gleeful laughter.
"They're enslaving humans!" "Enslaving my people!" "Making them carry materials and forge weapons to slaughter the village I've lived in for nearly ten years!"
Morgan's face had been quite ordinary—the type that'd disappear if thrown into a crowd. But now it became extremely savage.
Rage-filled, he gripped his sword hilts with both hands. Just as he prepared to draw them, the cold, hard metal made him calm down.
"No, this is suicide!" "I must return and tell Aedric everything."
With this thought, he immediately turned back, dodging three orcs cursing over their fruitless pursuit at the entrance. No wild dogs to be found.
He plunged into the forest.
"Ha!" Aedric roared loudly, seizing the initiative as he leaped from behind a great tree. Blocking the path of five orcs.
Before they could react, Mithreleth was raised high. His right foot stepped forward, both arms swinging down fiercely. Sharp cold light became a crescent moon in the dim forest, cleaving the nearest enemy in half.
Foul blood splattered everywhere. Splashing onto Aedric's dark green outfit, painting an abstract and cruel picture.
"Will have to trouble Aunt Mina again." Aedric thought to himself, yet his feet never stopped. Mithreleth held level, waist muscles following his arm movements in sudden explosive force.
Swish! A fierce sword-light flashed as an ugly head bearing confusion and terror spun away from its neck.
After hitting the ground, the remaining three orcs finally realized they were under attack! Two short spears thrust out together, rusted spear-points stabbing toward Aedric's legs and abdomen.
The attacks were cunning and vicious.
Aedric shifted his left foot half a step sideways, lowering his blade. His waist gathered power like a golf swing, both arms sweeping upward in sequence.
Crack—the short spears were powerfully deflected by freezing sword-light. That pitiful strength of orcs posed no threat whatsoever to the current Aedric.
The failed attack instead sent one stumbling, nearly falling. The last orc's expression changed drastically as he tremblingly nocked a black arrow reeking of some unknown substance onto his bowstring.
Before he could draw the bow, with a swish, a lean figure leaped from bushes behind him, running quickly forward with raised spear to stab.
"Ah!" Screams arose as the arrow and short bow both fell to earth, along with the other two spear-wielding orcs tumbling down.
"Finished!" "Let's go!" Aedric called out and immediately departed.
Dusk was falling, and who knew how many more orcs lurked elsewhere in these woods? Kill them and not flee—wait to be surrounded?
"Right." Torg agreed, pulling out his short spear to follow quickly, then producing a small vial from his pocket.
"Sir, you can apply some to your body—it'll mask your scent briefly."
Aedric turned to accept it, pulling the cork to release fresh fragrance. Smelling it was like rolling eighteen times on grassland, covered in green juices. One with nature.
The Númenórean herbal knowledge came from Aman's elves. Through thousands of years of changes and upheavals, even with kingdoms destroyed, much good remained.
"Thanks." Aedric spoke courteously, sprinkling some on himself before tossing it back to Torg and asking curiously: "Usually, d'you guard near Thornfield village alone?"
This question had troubled him for days. According to records, the northern Rangers always protected the entire Shire and Bree region, preventing the warm, kind, stability-loving Hobbits from being corrupted by darkness.
Conscientious and uncomplaining, receiving neither money nor supplies—not even honor. Those who knew their contributions could be counted on one hand in the Shire and Bree.
Aedric's current expedition was the same—he'd told no one in Thornfield village. But Rangers shouldn't be so few in number, right?
A five-man squad still required time to assemble—how could they resist large orc invasions?
"It's not like that." Torg alertly scanned behind them, and finding no pursuit, explained: "Usually we operate in five-man squads, guarding the roads and paths to various villages and estates."
"Only recently the clan issued other tasks, so everyone else went to the Coldfells."
"Coldfells?" Aedric repeated quietly.
The term felt vaguely familiar as he asked curiously: "Did something happen?"
Torg didn't immediately respond, pressing his lips tight as if considering whether he could speak. Aedric didn't press; he just frantically searched his mind for information about this place name.
Both continued walking without pause, successfully leaving Woody End before full darkness and reaching a hidden Dúnedain camp in a mountain hollow.
Simple camouflage of bushes and branches concealed roads and traces. Though unable to hide from large-scale searches, it was difficult for passersby to discover without fires.
No fires were needed now—even night remained quite warm.
Only then did Torg provide his answer.
"Nine years ago, our chieftain was captured by mountain trolls during a battle against orcs. The fighting was so intense—my kinsmen faced enemies at least five times their number. There was no way to prevent it."
"When we finally drove off the enemies, we'd lost our chieftain. The surviving warriors only knew that in desperate resistance, the chieftain had severed two middle fingers from that troll's left hand."
"Everyone felt immense grief and rage over the chieftain's fate, yet had to return and regroup. Until several months ago." Torg's gaze sharpened: "Kinsmen discovered that troll's tracks. So most of us went to the Coldfells, seeking his trail."
"Arador?" Aedric suddenly remembered.
"You actually know our chieftain's name?" Torg asked in surprise.
Aedric lowered his eyelids, answering: "Young man, I know far, far too much."
Simultaneously, his thoughts began racing frantically. Arador, the fourteenth chieftain of the Dúnedain.
Why could he remember so clearly? Because this was Aragorn's grandfather. His son was Arathorn II, who inherited the chieftain position in his second or third year before being shot in the eye while hunting orcs.
He died thereafter, leaving behind a widow and orphan. At that time, Aragorn was only two years old—barely that.
This Middle-earth version of a tragic hero's incident was hard to forget.
"Is Chieftain Arador still alive?" Aedric was somewhat puzzled—he didn't remember such events.
"Unknown." Torg shook his head: "But Halladrak told me that if alive, we must rescue him. If unfortunately sacrificed, we must recover his remains. If even remains are gone, then it's revenge!"
Torg clenched his jaw, saying no more.
"As it should be." Aedric nodded without elaborating.
In fact, with trolls' limited brains, they had no concept of enslaving prisoners. Being captured by them meant becoming food with nearly certainty! But he couldn't say this—extinguishing others' faint hope was extremely cruel.
Right or wrong, Aedric was unwilling to do so.
He casually found a place to sit, drawing gauze from his pocket to continuously clean Mithreleth. The bright, clean blade reflected his sparsely bearded face as thoughts drifted far.
Torg also began organizing his weapons and equipment. Waiting for the third person's return.
Originally, both had planned to wait for Morgan at the cave entrance. Only the orc patrol frequency was quite dense—slight carelessness would draw attention.
That'd not only bring trouble upon themselves but also potentially endanger Morgan inside the cave. Plus night belonged to orcs.
Therefore, the three had agreed to rendezvous at camp after finishing business. During return, Aedric and Torg had followed an orc squad until far from the cave before striking decisively.
With orcs—kill one, lose one. Next came waiting for Morgan's return.
If Aedric's Hobbit teammate hadn't returned before dawn, he'd have had to brave the orc caverns himself! See the living or see the dead.
Half an hour passed in a flash.
"Master Aedric." Torg, ultimately a young man, asked somewhat impatiently: "Can Master Morgan return safely?"
"Of course he can." A voice suddenly rang out in the camp.
Aedric sharply gripped his sword hilt while Torg raised his short spear, immediately standing.
"Young man, never underestimate Morgan Gray-shadow's concealment abilities." The Hobbit leaped from behind a tree trunk, hands on hips, standing between them with an expression of "I'm number one in the world, especially amazing; hurry up and praise me."
Aedric released his sword hilt, laughing and scolding: "Stop showing off there—I nearly cleaved you in half." Then he grabbed nearby provisions and tossed them over.
Torg also lowered his spear, looking shaken.
"Thanks!" Morgan caught them steadily, tearing away outer leaves to eat heartily. Soon a faint sweet fragrance spread through the camp.
This was an enhanced version of honey cake. Following Aedric's suggestion, Thornfield village's baker had added various nuts and dates. A few bites provided abundant nutrition needed by the human body.
For three to five day expeditions, it made excellent provisions—both filling and convenient.
"Tell us what you saw in the cave." Aedric passed over the water bag. The Hobbit drank several mouthfuls, wiped his mouth, then spoke: "D'you know how many orcs I saw? Fully over two hundred, and that's only because I can only count to two hundred—the actual number is much more!"
Soon Morgan related everything he'd witnessed. Aedric's brow furrowed ever tighter.
Over two hundred orcs? This number was extraordinarily high! With himself, Morgan, and five Dúnedain lingering nearby, driving them out would prove quite difficult.
Also, what was this about only counting to two hundred? Cultural education was urgently needed!
[Begin Recording]
[Fourth Log: Shadows Suddenly Appear.]
[Time: Third Age 2939, Stirring Month, Location: Woody End, Shire West Farthing.]
[After a series of events not worth recording, you suddenly discovered an orc tribe hidden in Woody End, merely three days' journey from your convalescent village—with forced marches, perhaps less than two days.]
[Next you plan to...]
"My plan?" "I don't have any good methods—no matter how capable, I can't really fight twenty-to-one, right?"
"Feint east, attack west, secretly cross... which suits the current situation better?"
"Who?!" Just as Aedric pondered silently, Morgan pointed in one direction and shouted loudly, issuing warnings before darting into bushes like wind, two short swords gleaming coldly before instantly vanishing.
Torg again stood guard with spear ready. Under starlight, a black shadow emerged.
She wore a green cloak, bore a long bow and two daggers at her waist, had golden hair brilliant as dawn, and had a pale face bearing the smile of a long-awaited reunion: "Aedric, long time no see!"
Speaking thus, a silver cord hung at her slender neck, bearing a roughly made silver coin. Now reflecting moonlight's radiance.
"Luna?!" Instantly, Aedric's face was written with incredulity, his mind in chaos: "How could you? Aren't you? I remember..."
"Not just Luna—us two as well." From the forest emerged two more figures.
Morgan also stepped from the bushes, muttering in Torg's ear: "Stop standing there—my boss's elf friends have arrived."
