Chapter 335: Anomaly
Once the reinforcements arrived, and especially once their leader rode onto the field, the end was already written.
The Orcs collapsed into chaos at once. They could not muster even the smallest effective counterattack.
Their captain was the first to lose his head, cut down and left stiff on the ground, his corpse burned where it fell.
As for the lieutenants and lesser leaders who held any shred of authority, the moment they saw that enemy whose name was legend even among Orcs, their courage shattered. None dared step up to command.
They all knew that the instant they tried to shout an order, they would be dead.
And even if they had not feared death, there was no army left to command. The host had broken too hard. In mere moments, it had been chopped into scattered knots.
The tide had turned too quickly for them to grasp what was happening.
By dusk, the Orc corpses had been heaped together and burned.
Thanks to the timely aid of Levi and the others, Éomund lived.
When the clearing of the bodies was done, a great feast of celebration was held in Aldburg.
"I truly do not know how to thank you enough," Éomund said, raising his cup.
"Once more, my thanks to you: Levi, Lord of the North; Gandalf the Grey; and Aragorn."
"Those Orcs were more cunning than I expected. Had you not brought warning, I would have died in those hills today."
"Even knowing that, if I fell, Théoden would surely see my children and my household cared for, it would still have grieved me not to watch them grow with my own eyes."
"Thankfully, none of that has come to pass."
"Since you have survived, then live well," Levi said, clapping his shoulder in encouragement.
Then he began to scold the marshal.
"And be more careful in the future. Do not be so reckless. If you are, it will not be only you who pays the price. Your riders will suffer for your rash choices as well."
"I will remember," Éomund answered with a small, sober nod.
So the noisy night passed.
Gandalf and Aragorn both found a rare moment of ease. For nearly two years, their nerves had been strung too tight.
Tension, however, was already a way of life for hardened warriors and wizards. Levi was used to it as much as they were. A little breathing space now and again was more than enough.
And even without it, one could still find small joys in the midst of labour.
As Levi did with his love of cooking.
After the Battle of the East-mark, the three stayed one night in Aldburg, shared the feast, and left.
With nothing pressing on him, Levi returned to Dale. He called on Bain and Brand, and on Brand's child, Bard II.
"Time does fly," Levi murmured.
Looking at the little family, his heart felt strangely tangled.
Bain had grown old, as Bard had before him.
"Bard…"
He smiled as he spoke the name.
Little Bard looked up at once, wondering what business this youthful-looking "grandfather" might have with him.
"Nothing. Off you go, lad," Levi said, ruffling his hair and waving him back to his play.
By now, he had grown used to the local habit of naming.
Turgon and Ecthelion II. Denethor II. All took their names from great figures in the past.
It was hard to say whether it was in honour or simply to bask in their glow.
Either way, no one fooled himself. When they named their children, they always added the "Second" to show they were not the first to bear that name.
Watching Bard II, the boy named for Bard, Levi drifted into thought.
Somewhere, out in some forgotten corner, had anyone already christened a child "Levi II"?
That kind of fame should not be borrowed. He was not dead yet.
The thought amused him, and he could not help laughing at himself.
"Let the child inherit his great-grandfather's courage and will, and not only his name," Levi said softly.
"He will. I will leave him all the good I can," Bain answered, looking up from his seat at the side of the table to watch Bard II, his voice little more than a murmur.
He was past seventy now.
Old, just as Bard had been.
Children's laughter rang outside. Brand, returned from his trials, had a year of reunion with his family.
That same year, Bilbo crossed mountains and rivers in turn, came first to Roadside Keep and then to Rivendell, and at last accepted Elrond's invitation to dwell there in peace.
The year after, surrounded by Elves, Bilbo's mind would not rest. He began asking his neighbours for help and set to work on his Translations from the Elvish.
To find the Elves had always been his dream, realised once when he went to the Lonely Mountain.
Now, sixty years later, it was granted beyond his hopes.
He lived among them now. He saw Elves every day.
In 3004, at Roadside Keep.
Gandalf strolled up to the gates and rapped upon them.
He waited a long time. Nothing moved.
"Very well. Not at home again," he said at last.
He had grown used to Levi's way of leaving his house empty. It had always been like this. Most times he came, Levi was gone.
Catching him at home was the rare stroke of luck.
"Leaflock…"
Gandalf stood beneath the Maolong Tree and called, but the branches remained still.
"Asleep?"
Just as he turned to go, a signboard dropped at his feet.
On it was written, in large, neat letters:
"House of Beherdan?"
"Beherdan?"
Gandalf stroked his beard, thinking.
"If memory serves, in a certain old tongue that name means 'guardian'."
"Is that your new name, then?" he asked the tree, his expression odd.
"Very well, then. Our 'Beherdan', will you tell me where Levi has gone?"
This time, when he changed the way he called it, the Maolong Tree at last answered from above.
"North. The Angmar watch-post."
Angmar?
Gandalf frowned.
What was he doing there?
He mounted at once and rode north.
Days later, in the old capital of Angmar, now the Carn Dûm outpost of the Free Cities, he spoke with the men on guard.
"Please wait a while. Our lord crossed the mountains into the deep Northern Waste some days ago. He has not yet returned," one of them said.
"What business takes him there?" Gandalf asked.
The watchman only shook his head. He had no clear answer.
Curiosity pricking him hard, Gandalf stayed on.
He waited nearly a week.
It was not in vain.
One dawn, a sound of movement came from the snowy heights.
A massive corpse tumbled from the peak, bumping and bouncing down to the foot of the slope.
It lay there whole. The body had not warped or broken despite the fall.
Sword-wounds scored its flesh, and charred streaks marked it. There could be little doubt who had put them there.
"What is this?" Gandalf muttered.
He hurried out to look, frowning at the body.
The malice in it was thick.
Shff—
A figure slid down after it on the snow, landing light and sure.
"Gandalf. What brings you here?" Levi asked.
"Passing through. And what is all this? Where have you been, and what is this thing?" Gandalf said, tapping the white-furred corpse with the end of his staff.
"You might not tell by looking, but it is a Troll. Some kind of variant. For now, I am calling it a Snow-troll," Levi said.
He heaved the corpse over.
Gandalf saw the fangs at its jaw and the twisted face more clearly.
"To be honest, that is what I wanted to ask. Do you know this creature?" Levi said.