Chapter 50: The March East
The column stretched for nearly a mile.
Seven hundred sixty warriors moving as one—or trying to, anyway. The reality was messier than the ideal. Dwarves marched at their own pace, slower but relentless, refusing to adjust their stride for anyone. Elves ranged ahead, scouting and growing visibly impatient with the army's measured progress. Humans fell somewhere in the middle, adapting to circumstances while complaining about both extremes.
"Your dwarf friends are slowing us down." Halbarad the Younger had fallen in beside me, his horse matching my own's pace.
"They're bringing siege engines. Siege engines are slow."
"We could move faster without them."
"And die faster when we reach fortifications we can't breach." I kept my voice level. "The dwarves stay with the column. So do the engines."
He nodded, accepting the logic even if he didn't like it. Rangers were used to moving fast and light. The ponderous progress of a combined army chafed against every instinct.
"How long until we reach Razorpeak?"
"Ten days at this pace. Maybe eight if we push."
"Then we push. Tired soldiers are better than surprised soldiers."
[DAY THREE — EVENING]
The supply problem emerged on the third day.
I'd known the logistics were tight—feeding seven hundred sixty warriors required careful planning, and our departure had been hastier than ideal. But I'd assumed each contingent had packed appropriately for an extended campaign.
I'd assumed wrong.
"The Bree militia brought three days' rations." Gorlim's report was delivered with carefully neutral professionalism. "They expected a shorter march."
"What were they thinking?"
"They weren't thinking like soldiers. They were thinking like volunteers who'd never done this before." He consulted his notes. "We have enough food for the full force for... five more days. Seven if we cut portions."
"Then we cut portions. Starting with me."
"Lord Aldric—"
"Starting with me," I repeated. "Every commander takes the same reduction. The troops see their leaders sharing the hardship."
The reduced rations were announced that evening. Grumbling began immediately—soldiers are always the first to complain about food. But when they saw me eating half-portions at the commander's fire, saw Glorfindel accept the same reduced meal, saw Thorin's dwarves cut their own rations without protest, the complaints faded.
Shared hardship builds shared purpose.
The lesson had served me well since the first days of the settlement. It served me now.
[DAY FIVE — MIDDAY]
The orc scouts found us on the fifth day.
Ranger outriders spotted them first—a patrol of six, watching from a ridgeline overlooking our route. The alarm went through the column in whispers, weapons drawn, eyes scanning the terrain.
"They've seen us." Halbarad the Younger appeared at my side, bow in hand. "Should we try to intercept?"
"How far to the ridge?"
"Half a mile. Rough terrain. By the time we reach them—"
"They'll be gone." I made the decision quickly. "Send Rangers anyway. Kill them if you can, track them if you can't. I want to know where they report."
The Rangers moved out—twenty of them, flowing across the terrain like shadows. The orcs saw them coming and fled, but not before three fell to Ranger arrows. The rest vanished into the mountain paths, carrying news of our approach.
"So much for surprise." Tom Ferny had joined the command group, his civilian origins showing in his nervous energy.
"We never had complete surprise. An army this size can't move unnoticed." I studied the mountains rising ahead. "But we've forced them to react. They know we're coming, but they don't know our full strength or our timing."
"Will they attack before we're ready?"
"Orcs prefer defense when they have fortifications. They'll wait in Razorpeak, try to make us pay for every yard of approach." I allowed myself a grim smile. "That's exactly what we want."
[DAY SEVEN — NIGHT]
The campfire arguments had become tradition.
Every night, representatives from each race gathered around a shared fire, ostensibly to coordinate but actually to compete. Who could tell the best stories. Who knew the oldest songs. Who had faced the greatest dangers.
Tonight, the argument was about singing.
"Dwarven battle hymns are superior," Thorin declared, his voice carrying the absolute certainty of his kind. "Three thousand years of tradition. Echoes properly in mountain halls."
"Elven songs predate your mountains." Glorfindel's response was mild but pointed. "We sang of stars before dwarves learned to speak."
"Rangers don't sing," Halbarad the Younger said. "We hum. Quietly. While hunting."
"That explains why you're terrible at tavern songs." Tom Ferny got laughs from the Bree contingent.
"Perhaps a demonstration?" I suggested. "Each race presents their best effort. Let the fire judge."
The dwarf song came first—a deep, rumbling hymn about ancestors and honor and the weight of mountains. It resonated in the chest, felt as much as heard.
The Ranger contribution was indeed quiet—a melancholy tune about watching and waiting, about borders that never end and duties that never fade.
Tom Ferny offered a tavern song from Bree that was inappropriate, hilarious, and somehow perfect for the moment.
And then Glorfindel sang.
It wasn't in any language I knew. The words were older than Westron, older perhaps than any speech still spoken in Middle-earth. The melody rose and fell like light through water, carrying emotions that transcended understanding.
When he finished, the fire seemed dimmer. Not because the flames had faded, but because everything else seemed pale by comparison.
"That's not fair," Thorin grumbled. "Elves always win singing contests."
"Then stop challenging them." But there was no heat in the words. Even the dwarf had been moved.
We sat in silence after that, watching flames dance, preparing for what came next.
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