"Honorable King Rynar, I have come bearing the goodwill of the dwarves, hoping that you still remember the promise we made back then." Balin's snow-white beard trembled slightly as he spoke to Rynar.
"Welcome, my friend Balin! The people of Zaltarion never forget their promises to their allies, myself included." Rynar nodded affirmatively.
"Oh! By Durin! Thank the heavens, we finally have some confidence. Without your aid, I truly cannot imagine whether we could ever reclaim Moria. The number of orcs there is as endless as rats in a cellar!" Balin sighed.
"It's not as bad as you think! Trust me, Balin! Even without our help, the brave and fearless dwarven warriors could still reclaim your ancient home!" Rynar said earnestly.
"But you might take it, yet you won't be able to hold it..." Rynar thought to himself. Being well aware of the events to come, he knew that Balin standing before him would one day become the Lord of Moria, one of the few dwarves to ever claim a royal title. However, due to King Dain Ironfoot's caution and the lack of reinforcements, the isolated and vulnerable Moria would eventually fall after Balin's assassination.
"Thank you for your praise, but I know our own strength... To be honest, for this expedition to Moria, I only have 500 dwarven warriors... And that's only thanks to Thorin's assistance that I managed to muster even this many." Balin sighed, filled with helplessness and a touch of pessimism.
God above, what are you saying? By the Dragon God! If in the original story, you could only bring a few dozen armed dwarves for this expedition, that would have been truly miserable. Compared to the rigid Dain, the fact that Thorin gave him 500 dwarven warriors was already an act of great generosity.
"500? Not bad, much higher than I expected." Rynar nodded in satisfaction. He had to admit that Thorin was indeed a reliable friend. With the situation in Middle-earth still shrouded in uncertainty, and the balance of power unclear, Thorin had still been willing to grant Balin 500 dwarven warriors! That was beyond Rynar's expectations. These were not mere peasants who had just laid down their pitchforks and hoes, but battle-hardened dwarven professionals. In formation, they could even withstand and countercharge against warg riders outnumbering them several times over!
"Huh?" Balin was dumbfounded. He had been preparing to explain himself, but he hadn't expected such a reaction from Rynar. He feared that Rynar might misunderstand and think the dwarves were merely using them as cannon fodder, which could lead to him refusing to join the battle.
"No worries. I happen to have some dragons who need an opportunity to vent their anger on the orcs..." Rynar shrugged. He was already looking forward to the sight of Moria's poor Balrog being ganged up on by wind dragons and elven dragons.
"Dragon riders? That would be a tremendous help! You must understand, we dwarves currently have no means to deal with that Balrog... If you can truly eliminate this great menace of ours, we are willing to pay an even greater fortune."
"Alright, consider it done. Leave the Balrog to us."
"Lord Ausbya, Dragon Cavalry Marshal… Just watch! No Balrog shall ever again rampage across Middle-earth!" Rynar clenched his fist, the image of that mighty figure unleashing a world-shattering strike still etched into his mind.
"Do you have a route planned? After all, we're moving a force of several thousand; any mistake could lead to disaster!" Rynar asked cautiously. He had no intention of leaving his own homeland vulnerable while they marched on Moria.
"Of course! We plan to travel down the River Running to your Lulong Fortress, then move into the Old Forest Road, following it to the Anduin River, where we will sail downstream, finally arriving at Lothlórien… Then, we will march northward toward Mirrormere and attack from the East Gate." Balin spread out an ancient parchment map, its surface marked with countless names and resource locations, gathered over centuries by the dwarven ancestors.
"An old relic? A fine piece of work!" Rynar ran his fingers over the map, full of admiration.
"Indeed, an heirloom passed down from my grandfather!" Balin said proudly.
"By the way, I would recommend you lead heavy infantry into the assault. The terrain of Moria is not suited for lightly armored troops..." Balin suddenly remembered something and advised Rynar.
"Of course. Thank you for the reminder, my friend!" Rynar smiled warmly, but internally, he was cursing. No way! No way! Who in their right mind would send light infantry into Moria's tunnels as if they were some kind of minefield sweepers? That wasn't 'mine-clearing'—that was outright murder!
"When do we set out?" Balin lifted his head, looking up at Rynar with hopeful eyes, yearning to hear the answer he longed for most.
"One week from now! I need time to arrange our defenses to fill the gap left by the departing expedition force, and the soldiers need to be mobilized!" Rynar counted on his fingers. The troops certainly needed preparation. This wasn't about reclaiming lost land or defending their homeland—this was a war for wealth. The warriors needed to be rallied and motivated accordingly.
"Huh? That dwarf left already?" Not long after Balin departed in high spirits, Nyx gracefully lifted her skirt and approached, her voice soft as she spoke. As she did so, her gaze shifted toward the wide map on the wall.
"Yes, Balin is gone. But don't underestimate him; he is destined to be the Lord of Moria." Rynar made his 'prophetic' declaration like some kind of fortune teller. The truth was, Balin would indeed become the ruler of Moria—he just wouldn't survive past three episodes.
"Really? He will truly inherit the title of Lord of Moria?" Nyx asked in disbelief.
"Of course. He carries the aura of a king; greatness is his destiny!" Rynar affirmed. Balin was a legend. If not for his assassination by orcs, there was a real chance that the dwarves could have truly reclaimed the Mines of Moria. But this time, Balin's forces were far superior to history. Having 500 dwarven warriors as his foundation was a game-changer. As long as this army held its ground at the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, the orcs would have little chance of ever setting foot there again.
"So, what are you bringing with you this time?" Nyx asked as she began to gently massage Rynar's shoulders with her delicate hands.
"At the very least, I'll need to bring a large portion of Zaltarion's city guards. And the Dunwenian Heavy Swordsmen must accompany me as well! Just imagine those muscle-bound warriors swinging their massive swords—I am certain they will turn Moria into an absolute nightmare for the orcs!" Rynar scoffed.
As one of the first elite units under his command, the numbers of these heavy infantry had neither increased nor decreased. They were a quiet but steadfast force, spending their days patrolling the walls and gates of the city. Many saw them as just another part of the cityscape, but few knew the terrifying might these melee warriors possessed. And now, for the first time in this world's Middle-earth, they would shine with a brilliance unlike any other—a brilliance that would shake the very heavens!
"Oh... I've already started praying for those poor orcs..." Nyx muttered. A full line of Dunwenian Heavy Swordsmen packed into Moria's narrow tunnels? That would be nothing short of an absolute massacre. Unless a Nazgûl appeared or the Balrog itself intervened, there was no force among the orcs that could hope to stop them.
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