"A heavily wounded elite enemy, who could resist finishing it off?"
Garrett could clearly see that the arrow had reduced the orc squad leader's health to just seven points.
Within execution range!
Without a moment's hesitation, he quickly crawled out of the tunnel. Before the nearby orcs could react, he drew his sword and struck, immediately cutting down the squad leader and reducing its health to zero. With their leader dead, the surrounding orcs lost their core and fell into chaos. Even the wargs seemed confused. He didn't waste the opportunity, he stepped forward and took down several orcs and their mounts in quick succession.
The scent of blood thickened in the air. Finally, one of the orcs snapped out of the panic and shouted, "Kill him! He's alone!"
Clang.
The warg beneath the shouting orc had its limbs severed and collapsed on the spot. A follow-up upward slash, and the orc was dead.
The temporary leader who had stood up was instantly killed. The orc squad plunged once more into disarray. Some charged at Garrett, trying to take him down first, but he only needed two slashes per kill. A third hit wasn't even necessary.
Without unified command, the scene was pure chaos. Orcs and wargs swarmed around him, yelling and flailing, but unable to form a proper formation. They attacked in ones and twos, like panicked fighters rushing in blindly, only to die in vain.
Those outside only crowded around and shouted, blocking off the retreat for the orcs inside.
A few tried to rally the others into formation, but he would spot them quickly. Even if it meant taking some damage, he would prioritize taking them out.
At that moment, he deeply felt the difference between having and not having a commander.
When the squad leader was alive, he only ambushed. He would strike and flee, never lingering, knowing that even a second's delay would result in being surrounded.
Now? As long as he chose to, he could break out at any time.
The difference was massive, no wonder in the Battle of Five Armies, when Azog died, the entire orc army collapsed quickly. Without formation, without coordination, an army of individual fighters was nothing more than a headless mob, not worth fearing.
Blood stained more and more of his armor, yet the sword in Garrett's hand remained bright, like a star that never dimmed. That brilliance became the last light many orcs and wargs ever saw.
Once more than half the cavalry squad was dead or dying, he began considering retreat. After all, sheer numbers were still on the orcs' side. Even if they just rushed in mindlessly, they could wear him down.
By now, his health was down to half, and his hunger meter was running low too.
What he didn't expect was, the orcs got scared first.
Seeing half their comrades slaughtered while that lone human still looked full of energy, not even slightly fatigued, and even recovering from injuries, it was horrifying.
It was like he was unkillable.
Sometimes, what was most terrifying wasn't that something was difficult, it was when no matter how hard you tried, no progress was visible at all. Though he was in a somewhat dangerous state, he still appeared completely unscathed. It was as if no attack could harm him.
Blades had clearly pierced him, yet he acted as if nothing happened, pulling them out and turning around to cut down the attacker.
Once or twice might be coincidence. Three or four times, and the orcs were truly terrified.
At this moment, he feigned ferocity, waving his longsword and shouting to scare back the orcs and wargs, while frantically chewing on dried beef in secret.
Once he maxed out his hunger meter and recovered health, he charged back in to resume the slaughter.
I'm waiting to heal, what are you all waiting for?
The smell of blood spread.
The orcs that needed to die died. The ones that needed to flee fled. No matter what, that squad was no more.
Over twenty cavalry, orcs and wargs combined, more than forty corpses now littered the ground, turning it into a slaughterhouse. The glow on the longsword slowly faded. With that, the battle was officially over.
At the same time, several system achievement notifications appeared.
[Lothlórien Reputation reached 100]
[Dúnedain Reputation reached 100]
[Faction Achievement Unlocked: Friend of Lothlórien]
[Faction Achievement Unlocked: Friend of the Dúnedain]
"Huh?"
He opened the description.
Once reputation exceeded 10, the corresponding faction recognized you, and their attitude became friendly. Reaching 100 meant you were an undisputed friend of that faction.
Well then... He hadn't even arrived at Lothlórien yet, and he was already its Friend.
He glanced again at the reputation change log.
Trolls, orcs, and wargs, these were all enemies of the Free Peoples, and every one of their deaths had turned into his reputation points. Not just for the Dúnedain and Lothlórien, once word of his deeds spread, reputation with other Free Peoples factions would slowly increase too, though certainly not by as much.
He took another bite of dried meat. Seeing that it was still early, he decided to hunt down a few more trolls.
However, this time, he spent the whole night searching, climbing over ridges, checking multiple caves, yet not a single troll was found by dawn.
Finding trolls was a matter of both luck and persistence.
Seeing that his inventory was already filled with gold and silver, and that he'd even acquired a valuable sword, he decided to end his journey in the Trollshaws for now and continue heading toward Rivendell.
A pity, really. He never did manage to find those three trolls rumored to be hoarding treasure. Guess fate spared their lives, for now.
Back at the Last Bridge, he opened up the ground, and found his horse safe and sound inside.
"You've had a rough time, locked up for so many days."
He gently patted the horse's head. The horse didn't react much, just lowered its head to munch some grass, its eyes filled with intelligence.
"Let's go."
He swung onto the horse in one motion and continued galloping eastward.
Just like that, he rode all the way until the next night.
Riding along, he pulled out a map to compare his position. Judging by the current pace, he estimated he'd reach the outskirts of Rivendell by dawn.
According to what Halbarad said, there was a small path that led directly into the valley...
Whoosh.
In the blink of an eye, a sharp whistling sound cut through the air.
"Tch—"
The horse beneath him suddenly reared up and halted, nearly throwing Garrett off. Looking down, he saw an arrow had somehow embedded itself in the horse's flank. Even with horse armor, it still lost seven HP.
He turned his head, and was startled to find that, at some point, a large shadowy force had surrounded him. Countless crimson eyes stared him down in the darkness, sending chills down his spine.
It was an orc cavalry unit. By rough count... over a hundred strong.
"Holy shit!"
Garrett cursed, spun his horse around, and bolted.
"What the—?"
This didn't seem right.
The orc archer who had fired the shot was stunned. He could have sworn he landed a solid hit, so why was the horse still running like nothing happened?
"After him!" an orc barked the order.
Immediately, a group of warg-riders surged forward in formation, charging with discipline.
Back at the spot, a nervous warg-rider came up to report, "That's him... the one who wiped out our squad in the Trollshaws..."
Even the warg under him looked demoralized, as if it had been traumatized recently.
"I know. He's the one the Goblin-king has placed a bounty on. I'll kill him."
Roar!
The leader's warg let out a deafening howl and took off after the main force.
Meanwhile, Garrett galloped desperately, heart pounding like a war drum.
"Damn, damn, damn, damn—"
So many orcs all targeting one person.
He cursed a few more times but knew he had no other options right now, just run. After all, this was a unit of over a hundred warg-riders, and they were clearly not just some rabble. Judging by their gear, armor and formation, they were elite troops, especially by Misty Mountains standards where most orcs barely wore rags.
There was no way he could take on a force like that head-on.
So he pushed forward at full speed, not daring to pause even for a second.
He ran like that for half the night.
Looking back...
"They're still chasing me?! Don't these wargs ever get tired?!"
Was this really the only option left...
His face showed a flicker of hesitation.
The only surefire way to escape now would be to abandon his mount, dig a hole three blocks deep, and tunnel away. With the shovel's speed, he could manage to dig down in time before the enemy reached him.
But... was he really going to abandon the horse?
Just as he was hesitating, he suddenly felt a subtle tremor through the ground ahead. He quickly looked up, at the far edge of the plain, under the starlight, a line of silver-grey suddenly came into view, gleaming faintly with a pale glow.
That was... Cavalry?