As if in answer to his words, shapes emerge along the edge of the hills: tall, sturdy men clad in worn leather and wool, their faces partly hidden under hoods. Long swords hang at their sides, and bows are strung in their hands, the Rangers of the North.
The one who leads them steps forward with a confident stride. His face is stern, weathered by years of hardship, but his eyes are sharp and intelligent, bearing the mark of an ancient, noble line.
"Mithrandir," he greets Gandalf with a respectful but terse nod. "The east wind brings filth to our doorsteps."
"It blows ever stronger, Barandir," the wizard replies, his tone equally grave. "I see the North is still well-guarded."
The Ranger turns his gaze on Zac, assessing him with the caution of those who live in the shadows. His attention falls on the corpses of the Orcs. "These creatures have given us trouble. They were craftier than their kin."
"Not crafty," Zac gently corrects, crouching beside a corpse. "Desperate. Their tracks are more spaced over there," he points to the trail. "They were fleeing. And the gashes on their shields are fresh. They've faced other blades before ours, yours, I assume."
A deep silence settles, broken only by the whistle of the wind. The Ranger studies this stranger, considering his words. Barandir nods slowly, respect mingling with surprise in his eyes. "You read the signs well, stranger. Better than most."
Another Ranger steps forward, younger, his face still marked by a recent skirmish. "They've set up camp less than a day from here, too close to settled lands. We've been watching them for days, but they are many."
Zac is silent for a moment, weighing his options. Could his intervention shift the course of events? Was this skirmish noted in any chronicle he once knew? Or was it another of countless conflicts never recorded? The presence of Elrenniel in Rivendell, a major anomaly, reminds him this world is already different from the one he thought he knew.
He senses the distress in the Rangers' eyes, the exhaustion of men fighting ceaselessly against an ever-rising tide. These are the last remnants of the northern Dúnedain kingdoms, protecting people who scarcely know they exist.
"I could help," he finally offers. "Fight that camp alongside you."
The Rangers exchange wary looks. They are not used to accepting help from outsiders, years of solitary struggle have forged their distrust.
"This man is my companion," Gandalf interjects, his natural authority commanding respect. "His blade would be a valuable asset to your cause."
Barandir considers this a long moment, then nods. "If Mithrandir trusts you, then we accept your help."
Gandalf turns to Zac, his face suddenly grave. "I must continue my road west. Urgent business awaits me, and I cannot delay my journey."
He gestures toward a point on the horizon. "Where the road crosses the river, before Bree, that is where we shall meet again, if fate allows."
Zac understands. The wizard has his own missions, his own threads to weave into the complex tapestry of events. "I'll find you there," he promises.
They share a final look, heavy with unspoken questions and silent promises. Then Gandalf resumes his westward march, his grey figure outlined against the setting sun, staff tapping a steady rhythm on the dusty road.
Zac turns to the Rangers, his features now set with quiet resolve. "Show me this camp," he says simply. "Let's make ready our assault."
As they vanish into the moor, Zac casts one last glance at the distant shape of Gandalf, now almost lost to view. A strange certainty settles on him, this is only the beginning of a long journey, the first step in a quest whose nature still eludes him.
Night descends upon the hills of Eriador, cloaking the Rangers and their new ally in its dark mantle. In the darkness, they move silently, shadows among shadows, preparing to strike a blow against the servants of the Enemy.