"His name is Zac," Barandir continues. "He fought alongside us against a band of Orcs near Amon Sûl. His blade is swift and his arm strong. Mithrandir trusts him, and I have witnessed his valor with my own eyes."
The old man approaches Zac, studying him with an intensity reminiscent of Elrond. "Where do you come from, stranger?" he asks without preamble.
"From far away," Zac answers simply. "I have traveled from the far East, through darkness I prefer not to speak of."
The man seems ready to question further, but Barandir interjects. "There are more urgent matters tonight. The Orc camp we have tracked for a week numbers around fifty, perhaps more. They have settled too close to isolated farms to the west. Their scouts venture further each day."
"We have observed their patrols," says a younger Ranger, a fresh scar crossing his cheek. "They are disorganized but numerous. Attacking head-on would be madness."
A heavy silence falls as each man weighs their limited options. Zac studies their faces, reading decades of thankless struggle against a rising tide. These men are the unseen bulwark protecting peaceful lands further west, their perpetual sacrifice allowing the folk of Bree and the Shire to live blissfully unaware of the evil lurking beyond their borders.
"Darkness," Zac finally says, his calm voice immediately drawing attention. "Is our greatest ally."
Barandir gestures for him to continue.
"The Orcs see well in the dark, but they fear more than they should. They are superstitious, disorganized. A silent strike at the heart of night could sow panic. In confusion, they will fight among themselves as much as against us."
A massive Ranger, his black beard framing a face scarred from old wounds, slowly nods. "The stranger is right. I have seen entire Orc camps tear themselves apart over less."
"We are still outnumbered," another objects.
"Numbers matter little when fear grips them," Zac replies, recalling countless times he observed these creatures fleeing Mordor. "Strike the sentries silently, then launch an assault from multiple directions at once. They will believe they face an army."
Barandir considers the plan, exchanging glances with the other leaders among the Rangers. A silent communication passes between them, forged by years of fighting side by side.
"It is a risky plan, but simple," he finally concludes. "And sometimes, simplicity is our strongest weapon. We attack at the third hour after midnight, when their watchfulness is at its lowest."
With the decision made, the atmosphere shifts subtly. These men, who live on a razor's edge, know how to savor moments of respite before battle. A frugal meal is shared, hard bread, dried cheese, smoked meat, and a flask of mead passed from hand to hand. Zac accepts his portion gratefully, aware of the rarity of such provisions for men who live off whatever the land yields.
An unusual camaraderie fills the air, all the more precious for its rarity. Stories are exchanged in hushed tones, tales of ancient battles, encounters with strange creatures in misty hills, near-mythic hunts. Stifled laughter punctuates these narratives, testifying to a humanity that harsh existence has not extinguished.
Zac listens, absorbs, learns. These stories are fragments of an unwritten history, missing chapters from the chronicles he once knew. He now understands why Tolkien never told all, this world's richness is too vast, too complex to fit within the pages of any book, even one penned by the wisest storyteller.
Sometimes he feels curious eyes on him. His presence is tolerated only by Barandir's and Gandalf's approval, but suspicion remains. A stranger with luminous eyes, wielding a blade shining with impossible light, speaking with wisdom beyond his appearance, he is an enigma in a world where mysteries are rarely welcomed.
After a few hours of light, wary sleep, the camp stirs as one. No orders are spoken aloud, no signals flashed, but every man rises as if moved by an unseen clock, perfectly synchronized. It is the darkest hour, just before dawn, when even nocturnal creatures seek rest.
Preparations are minimal and efficient. Weapons are checked silently, cloaks adjusted to prevent noise, faces smeared with mud and ash to blend more completely into the darkness. Zac watches and imitates, appreciating the military precision with which these men, lacking formal structure for generations, prepare for battle.
Barandir approaches as Zac adjusts his scabbard, ensuring the blade will draw silently. "You'll move with me," he says simply. "Your sword may prove decisive if things go awry."
Zac nods, understanding the double meaning, it is both a mark of trust and a way to keep him under watch. He holds no offense; in their place, he would do the same.
Without another word, they leave the camp, two dozen shadows fading into the dark, their forms merging seamlessly with the nocturnal landscape. Their plan rests entirely on surprise, their sole hope of wiping out an enemy twice their number.
As they move silently toward their target, Zac feels a strange familiarity with the situation. How many times has he hunted creatures in the darkness of the depths? How often has he used shadow as an ally against larger foes? But this time it is different. He is no longer alone, fighting for his own survival. He belongs to a brotherhood, a long lineage of guardians whose very existence defies the growing shadow.
Ahead, beyond a low ridge, a reddish glow betrays the presence of the Orc camp. Massive figures loom against the dying flames of a campfire. Guttural voices carried on the night wind confirm their destination. The Rangers spread out like a silent wave, taking positions around the enemy camp, invisible in the moonless night.
Zac breathes deeply, savoring the fresh air of this Eriador night. His mithril sword vibrates gently at his side, less with thirst for blood than with desire to restore harmony to a world unbalanced by these corrupted creatures. The hour of attack approaches, and with it, a new chapter in his strange journey through this land he knew without truly knowing.