"Had enough to eat?" Roland clapped his hands.
"I'm full, my lord," Caslow replied.
"Then let's move. Hopefully today we can find a village or a town, and finally figure out where the hell we are…" Roland sighed.
"Yes, my lord," Caslow said.
…
"My lord! We might have trouble!" Caslow suddenly yanked on Roland's reins.
"This… this is Gundabad warg dung!" Caslow explained.
Roland's face darkened. "So that means…"
"Exactly. There's an orc wolf-rider patrol nearby!"
"Damn it! On guard!" Roland suddenly raised his tower shield.
Clang! An iron arrow ricocheted off the shield.
"Caslow! Summon your dragon—get in the air! Now!" Roland shouted.
From the shadowy forest ahead, orc wolf riders burst out between swaying branches, and behind them came wave after wave of orc infantry.
"My lord, we must have wandered into orc territory!" Caslow said bitterly, yanking out his dragon flute as he began calling his flying dragon.
"For the honor of the knights—charge!" Roland's battle aura flared, wrapping around both him and his barded Shire horse.
Shhhk! Roland's sword took the ugly head clean off an orc.
Thud! His tower shield blocked a swinging scimitar, and in the same motion, his Dragon Slayer sword drove straight through the orc's chest.
A triumphant dragon roar echoed overhead. Caslow had taken to the skies.
The sudden appearance of the dragon stunned the orcs, giving Roland time to hack down a few more. A moment later, the dragon spat out a wide blade of wind that shattered into dozens of palm-sized slashes. Ten or more wolf riders—and their mounts—were shredded into gore. Roland gagged at the sight.
Hearing the harsh, guttural syllables of dragon-tongue magic, Roland didn't even think—he spun his horse around and bolted. You'd have to be brain-dead to stand inside the blast range of that.
The dragon's wings beat once, and a tornado ripped forward, growing larger by the second. Nearly half the orc army was sucked high into the air and hurled a hundred meters skyward before raining back down like grotesque hailstones.
Caslow pressed the attack from above, slicing orcs apart with wind blades. Below, Roland could only watch the carnage in stunned silence—no chance for a finishing blow, not when every target was already in pieces.
The last orc was torn apart at the forest edge. Caslow landed, satisfied.
"My lord, all dealt with!"
"Good. Put the dragon away. You'll ride this." Roland pointed to a nearby Shire horse—the system's reward for his "First Blood" achievement.
'Scorched Earth: Complete. Successfully annihilated all orcs, leaving none alive. Reward: 10 fully armed squire knights.'
The reward made Roland grin. Squires with superhuman strength easily outclassed the finest cavalry—and he'd just gotten ten of them, fully kitted out.
Summoning them, Roland found each mounted on a barded Shire horse, clad in triple-layer plate, armed with a steel longsword, steel lance, steel cross-shield, ironwood bow, and even a mithril war pick—perfect for smashing enemy armor. And of course, each bore a cloak with the dragon crest from Roland's own armor. Twelve riders in all, looking fierce as hell.
…
Five days later—
"Holy crap… is that a village?" Roland blinked.
"Yes, my lord. A village—but it doesn't look too friendly…" Caslow eyed the closed wooden gate and the militia manning the walls. His sharp gaze caught the way their fingers rested on bowstrings.
"Oh, Lord… alright, everyone, weapons down. Easy," Roland ordered.
The men obeyed, putting away their arms.
Roland rode up to the gate and called out to the villagers above.
"Sorry to bother you! We're just travelers looking for a place to rest. We can pay."
"Is that so? Where do you come from, stranger?" asked an older man from above.
"Uh… I'm from the Eastern Empire. These men are retainers I recruited in Gondor." Roland removed his helmet.
Seeing his black hair and eyes, the villagers muttered among themselves. After a moment, they seemed to reach a decision.
"You may come in and rest, but we ask that you don't fight or cause trouble for our people."
"As you wish—we'll comply," Roland agreed quickly.
The wooden gates creaked open, and Roland motioned for the group to dismount and enter. But the moment he stepped inside, he had a suspicion.
"…I think we're in the Shire," he muttered—because in front of him stood a row of short folk. Not dwarves, but halflings—the Hobbits everyone knew.
"Hello, can you tell me where we are? We got lost out on the wilds," Roland asked one.
After a short chat, it was confirmed—they were in the northernmost part of the Shire. And not the movie version of Middle-earth, but the Lord of the Rings continent itself.
"Well, that's perfect. I know the Lord of the Rings map like the back of my hand," Roland said, rubbing his chin.
"Right, what's the year? Caslow, go ask around."
"Yes, my lord."
…
"What?! Third Age 2940?!" Roland was stunned.
"What's wrong, my lord?" Caslow asked.
"Oh, nothing… just something interesting. I'm thinking maybe we should get involved." Roland meant the Dwarves' great expedition—the very start of the Hobbit's tale.
"Thorin Oakenshield's a decent ally. If we want to set down roots here, we'll need friends worth having," Roland muttered.
This version of Middle-earth was different—no gods, far more magic users than the original's measly five wizards—and who knew how this quest would end? In the old game, plenty of player lords had joined Thorin's company and actually helped reclaim the Lonely Mountain.
"Alright… to Hobbiton!" Roland decided.