Under the vigilant watch of the rangers, the group pressed forward swiftly. Fortunately, they were all clad in armor; otherwise, the omnipresent thorns would have shredded their clothing into rags.
Clang! A crisp sound of metal striking a shield rang out. One of the Zaltarion City Guards at the vanguard staggered back a few steps as a thrown spear, its origin unknown, collided with his shield.
"Counterattack!" The enraged Zaltarion City Guards were not ones to take a hit without retaliation. Unlike the Zaltarion Royal Guard, who specialized in close combat, the city guards at least had mid-range counterattack capabilities. Without hesitation, these brave soldiers raised their waist-mounted Zaltarion crossbows and fired blindly in the direction of the attack. Whether they hit anything or not was secondary—suppressive fire was a must. It was a pity they had no mages accompanying them. Otherwise, the well-funded Zaltarion army would have gladly unleashed a few waves of magical bombardment. Their tactics bore a striking resemblance to a certain shameless country back on Blue Star—when superior in ranged firepower, they would avoid melee combat altogether. After all, when mages could blast their enemies' brains out, there was no need for them to risk their own lives.
Thwack!
Thud thud!
Boom!
With a flurry of arrows whistling through the air, the sound of splintering wood echoed throughout the battlefield. Mixed within were the unmistakable noises of arrows piercing flesh and agonized groans.
"Those bastards got hit! Rangers, go check! If possible, take their heads!" The Zaltarion City Guards, hearing the sounds of their foes being struck, wouldn't let such an opportunity slip by. Everyone enjoyed kicking a man when he was down. Dealing with a few wounded trolls was an easy task for the rangers. If not for their heavy armor, the city guards themselves would have rushed in to decapitate the fallen foes.
Soon, several Lordaeron rangers emerged, their curved blades dripping with fresh blood. These half-elven rangers wielded their weapons with unparalleled precision, unlike most Zaltarion Empire rangers who preferred longswords for close combat.
"We took down ten, but two got away! Fellows, your crossbow shooting was spot on!" One of the Lordaeron rangers gave a thumbs-up to the Zaltarion City Guards. Most of the trolls had already been wounded by those lightweight yet powerful hand crossbows, making the rangers' job much easier.
"We're no match for you lot. We just fire blindly, while your eyes are as sharp as a hawk's, and your arrows strike like a gryphon's talons!" The city guards returned the compliment.
"Oh, by Durin's beard! I've had enough!" Oin sighed in frustration, lowering his greatsword and shield. Watching the humans celebrate their victory, he glanced at his own weapons and felt nothing but dejection.
"I miss Kili..." Ori muttered as he stared blankly at the Lordaeron rangers. It was common knowledge in Middle-earth that dwarves were not proficient in archery. Exceptional marksmen like Kili were rare among their kind. Most dwarves relied on crossbows for ranged attacks—after all, those didn't require natural talent.
"Oh, Thorin... you truly were a great and wise king of the dwarves!" Balin sighed, reflecting on Thorin's foresight. He now suspected that Thorin had long foreseen the dangers of Mirkwood in early spring. Otherwise, with Thorin's usual aggressive nature, why would he have refused to join this expedition? It seemed Thorin had never truly believed in its success. His willingness to fund Balin's journey was likely out of friendship and a 'might as well try' mentality. After all, Erebor had already been reclaimed! The Lonely Mountain Kingdom once again stood tall in Middle-earth. The dwarves had found their home, and reclaiming Moria was merely a bonus—if it succeeded, great; if not, it wasn't a devastating loss, given how long it had already been abandoned.
Balin had secured this expedition through sheer luck. If history had followed its course, with Dain Ironfoot as king, he wouldn't have received a single coin of support. Balin would have had to gather funds himself and lead a meager force to Moria. Fortunately, Thorin had a sentimental heart. He provided Balin with a full five hundred troops—far more than the ragtag force Balin originally led. And these were fully equipped dwarven soldiers in standard armor, vastly superior to a self-funded expedition. If Balin could hold onto Moria and not fall prey to the cunning orcs, then perhaps Moria could truly become the next great dwarven stronghold.
"Dwarven friends, bear with it for now. Once we're out of this forest, it will be your time to shine. But for now, please focus on protecting yourselves. Don't expose your bodies beyond your shields..." Caslow, seeing the restless dwarves, stepped forward to calm them. After all, Omsk was leading the troops up front, and Rynar was still recovering from his injuries—so it seemed he was the only one available to handle this.
"You are right, Dragon Knight!" Balin replied with respect. Although the dwarves were irritated by the ambushes, the presence of a Dragon Knight was enough to command their obedience. Dwarves were stubborn, but they weren't fools—none of them wanted to antagonize a man who could decide the success of their expedition.
Seeing Balin start to pacify his own warriors, Caslow let out a deep breath. Though he wasn't responsible for the dwarves' actions, they were still allies. Losing them needlessly in this treacherous forest would only increase the burden on his own soldiers. Every fallen dwarf meant more pressure on his men.
"Cough, cough... Caslow, where are we now?" Rynar, lying on a stretcher carried by two Royal Guards, pulled his fur cloak closer and spoke in a low voice. His injuries were severe. He owed his survival to the system-gifted Mithril Lord's Armor—without it, he would've stepped through death's door.
"Your Highness, please continue resting. Although your ribs haven't shattered completely, they are covered in fractures!" Caslow stated bluntly. While the armor had prevented the spear from penetrating, the attack wasn't ordinary. It carried the combat aura of a troll, and with that monstrous impact force, it had caused Rynar's ribs to fracture despite the protection of his plate armor.
"I feel much better! How's the situation?" Rynar insisted.
"...You're still badly injured. Your ribs are nearly shattered..." Caslow ignored Rynar's stubbornness, grasping his wrist and channeling his own battle aura to examine him. His expression immediately darkened—Rynar's condition had worsened!
"By the Dragon God! We should've brought a few priests with us!" Omsk ruffled his hair in frustration. Many within the Zaltarion Kingdom had opposed Rynar's decision to lead the expedition himself. But driven by his curiosity about Moria and his thirst for battle, Rynar had insisted on coming. And now, here they were!
"Take good care of His Highness! He needs rest!" Caslow ordered the Royal Guards shielding Rynar. His injuries couldn't be treated by anything short of magic or prolonged recuperation. If only Reynard were here—it wouldn't be a problem at all. A few healing spells would've fixed Rynar up in no time.
"Holy Light!" Rynar raised a hand to his chest, and a gentle yet radiant glow appeared in his palm. He pressed his hand against his ribs. At this moment, he had no choice but to heal himself.
Thank you, system, for letting me become a Paladin! Rynar thought to himself.
.
.
.
Guys, do leave some power stones and reviews.
🤞patreon.com/MythosWriter🤞
If you guys enjoy this story, you can support me on Patreon and get access to Advance Chapters, it really helps me to work on new chapters.