The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 71

The wind whispered through the trees as Sirius Black—now once again Harren, the mountain hermit and healer of the Woodmen—approached the village he had once called home. The scent of fresh pine and damp earth filled his lungs, and for a moment, he let himself bask in the memories of his time here, of healing the sick, hunting with Beorn, and watching over the people who had once been defenseless against the terrors of the wild.

But as the village came into view, his relief turned to shock.

Gone was the small, unassuming settlement of simple wooden huts. Instead, a massive stronghold stood in its place, surrounded by towering wooden walls reinforced with thick logs. A heavy wooden gate, reinforced with iron, loomed ahead, and atop the walls, watchmen patrolled with bows and spears. The once small village had tripled in size, bustling with movement. Smoke from dozens of forges and homes rose into the sky, and children no longer played in open fields but inside secured enclosures.

Sirius pulled back the hood of his cloak, stepping forward, expecting recognition. But as soon as he was within sight, a flurry of arrows was drawn and aimed at him.

"Halt!" a gruff voice called from above. "State your name and purpose!"

Sirius smirked. "Is this how you greet an old friend?" His voice was strong but calm.

The guards murmured among themselves, uncertain. Then, one of them, an older man with a thick beard and knowing eyes, gasped. "By the gods... it's Harren! Harren has returned!"

The gate creaked open, and before Sirius could react, a dozen people rushed forward, cheering and embracing him. Hands patted his back, voices called his name, and he barely had time to breathe before a massive figure barreled toward him.

"Harren!" Beorn's booming voice filled the air before he crushed Sirius in a massive bear hug, lifting him off the ground.

Sirius laughed. "Beorn! Put me down, or I swear I’ll hex you."

The shapeshifter only laughed harder before finally setting Sirius down, gripping his shoulders with a broad grin. "You vanished for too long, old friend. Much has changed since you left."

Sirius took in Beorn’s face. He had grown older but still radiated power, his beard longer, his muscles thicker. But what caught Sirius's attention was the pride in his eyes.

"What happened here?" Sirius asked, motioning toward the fortified city that had replaced the simple village.

Beorn sighed, leading him toward the grand hall that now stood at the heart of the settlement. "The darkness in Mirkwood has grown stronger. More and more refugees came to us, fleeing from goblins, orcs, and worse. They had nowhere to go, so we built this city together. The Woodmen have grown into warriors, no longer just hunters and farmers, but soldiers who defend their own."

Sirius nodded. "I see that. And you?"

Beorn chuckled, gesturing at his grand hall. "They made me their leader. I tried to refuse, but the people insisted. So here I am, the Lord of the Woodmen."

Sirius smiled. "A fitting title for a man who can crush orcs with his bare hands."

Beorn's laughter shook the walls. "And what of you, old friend? Why have you returned?"

Sirius's face grew serious. "Because I know where the goblins are coming from."

Beorn's smile faded. "Then come inside. We have much to discuss."

Inside the Great Hall, the Woodmen council gathered. They listened in silence as Sirius described what he had found in the depths of Mirkwood—a goblin stronghold, nestled in the hills near the northern edge of the forest, a place that had become a breeding ground for raiders.

"They are attacking in waves," Sirius explained, spreading a rough map on the table. "Each raid comes from the same direction, meaning this lair is their base. If we destroy it, we cripple their operations for years."

Murmurs of concern filled the hall. The Woodmen were brave, but a full-scale attack against a goblin stronghold was no small thing.

"We cannot let them continue attacking our people," Beorn growled. "The raids grow more frequent. If we do not strike first, they will overwhelm us."

A burly warrior named Halmar slammed his fist on the table. "Then we take the fight to them!"

A cheer rose from the gathered warriors.

Sirius, however, raised his hand, and silence returned. "We must be smart. Goblins may be weak, but they are cowards. If we attack recklessly, they will retreat and regroup. We need to collapse their tunnels, destroy their supplies, leave them with nowhere to run."

Beorn nodded in approval. "What do you suggest?"

Sirius leaned forward. "A night raid. We move in small numbers, set fire to their supply caches, and collapse the tunnels from the inside. If we strike swiftly, they will be too panicked to mount a counterattack."

The warriors exchanged glances, nodding in agreement.

Halmar grinned. "Let’s show those goblins what it means to fear the Woodmen!"

Midnight.

Sirius, Beorn, Halmar, and forty of the best Woodmen warriors crept through the dense underbrush of Mirkwood. The goblin lair lay ahead, its entrance a dark, jagged maw in the side of a rocky hill.

They waited in absolute silence, listening.

Inside the cave, the chatter of goblins echoed. Fires flickered, casting twisted shadows against the walls.

Sirius motioned to split the warriors into two groups. One would plant explosives and collapse the tunnels, while the other would eliminate the goblin sentries before setting fire to their storage.

Beorn cracked his knuckles, a wide grin on his face. "Time to hunt."

Legolas had once told Sirius that fear is a goblin’s greatest weakness. So Sirius made sure the first goblin died without a sound, the second disappeared into the darkness, and the third fell before it could scream.

Then, all hell broke loose.

The warriors rushed the entrance, swords flashing, arrows flying. Beorn, in his bear form, ripped through the goblins like a storm, tossing them aside like ragdolls.

Sirius, with magic-enhanced speed, darted through the battlefield, cutting down enemies with precision.

The Woodmen planted explosives deep inside the tunnels, lighting the fuses.

A deep rumbling shook the ground.

The cave walls groaned, and before the goblins could flee, the tunnels began to collapse.

Sirius turned to see a horde of goblins rushing toward them, screaming in fury.

"Time to go!" he shouted.

Beorn roared, and with a final, earth-shaking explosion, the entire goblin stronghold collapsed into rubble.

A cheer rose from the warriors.

They had won.

Back in the Woodmen city, the people celebrated. The goblin threat was ended, and for the first time in years, the fear was gone.

Beorn clapped Sirius on the back. "You’ve saved us again, Harren. You will always have a place here."

For now, the war was over.

But Sirius knew that greater battles lay ahead.

Many among the woodmen pleaded with Harren to stay, to take refuge in their village as one of their own. The elders, wise and respected, offered him a place of honor in their hall. Even Elric, who had fought alongside him, spoke earnestly.

"You saved us, Harren," Elric said, standing before the gathered villagers. "You saved my life, my family's life. You have a place here. Stay with us, at least for a while."

Sirius, standing among them, felt a pang of guilt. He had come to love the quiet simplicity of this village, the kindness of these people. But his mission was greater than just protecting one village. Darkness was spreading across Middle-earth, and Sirius knew he had a part to play.

"I wish I could," Sirius said, his voice calm but resolute. "But a great war is brewing—one that will touch every corner of this land. Sauron is rising again, and his forces grow stronger each day. He will not stop until all of Middle-earth bows before him. I must go where I am needed."

The crowd murmured in concern. For many of them, Sauron was little more than a distant name, a shadow of an old evil they had never faced. The woodmen had lived in seclusion for so long that the world beyond their borders felt far away. But now, with their own eyes, they had seen the darkness creeping in.

"What do we do then?" asked a younger warrior, his brow furrowed. "If what you say is true, we cannot remain ignorant."

Sirius nodded. "You must prepare. Train your hunters to fight, build stronger defenses around your village. Form alliances with other settlements. The darkness will not stay in the mountains forever."

Some of the woodmen, filled with new determination, wanted to follow Sirius into battle.

"Let us come with you!" cried one of the hunters. "We will fight beside you against this evil!"

"Aye!" others agreed. "We have seen what waits in the shadows—we will not sit and wait for it to find us!"

Sirius felt a deep respect for their bravery, but he also knew the truth—they were not ready. They had fought one battle, but war against Sauron’s forces would demand much more.

"You are needed here," Sirius said firmly. "Defend your homes. Protect your people. There will come a time when all must rise, but today is not that day. Stay strong, and when the time comes, stand together."

The woodmen, though disappointed, understood his wisdom. They vowed to heed his words, to prepare for what was to come.

As the morning sun rose over the forest, Sirius prepared to leave. He had gathered his belongings, his enchanted sled was ready, and he had ensured that Eron’s letters would still reach him.

Elric clasped his forearm. "Where will you go now?"

Sirius smiled. "To the west, for now. There are still battles to fight and allies to find."

Elric gave a knowing nod. "You will always have a place here, Harren."

With a final glance at the village, Sirius turned, mounted his enchanted sled, and rode into the morning mist. He had no destination in mind, but the road ahead was long, and his mission was far from over.



The Fellowship stood in the vast and crumbling hall of Moria, their backs pressed together as thousands of goblins encircled them, their crude weapons glinting under the dim light of torches. The air was thick with the foul stench of sweat, iron, and damp stone. Samwise Gamgee, the Ring-bearer, tightened his grip on his short sword, Sting, which glowed an eerie blue, signaling the overwhelming presence of orcs.

Aragorn and Boromir held their ground at the front, shields raised and swords poised. Legolas had already nocked an arrow, his keen eyes darting between the sneering goblins, searching for an opening. Gimli stood beside him, hefting his axe, muttering a curse about how it was a shame that these vermin were desecrating his kin’s once-great kingdom.

Frodo and Merry clutched their weapons uncertainly, while Pippin swallowed hard, trying to steady his shaking hands. Gandalf stood firm in the center, his staff held high, his ancient eyes burning with the intensity of a wizard who had seen too many battles.

The goblins hissed and jeered, their malformed faces twisted with cruel amusement. The silence before the battle was unbearable, broken only by the occasional chittering of the creatures and the faint, unsettling sound of something deeper in the tunnels—a distant rumble, like the growl of an awakening beast.

Then, it happened.

A tremor shook the ground beneath their feet. Loose stones tumbled from the high ceilings, and the goblins, who had been so confident in their numbers, froze in place.

Another tremor—louder, closer.

Then, from the far end of the hall, a great fissure of flame erupted, as if the mountain itself had been split asunder. The light of fire painted the goblins in long, grotesque shadows. An unbearable heat swept through the chamber, drying the sweat on their brows in an instant.

The goblins turned as one, their hissing laughter replaced by shrieks of terror.

“No…” one of them whimpered.

Another threw down its blade and scurried backward.

“A demon of the ancient world!” one cried, voice shrill with terror.

From the fiery chasm, a monstrous shape emerged, wreathed in flame and shadow. It was massive, towering over even the tallest of them, its presence making the hall feel smaller, the weight of its power pressing upon them all.

Gandalf’s face darkened with recognition. His voice, steady but grim, echoed across the chamber.

“A Balrog of Morgoth.”

Samwise swallowed thickly, his mouth dry as he gazed upon the terror before them. It had the shape of a great beast, its hulking form shifting between solid darkness and roaring fire. Its eyes burned like molten gold, and in one hand, it wielded a whip of flame that cracked and hissed in the cold Moria air.

The goblins, once so eager to feast upon the flesh of the Fellowship, had no desire to challenge this greater foe.

Like leaves before a gale, they fled.

Screeching, scrambling, abandoning their weapons and torches, they rushed to escape into the tunnels, vanishing into the dark recesses of Moria with no concern for anything but their own survival.

The Fellowship stood alone now.

The Balrog, undeterred, strode forward, its massive hooves making the very stone tremble. Smoke billowed from its body, coiling like a living thing, whispering the forgotten tongues of fire and shadow.

“We must run,” Aragorn commanded, his voice urgent.

“No,” Gandalf countered, stepping forward. His gnarled hands gripped his staff and sword, his expression set with an iron will. “This foe is beyond you. I will face him.”

Samwise’s breath hitched. Fear clawed at his chest, but he forced himself to remain steady.

“Then we will not leave you, Gandalf,” he said, his voice small yet resolute.

But the wizard did not respond immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the approaching Balrog.

"Run, Samwise. You must bear the Ring to safety," he finally said.

The creature’s whip cracked once, setting the ground ablaze in a molten streak of fire.

The battle for survival had begun.