[500 powerstones bonus chapter]
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"Courage and glory!"
"For Eowenría!"
The thunder of hooves shook the valley. Heavy cavalry, their horses and riders alike clad in steel, burst forth like a storm wind. Snow was hurled into the air, rolling like an avalanche upon the ranks of the Orcs.
The Noldor Elves raised their voices, crying: "Ecthelion!" It was the name of the Lord of the Fountain, one of the Twelve Houses of Gondolin in the First Age. In the Fall of Gondolin, he alone slew three Orc-chieftains and three Balrogs, and at last cast down Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, though at the cost of his own life. His deeds, surpassing even those of Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, became a war-cry among the Noldor, a name to hurl into the teeth of the Shadow.
The Gundabad Orcs struggled to form a line to bar the charge, but even before they could steady themselves, flights of arrows from behind the cavalry rained down, felling them in heaps. Their resistance was as useless as a mantis lifting its claws against the wheel of a chariot. The mailed horsemen cleft their ranks like a keen sword driven through flesh. Orcs were trampled under iron hooves, dashed aside, or skewered upon lances; and where they passed, the earth was strewn with corpses.
Behind them came the heavy infantry. Their armor was thicker still than that of the riders, and the arrows of the Orcs, their jagged blades and crude axes, could scarce bite into it. Under the command of Caden and the Elven princes, their order was unbroken. They did not squander themselves in a mad melee, but advanced in a living wall of shields, step by steady step.
"Lock shields!" cried Caden. The heavy infantry moved as one, shields pressed forward.
"Thrust!" shouted Elladan. A forest of spears shot forth.
Their movements were swift and disciplined; the Orcs reeled back, cut down and driven in disorder. Behind them came the archers on foot, loosing volley after volley upon any troll or war-beast that lumbered too close. Rain after rain of arrows fell, and life after life was reaped.
A hundred Dúnedain Rangers, under the hand of Lairon, guarded Ameliah and a fifty healers, following close behind the host and pressing toward the city of Dale.
Meanwhile, within the city, the garrison's hearts burned bright with fervor. Bathed in the radiance of Kaen Eowenríel, they followed where he led, driving the Orcs from the streets in bitter struggle.
The war-beasts, terrible in strength, now faltered. For Artemis, the Maia, shone in her full might; with every sweep of her hand, hosts of Orcs were shattered into dust. Her power was terrible and holy to behold. Soon the tide of the foe that had poured into Dale was hurled back from the gates.
Kaen mounted the wall and looked upon the plain. There beyond the gates, he saw the heavy cavalry breaking through the Orc-host.
"Do not halt!" he cried aloud. "Drive on! Ride for the Gate of Erebor!"
Then his gaze found the dark figure at the head of the horde—the Witch-king of Angmar. Their eyes met.
"Corrupted soul," Kaen's voice rang like a clarion, "do you dare face me in battle?"
The Witch-king did not answer. His gaze flickered, not at Kaen, but at Artemis, and in silence he turned away. With three of his brethren he departed swiftly, with no waste of word or motion. As once before, when he had faced Glorfindel, Lord of the Golden Flower, he fled at the sight of light and holiness.
With the Nazgûl's withdrawal, the Gundabad Orcs sounded the horns of retreat. Of the tens of thousands that had marched, their numbers were already sorely diminished.
Yet Kaen did not order pursuit. Even with aid come at last, their host was far fewer than the multitudes of the Dark. To chase would be folly. Let them flee—if they would.
But not all fled. For the red-eyed Orcs of Dol Guldur, under Azog, still remained, some four thousand strong.
From the slopes of Ravenhill came the blare of horns. Azog's warriors began to fall back. But Kaen would not grant him escape. His voice rang in the minds of his captains:
—Hold these red-eyed Orcs. Let not one escape!
The army shifted. The heavy infantry spread wide, like the outstretched wings of an eagle, moving to enfold the foe. Cathril's horse-archers harried their retreat, cutting them off with swift arrows. At last, the net was drawn tight. The four thousand were trapped.
"Slay them!"
Kaen charged forth from Dale, with Bard, Legolas, and Tauriel at his side. The bowmen gave way before their king, then surged after him, hemming the Orcs in for the kill.
Steel clashed, arrows hissed, Orcs screamed and fell. The battle was short and merciless. In less than half an hour the red-eyed host was destroyed to the last. Kaen himself struck down the final Orc, its eyes burning crimson even as the light left them.
Caden, Zakri,Mundar, Andric, Lairon, Reger, Cathril, and Ameliah came before him, knelt on one knee, and with one voice cried:
"Hail, my lord!"
Their eyes were filled with awe, with reverence, even with fear. For Kaen shone with a radiance that was terrible in its sanctity, a mingling of silver and gold. So bright was his countenance that even Elladan and Elrohir, princes of Elrond's house, looked on in wonder. Such light they had seen only once before—in Galadriel, Lady of Lórien. Yet her light did not heal the wounded or restore the weary, as Kaen's did.
And Artemis beside him—ah! none could look full upon her, so pure and blinding was her brilliance.
"Rise," said Kaen. His eyes burned like flame as he looked upon them all. "You have done well. But this is no time for rest. I shall now set forth your tasks."
"Yes, my lord!"
Orders were swiftly given. Reger, Zakri, and Andric, with three thousand bowmen, were to hold the roads beneath Ravenhill. Lairon, with a hundred Dúnedain, was to guard Ameliah and the healers, to establish a field-hospital in Dale and tend to the wounded. The rest were to march with Kaen himself, down to the foot of Erebor, where the Dwarves and Elves yet fought desperately.
Before the Gate of the Lonely Mountain, the battle still raged. Elf and Dwarf stood side by side beneath the banners of three kings, hewing the foe in grim struggle. Above them wheeled the Eagles and white-winged birds, smiting the fell bats from the air and stooping now and again upon the Orcs below. Beorn, in the form of a giant bear, rampaged amidst the field, tearing apart war-beasts with his terrible strength.
The horns sounded again. The Nazgûl had gone, and the Orcs were in retreat. Of the orcs that had marched from Gundabad, fewer than forty thousand remained; of Azog's host, no more than five thousand still stood.
And as they strove to break away, there came a thunder of hooves. From the west rode Sigilion and Thaliondir, leading the united heavy cavalry of Eowenría and Rivendell. With iron and valor they barred the retreating path of Orcs, striking them headlong.
The clash shook the field. The Dwarves and Elves, seeing the light blaze in the rear of their foe, raised their voices in gladness. For they knew: Kaen had come.