Once the commands had been given and ranks assigned, the thousand recruits were divided under their captains and set upon a harsh three-month regimen.
Ryan taught them the foundations: running with weight, pull-ups, push-ups, sit-ups—drills simple yet relentless. Men of Middle-earth were already stouter than those of Ryan's former world, and at first they bore it well, laughing as they raced through the tasks. But soon, as the burdens grew heavier and the pace quicker, sweat darkened their tunics and their breath came ragged, muscles ached, and bones cried out.
Yet they endured. For in the camp, three meals each day were given, meat and bread and broth, enough to fill their bellies. Strength returned with every dawn, and they learned the rhythm of the soldier's life.
Ryan set his training plan across three rising stages:
> First month: discipline of the body, the bearing of arms, and the keeping of order.
> Second month: mastery of weapons, hand-to-hand struggle, and the skills of battle.
> Third month: words and learning, the shaping of belief, the forging of faith.
Each evening, as the sun dipped low, Ryan himself would stand before them. Not only the soldiers came to hear, but craftsmen and laborers also left their tasks and sat upon the grass. Ryan did not turn them away.
He spoke of loyalty and justice, of standing against the darkness, of guarding the weak, of a kingdom where no child would bear hunger, where light would be kept bright against the Shadow. He told them:
"We are born into a dark age. Such an age demands those who will walk ahead as torches in the night. I will lead you, if you will walk with me, to be those torches."
And so the man became more than captain. His image grew in their hearts, not only as their leader but as the herald of a greater dawn.
…..
The first month ended, and the fortress itself neared completion.
its walls shaped not round nor square but in the star of five points. Each angle held a tower. The walls rose eight meters, their gates placed upon sloping ground three meters high—steps of timber gave passage by day, but in danger they could be pulled away or set to flame. Within, three levels gave space for two thousand men. There were armories, three grain-stores laid apart, and a deep well.
To take such a place, one must break stone or slay every soul within.
Ryan named it Fortress Ost-Giliath, unyielding and grim.
And when the last stone was laid, those who had come as mere hired laborers refused to leave. They swore oaths to him, freely and with fire in their eyes.
Then tidings from Dessen: the ordered weapons were complete, and Isabel herself was riding to Ost-Giliath with the convoy. Ryan had thought the wagons would reach by noon, but by afternoon none had come. Unease shadowed him.
He summoned Idhrion and said, "Arm one hundred men with the gear we seized from the Troll-cave. I will ride with them to meet the convoy."
"Yes, my lord!"
By evening, over a hundred men in mismatched, battered armor thundered from the gates of Ost-Giliath. They ran westward, until the road yielded grim signs: a dozen corpses strewn, steel bent and blood dark.
Arion pointed at one body. "My lord—he wore Dulod's colors. A battle was fought here, and not long past."
Ryan's face hardened. "Search the ground. Look for signs."
Scouts spread, and soon a shout rang out: "My lord! Wagon tracks!"
Ryan came swiftly. There, in the trampled grass, deep ruts cut away from the road and toward the hills.
He drew steel, its edge catching the dusk. His voice rang clear: "Bows strung, swords bared, spears ready. We march to war!"
….
And in the narrow gorge two leagues from the road, battle already raged.
At the choke of the valley, Dulod guards—scarred veterans in armor—stood with thirty green youths, shields locked. From the hills poured two hundred hillfolk, clad in hides, shrieking with spears and bows.
The entrance was carpeted with the dead. Dozens had fallen on both sides, but still the horde pressed.
At their head strode a brute, his body like knotted oak, his brow painted with foul signs. In his hand a warhammer, broad as a man's chest. His voice roared in the northern tongue:
"Are you hunters or dogs? Hours of fighting, and you cannot crush a handful of gnats?"
A warrior stammered, "Chief Saur, they are like iron shells, their shields unbroken. Our spears cannot pierce—"
"Fools!" bellowed Saur. He hurled the man aside and stormed forward, shield raised, hammer swinging.
Arrows struck him, glancing from wood and hide. His stride quickened, then he leapt, the hammer crashing down upon a helm. Bone and steel shattered; the guard flew lifeless.
The line buckled. More spears struck, yet he swept them away with brutal strength.
"Saur! Saur!" the hillfolk howled, rushing behind their chief. The shield-wall shivered, pressed back, step by step.
Deep in the gorge, Isabel stood, clad now in steel. Behind her waited the wagons of arms meant for Ost-Giliath. Her gaze was steady, her lips whispering, "Forgive me, Lord Ryan."
But she did not flee. She drew her sword.
Daughter of the Dulods she was, born not to silk alone but to iron and forge. She had wielded hammer at the anvil; now she wielded steel in blood.
Lifting her blade high, she cried:
"Warriors of House Dulod! Raise your steel—live or die, we fight! Strike them down!"
And their answering roar shook the gorge:
"To live or die—fight!"