Year 5 of the Era of the Golden Tree — equivalent to the Third Age, 2950.
Winter fell swift and merciless upon the northern lands, faster than the gentler snows of the South. The world lay drowned beneath a sea of white, the wind whispering over frozen plains where all life seemed to sleep.
Through this silence came a lone rider, a messenger galloping southward, the crest of Eowenría emblazoned on his cloak, hooves striking sparks from the ice. He rode hard for Elarothiel.
Within the marble halls of the citadel, Aragorn, clad in his black-and-gold armor as Commander of the King's Guard, knelt before Kaen Eowenríel.
"My lord," he said, voice heavy with urgency, "war has erupted in the North. The Orcs in the Ettenmoors are stirring again. Scouts report that small forces have begun moving south. Generals Caden and Mundar have already fought several skirmishes against the dark host. And now…"—he paused—"the enemy gathers in vast numbers, It appears they prepare for a great march."
Kaen rose sharply from the golden throne, the light of the Tree gleaming upon his cloak. His voice carried like a clarion through the chamber. "Summon all ministers. The council meets at once."
…
That night, beneath the high, rune-lit dome of the royal council hall, Kaen stood before his assembled lords. The firelight glimmered upon faces grim with foreboding.
"The North burns," Kaen declared. "And war may break upon us at any moment. We cannot wait for the storm to reach our gates,we must ride to meet it."
He began to issue commands, swift and precise:
"Form five regiments of heavy infantry from all provinces. They shall become a temporary legion under Zakri's command.
"Cathril will marshal her composite corps; Sigilis will lead his armored host. Both are to stand ready for deployment.
"Aragorn, from the King's Guard, choose one full legion to march with me personally."
He turned to the court mages. "Master Alante, prepare a hundred great crossbows and one thousand mithril-piercing bolts. Every one must strike true.
"Tifa, ensure the supply lines are strong. In winter war, no soldier shall fight hungry.
"Will—send word to every allied realm: tell them the shadow rises again in the North.
"Araphor, no stranger is to cross Elarothiel's borders without my sanction. Guard the realm.
"And old Jack…"—he gave a faint smile—"keep the hearths burning. I will not have my people see only fear in their king's absence."
…
A month later, in the northern province of Thalorien, where the edge of the Ashenwood met the plains, an army of forty thousand gathered beneath banners of white and gold.
One legion of heavy infantry—five thousand armored men.
One armored composite corps—two thousand heavy cavalry and three thousand footmen.
One light composite corps—two thousand horse-archers and three thousand bowmen.
One King's Guard legion—five thousand elite soldiers in gold runic mail.
And two logistical divisions—ten thousand reserve troops and supply masters.
Upon his steed, Kaen Eowenríel rode before his host, his cloak streaming like a banner in the snow. His voice rang clear across the frozen field:
"Warriors of Eowenría! Five winters of peace have blessed our land since the battle of Dol Guldur. Five years of joy, strength, and growth. But peace, my brothers, is never without price. While we have thrived beneath the light of the Tree, darkness has been nursing its wounds in the shadows, hungering for the day it might strike again.
"In the Ettenmoors, the foul kingdom of Angmar rises once more. They would see our homes burned, our people scattered, our Golden Tree defiled. Tell me then, will you yield to them?"
"Never! We fight to the death!" came the thunderous cry of forty thousand voices. Even the falling snow seemed to still, suspended in the echo of their oath.
Kaen raised his blade high, the light of the Tree flashing along its edge. "Then let us fight, not for conquest, but for our homeland! For Eowenría!"
"For Eowenría!" roared the host, their shout rolling like the sea, shaking the heavens.
Kaen lowered his sword and pointed north. "March!"
The army moved, their formation shifting like a golden tide upon the white plain. Cathril's composite legions rode at the vanguard, their banners gleaming against the pale horizon.
Behind them, the people of Elarothiel watched in silence, countless thousands standing in the snow to see their warriors depart. The line of the army stretched far beyond sight, fading into the storm until it was as if the land itself moved northward to war.
…
Far beyond, at the ruins of Arnor, the clash had already begun.
Caden, his great axe dripping black blood, swung once more and cleaved through the skull of a towering Troll. His armor was streaked with gore, his breath steaming in the cold as he roared, "For Eowenría!"
His men took up the cry, charging again with fearless fury. Shield-walls locked, spears thrust, and the ranks of Orcs broke like brittle ice. Even those that had been twisted by the new dark power could not stand before the discipline of Eowenría's finest.
Step by step, they drove the enemy back into the shattered ruins of Forodwaith.
When at last both sides withdrew to lick their wounds, a thousand Eowenrían soldiers had fallen. But ten times that number of Orcs lay dead upon the snow.
Caden led his battered troops back to their camp, a mile from the ruins, where Mundar awaited him. The latter, splattered with his own share of blood, strode forward as soon as he saw his friend.
"Ha! Brother," Mundar grinned, clasping his shoulder, "that swing of yours could have split a mountain! I swear I saw that Troll's head fly farther than a catapult stone!"
Caden laughed, booming like thunder. "And here I thought I'd have to brag about it myself, but you beat me to it!"
"Of course," Mundar said with mock solemnity, "I am never stingy with my praise, except when it comes to warriors lesser than me.",And the two men shared a rough, hearty laugh, the sound carrying over the campfires.
"Send out the horse-archers to patrol," Caden said after a moment. "Light their torches—if those damned Wargs creep near again, I want them seen before they bite."
"Already done," Mundar replied, nodding toward the patrols riding out across the snow, their torches bobbing like red stars in the mist.
The two commanders returned to camp, where soldiers were already roasting meat over open fires. The smell of mutton and spice mingled with the cold air.
Eowenría was a land of plenty now, and its armies were well-fed. Every soldier ate hot meals, even in winter, thanks to Kaen's reforms.
As they ate, Caden said quietly, "We've lost a thousand men these past days. The beasts in those ruins fight harder now. Desperate."
Mundar nodded. "I've seen it too. Their attacks come daily now, stronger each time. Even the Trolls have multiplied."
Caden spat a bone into the snow. "Kaen once said there were near ten thousand Trolls sleeping beneath these plains, remnants of the wars of old. Seems he was right. Have we had word from the South?"
"Indeed," said Mundar, his eyes bright. "Our lord himself marches north with the main host. In half a month, he'll be here."
Caden grinned fiercely, slamming his fist upon his breastplate. "Then let them come! With Kaen Eowenríel beside us, I care not if there are ten thousand Trolls, or a million! We'll cut them all down!"
Their laughter rose into the cold air, mingling with the crackle of fire.
And around them, across the snow-swept plain, the soldiers of Eowenría bowed their heads in silent prayer.
For they had only one faith, one name upon their lips.
Kaen Eowenríel, Lord of Eowenría,
The Lord of Light.
...