The Battle had become as common as the rising of the sun. Each day brought blood and steel, as if the clash of arms had turned into a grim ritual that neither side could escape.
Since the war began, the tally of death had risen like a black tide. More than five thousand Orcs had fallen, their bodies frozen into the snow, yet Eowenría too had paid dearly. Five hundred of its armored footmen lay among the dead, and with other troops counted, over two thousand had perished.
A ratio of two to five—unthinkable in the days before, when Eowenría's armies had been near invincible. But now, even seasoned captains like Caden and Mundar could sense it: the enemy had changed.
Once, five armored footmen could bring down a Troll. Now it took ten. Orcs that had once fallen like wheat before the scythe now fought like hardened beasts, their instincts sharper, their strikes heavier. Even the light archers of Eowenría, who once slew five for every one of their own, found the odds dwindling, now one for three was the best they could manage.
It was as though the Orcs were evolving through battle, adapting swiftly to the tactics and discipline of Eowenría's legions.
Caden and Mundar knew this truth well, yet there was little they could do. Outnumbered and fighting in the desolate northern wastes, they held their ground, trusting that Kaen's grand army would soon arrive.
...
A month later, the wind howled across the ruins, carrying with it the stench of corruption.
Dark mist coiled over the broken stones of Ettenmoors, writhing like smoke from a thousand pyres. Yet from the south gleamed a faint golden light, thin but unyielding, holding back the blackness. The world itself seemed split—light against shadow, life against death.
Then came a sound.
Woooohhhh!
A horn's cry rose from the ruins, low and dreadful. Then came the drums, rolling like thunder across the snow.
From the depths of the ruins emerged an army vast beyond reckoning. Rows upon rows of Orcs in blackened mail, their standards torn and red, surged forth. At their head rode captains clad in steel forged in darkness, their voices echoing over the plain:
"Gather, soldiers of shadow!
We are the storm of the North!
We will drown the light of Eowenría beneath our claws!
Let death and fear reign! Let darkness devour the world!"
"Urragh! Urragh! Urragh!"
The answering roar of ten thousand throats split the air.
From their outposts, the sentries of Eowenría saw the rising black tide and sounded their own horns.
Caden and Mundar gazed from the ramparts, their breath freezing in the wind.
"By the Tree…" Mundar muttered. "They've come in force."
Caden's jaw tightened. "Sound the war-horns! Pull the supply lines back! All remaining troops—form for battle!"
At once, the camp came alive with motion.
Caden positioned his troops with the precision of a master tactician:
Two thousand five hundred heavy infantry in the front line.
Two thousand five hundred archers behind.
Three thousand horse-archers on the left rear flank.
Two thousand heavy cavalry on the right.
Nine thousand stood against what seemed an endless horde.
And before them, upon the snow, the black host of Angmar stretched from horizon to horizon, ten for every one of their own.
"Hold steady!" Caden bellowed.
Across the field, hundreds of Trolls roared in unison, their bellows shaking the ground. Black vapor rose from their hides, coiling into a single veil of shadow that hung above the Orc host like a stormcloud.
Yet opposite them, the warriors of Eowenría shone faintly in golden light, the blessing of Auricálen, the Golden Tree, whose radiance reached even here, wrapping them in warmth and defiance.
Caden's armor was already stained with the blood of past battles. He hefted his axe and turned to his men, his voice booming over the plain.
"Soldiers of Eowenría! Look there, those wretched beasts who would defile our sacred land, who would trample our home beneath their filth! What shall we give them?!"
"Kill! Kill! Kill!" came the answering roar. Not one man flinched.
Caden's voice grew louder, fiercer. "Behind us lies the kingdom! Behind us live our kin, our wives, our children! If we fall back a single step, their blood will flow in our stead! Tell me then, what do we do?!"
"Fight to the death! Fight to the death! Fight to the death!" The cry thundered from thousands of throats, rolling like an avalanche.
Caden raised his axe high, his voice hoarse with fire. "Today, we show them what courage means! Today, we show them the strength of loyalty, to our king, to our homeland! Live or die, you will be heroes of Eowenría! Glory eternal!"
"Glory eternal!" the army roared, and the snow itself seemed to tremble beneath their fervor.
faith gave them strength beyond numbers. The might of belief filled the air, burning bright against the shadow.
Then came the drums again.
The Orc commanders raised their whips and shouted. The front ranks shifted, parting in disciplined lines as ten thousand black-fletched bows were drawn.
"Archers ready!"
Mundar's eyes narrowed. "Shields up!"
Instantly, every Eowenrían soldier lifted his shield. The sky darkened as a storm of arrows rose into the air and descended like rain.
Caden stood at the front, his stance wide, his shield braced before him. Arrows clattered and sparked off his armor, striking like hail upon stone. Sparks flew from his pauldrons, his helm. He did not move an inch.
Dozens fell, but the line held.
"Return fire!" shouted Mundar. "Archers and horse-archers—release!"
The Eowenrían reply came swift and merciless.
Their arrows gleamed with silver runes, each one singing faintly with power. The shafts tore through crude Orc armor as if through paper, felling thousands. When the rain of death ceased, thousands of Orcs lay strewn upon the snow, and a cheer rose from the ranks of Eowenría.
But the enemy's command was relentless.
The Orc captain snarled and barked new orders: "Flanks! Ten thousand Warg-riders—circle and crush them from both sides! Center—Trolls forward!"
The horns blared again.
From both wings surged the Warg-riders, five thousand on each flank, riding wide arcs across the snow, their howls shrill and cruel.
Mundar acted swiftly. "Left flank! One heavy cavalry regiment and one horse-archer regiment—intercept! Right flank, the same! Archers and mounted archers, concentrate your fire on the center! Bring down those Trolls!"
"Loose!"
Another storm of arrows flew. Trolls fell bellowing, black blood hissing on the snow. Hundreds of Berserkers collapsed before reaching the Eowenrían front.
The flanking forces met in thunderous collision.
Eowenría's heavy cavalry smashed into the Wargs head-on, the shock of impact breaking the beasts' charge. Steel met fang, and horses screamed as riders drove their spears through Orc throats.
The mounted archers wheeled behind, raining death even as they galloped, cutting down the stragglers.
But once the Wargs closed the distance, their savage strength turned the tide. Their jaws snapped through iron, their claws tore flesh and saddle alike. Horses screamed and fell, and the battle devolved into chaos—steel against tooth, rider against beast.
Across the white plains, the war became a storm of motion—chasing, clashing, dying.
In the center, Caden and Mundar stood shoulder to shoulder at the front line.
"Brother," Mundar said, grinning beneath his helm, "shall we see who kills more today?"
Caden's eyes gleamed. "Then you'd best keep up, I'd hate to outshine you again."
"Ha! We'll see whose name the bards sing!"
Then the two surged forward as one.
The armies collided like thunder. Swords clanged, axes roared, shields shattered. Snow turned red beneath their feet.
And through it all, the cry rose again, fierce and unyielding,
"For Eowenría!"
Their voices echoed across the battlefield, rolling through the storm like the call of immortal defiance, as the light of the Golden Tree shone faintly upon them, defying the encroaching dark.
...