Middle-Earth: Kaen, Lord of Light

The morning mists of Eagle's beak Gorge had not yet lifted when Kaen Eowenríel stood upon a cliff at the mouth of the pass, watching the dust and smoke rise beyond the Gwathló. There, spilling out of the forest of Minhiriath, the routed Haradrim crawled in the first pale light like black ants, writhing southward toward the harbor of Londe Daer.

Kaen Eowenríel turned his gaze again to the south. Through the veils of fog, the outline of Lond Daer lay half-seen, like a shadowed tooth upon the shore. Thousands of pirates still lurked within that port, and now the twenty thousand fugitives from the forest had poured in besides. Yet in Kaen's eyes it was no threat at all, but prey already stepping into a snare.

The peril of the kingdom of Doriath had been lifted, and therefore Kaen moved without delay. New commands went forth from him, clear as a trumpet-call: Tauriel, who had hastened to succor Minhiriath, was to lead ten thousand Caladhîn warriors, joining with the Sindar of Doriath, and take position in Eagle's beak Gorge to confront the enemy penned within Lond Daer. Whatever befell in the lands of Enedwaith, the foes in the harbor must not be permitted to give any manner of aid to the Dark Númenóreans who were invading Laurenandë.

Swiftly the answer returned: Tauriel was already bringing her host, riding hard.

When Kaen received the tidings, he gave the next order at once. "Gather the whole army. Our goal is Laurenandë!"

Two thousand of the King's Guard and three thousand Caladhîn shadow-wardens formed up with speed, their mail and helms flashing cold beneath the sun. Their horses stamped and fretted, as though they too felt the weight of war drawing near. Kaen swung himself into the saddle, and his Mearas gave a long ringing neigh; from its four hooves leapt a pale halo of white light, and the earth seemed to tremble under its pride.

He drew the Sword of Courage and Glory, and lifted it so that its point was aimed toward the East. Then he cried aloud, and his voice carried over the valley like a banner in the wind: "For the peace of the continent! For our Elven allies! For light and justice, forward!"

So the host surged forth from Eagle's beak Gorge like a flood of steel, racing toward the realm of Laurenandë. Across the wild lands they passed, and here and there were signs of scattered fighting: bodies left to the hard sun, broken silver armor, blood dried black upon the ground, all speaking without words of the bitterness of the retreat of the Vanyar. Kaen ordered that the fallen of their allies be gathered and laid to rest, and as they marched eastward he sent scouts ahead to find Reger, commander of the King's Guard, and to seek out the enemy's position.

Three days they rode, crossing many mountains and bleak stretches of waste, until at last a battle-captain of the King's Guard reined in beside Kaen and reported, his face drawn with urgency. "My lord, the shadow-wardens have found the enemy. The war at Laurenandë is going ill. The foe is more numerous than we expected, and stronger."

"Not only are there fifty thousand Dark Númenóreans, but five Nazgûl, and one hundred thousand Orcs out of the White Mountains. Ingwion's strength will not endure much longer. We must hasten."

"Bring me the map," said Kaen.

A Caladhîn shadow-warden came forward and placed a chart into his hands. Kaen studied it a moment, then marked several points with swift certainty and returned it, giving his command. "Gondor and Rohan have sent cavalry to aid us. Send your riders along the routes I have marked. Find the reinforcements without fail, and bid them press on. They must arrive within three days, or Laurenandë will fall."

"It shall be done," the shadow-warden answered.

In small companies, three by three, more than a dozen shadow-wardens vanished into the wasteland.

Kaen laid a hand upon the neck of his Mearas, and the great horse understood; its pace quickened yet again, eating up the leagues with tireless strength. Far ahead, on the rim of the world, the mountains of Laurenandë began to show faintly. Above them hung a bruise of smoke, and even the sun seemed dimmed, as though the day itself feared to look upon what was happening there.

Kaen knew it well: a battle more cruel than Eagle's beak Gorge and Minhiriath awaited them.

...

In the kingdom of Laurenandë, outside the capital valley of Alcarosto, the earth had been burned by fire so many times that it had become a land of ash and ruin. The radiance of the Starry Sacred Tree shone for a hundred miles around, yet it could not pierce the black mists that lay thick upon the field. There the air tasted of soot and sorrow.

Ingwion stood upon the walls, and his white robes were soaked through with black blood. His golden hair was tangled and clotted, fouled with grime and filth, and the light in his face was strained as though held up by sheer will. "My king, the western wall will not hold!" cried a Vanyar warrior, staggering up. His breastplate had been split by a terrible blow, and a bleeding wound gaped beneath the rent. "There are too many Orcs. They climb like a tide!"

Ingwion's gaze swept the battlements, and he beheld the Orcs scrambling up, clawing at stone and wood. Their skins were grey-white, their eyes red as coals, and from their throats came hoarse cries without meaning. Even when struck by silver Elven arrows they only shrieked once and continued to climb, dragging themselves upward until life at last left them and their hands slipped away.

"So this is the darkness of Middle-earth," Ingwion murmured. Though he had seen it countless times in these days, each sight still struck his heart with a deep astonishment and a heaviness that felt like helplessness.

A fit of coughing seized him, harsh and ragged, and the blood he spat was dark, touched with red. He knew then, as he had known before, that his time was short. Morgoth's black power was eating into his body; the wounds tainted by the Nazgûl's foul breath had begun to rot.

Three days ago the struggle had been locked and balanced. With thirty thousand Vanyar he had met fifty thousand Dark Númenóreans, and though outnumbered, the blessing of the Sacred Tree had enabled them to press the enemy hard. Ingwion, with the might of a hero of the highest myth, had even thrown back the foe in several fierce counterblows, slaying two of their commanders and driving the Dark Númenóreans into retreat.

But when the five Nazgûl arrived, bringing with them one hundred thousand Orcs from the White Mountains, the fate of the war was overturned in a single dreadful turn. Those Nazgûl were the very five who had earlier ambushed the Sacred Tree expedition. Their power was greater now, and beneath their black cloaks the shadow flickered with runes of dark strength.

And the Orcs they had brought were no common rabble. They were mountain Orcs, the fiercest bred in the White Mountains, thick-skinned and hard-muscled, and because they had long warred against Gondor, they knew the craft of siege and the ways of walls.

Ingwion, that hero of the highest myth, had been wounded in battle against those Nazgûl, whose dread might had risen to the threshold of the mythic. Therefore he had been forced to draw his warriors back, and now he stood defending Laurenandë behind stone, as the world closed in.

"Father!" cried Prince Ingolossë, Ingwion's son, running up upon the wall. His silver armor was scored with many cuts, and on his face was the blood of enemies. Breathless, he spoke in haste. "There is a breach on the eastern side as well, and our arrows are nearly spent!"

At that news Ingwion understood: the walls could no longer endure. He looked back toward Alcarosto, and upon his son's young and steadfast face, and within him a decision rose, hard as iron and sorrowful as winter.

He seized Ingolossë by the wrist, and his voice was heavy, each word set carefully as a stone upon a grave. "Ingolossë, my son, upon this battlefield we must face one truth. This wall cannot hold. Its fall is only a matter of time."

"I am King of Laurenandë, King of the Vanyar in Middle-earth. I will live and die with my kingdom."

"Now, by the king's command, I order you: take your sister Cardilaman and our people, and flee by the hidden passage in the back mountain. Leave this place and seek aid."

"Father!" Ingolossë cried, struck as though by a blade. "I will not go. I will fight beside you!"

"It is an order!" Ingwion's voice grew suddenly stern, and there was no yielding in it. "You are my son, heir to the throne. You must live."

Seeing the anguish in his son's eyes, a gentler look came over Ingwion's face. From within his garments he drew a star-shaped badge and pressed it into Ingolossë's hand. "This is the token of Laurenandë. When Kaen Eowenríel sees it, he will understand all. Take our people to Kaen. Only he can save you."

Ingolossë clutched the badge until his knuckles whitened, and tears blurred his sight. In a broken voice he asked, "And you?"

Ingwion smiled, and in that smile there was a measure of release, as though a burden had been set down at last. "I am King of Laurenandë. I will stand with my city, and with this Sacred Tree, and share their doom."

He looked toward his daughter, who was not far off, tending the wounded. "Bring Cardilaman to me."

Cardilaman came swiftly. Blood stained her white gown, yet there was no fear upon her face, only a clear resolve. When she had heard her father's choice, she nodded. "I will care for my brother and our people."

She stepped close to Ingwion, and despite blood and grime she embraced him softly, if only for a heartbeat. "Father, you must live."

Ingwion laid his hand upon her back, and his voice thickened. "Go, my children. Remember this: you are the seeds of the Vanyar of Middle-earth. You must live well, and endure."

...

When darkness had fully fallen, Prince Ingolossë and Princess Cardilaman led thousands of their people away in silence, withdrawing by the hidden passage in the back mountain. Before entering the tunnel, Cardilaman went beneath the Starry Sacred Tree and placed a book at its roots.

It was a book compiled after the Vanyar came to Middle-earth, written by scholars from the tales Kaen had told them. Upon its cover were written these words:

This was the best of times, this was the worst of times.