Middle-Earth: Kaen, Lord of Light

The Vanyar Elves and their folk had all withdrawn from the valley of Alcarosto, and now only twenty thousand warriors of the Light remained within its walls, the finest of the Vanyar, chosen and tempered by long endurance. Ingwion stood upon the battlements and looked upon the breaches to east and west, upon the shapes of his soldiers fighting and falling, and he spoke calmly, though his voice carried a hard resolve.

"Warriors of the Vanyar, our people have departed in safety. Now we must buy them time. By my name as king I give this command: ten thousand shall fall back to the mountain where the Sacred Tree stands. The other ten thousand shall remain with me in the valley, in our home, and in every street and lane we shall fight the enemy without cease, until death ends the struggle."

"By the name of the stars, and by the honor of the Vanyar, we will wage war here to the last, against the darkness!"

"To the last!" cried the twenty thousand as one, their voices shaking the very air, and the walls seemed to shiver under the force of their oath.

In the brief lull between enemy assaults, the Vanyar withdrew from the walls in orderly fashion and vanished into the streets and alleys of Alcarosto. Above them the five Nazgûl floated in the air, and from beneath their black robes bone-claws jutted and beckoned, driving the Orcs onward to the assault. When the Nazgûl saw the Vanyar retreat, they instantly commanded a full onslaught, and the Orcs surged forward in a single flood, seizing the walls at last.

"Burn! Destroy! Leave none!" The shrill voices of the Nazgûl echoed along the battlements, and one hundred thousand Orcs poured down from the captured heights like a raging sea.

Then the most savage fighting began: street-war in the narrow ways of the city.

In the lanes and market-streets the Vanyar met the foe, silver swords clashing against brutal axes, the sound sharp and grating as iron on stone. When their arrows were spent they hurled stones, they tore with teeth, they drove with their bodies, swearing that the enemy would not defile their home while breath remained.

Ingwion stood in the broad street like a war-god, unbowed. With each sweep of his sword golden light burst forth, and each burst shattered ranks of foes, hurling them back as if struck by the very wrath of the West. His white robe was now wholly red with blood, and the bodies of enemies lay piled about him, but still the tide did not end. However he fought, he could not break the endless press that rolled in like surf.

Suddenly one of the Nazgûl broke through the line. A rusted sword swung toward Ingwion.

Ingwion gave a low groan, and took the blow upon his own body, stopping it with sheer will and flesh. Malice plunged into him at once, seeping like poison. He roared, and with his other hand struck back, his fist crashing into the Nazgûl's head and driving it away, hurled back through the air like a rag of shadow.

"My king!" cried the Elven warriors, starting forward, but Ingwion raised his arm to halt them.

"Hold the line!" he thundered, and he spat a mouthful of black blood. Yet upon his lips there came a faint smile, fierce and unbroken, as if to say that he still had strength enough for war.

The fighting raged through the whole night.

When the sky began to pale, fewer than three thousand of the ten thousand who had fought in the streets remained. Then, with no choice left, Ingwion gave the command to withdraw and retreat to the mountain where the Starry Sacred Tree stood. He leaned against the trunk of the Sacred Tree, forcing his body to remain upright. As though it felt his need, the Tree poured pure light into him, driving back the evil that gnawed at his flesh.

The road up the mountain was held by Vanyar warriors fighting to the death, and upon the heights there were springs and stores of food prepared in advance, so that for a little while they were not pressed by thirst or hunger. No Elf there harbored any thought of stealing life by cowardice, for their king had shown them, in deed and blood, what it meant to forget oneself entirely and spend all for others.

On the third day after the retreat, a thunder of war-cries rose from the distant wasteland.

A force of three thousand in golden armor descended as if sent from the heavens. Their mail shone with a holy gleam in the morning light, and they formed a keen-edged charge like a blade, driving straight into the enemy's back. "The King's Guard!" cried the Elves upon the peak, recognizing the distinctive golden metal, for when the Elves had first crossed into Middle-earth, the King's Guard had once ridden far to Gondor to receive them.

Ingwion's eyes snapped open, and he saw at the head of that host a mighty commander wielding a spear, moving like golden lightning through the press. "Reger…" he whispered, and hope rekindled in his gaze.

Reger's spear thrust through an Orc's skull, and black blood spattered his dark hair, yet his motion did not falter. The three thousand of the King's Guard, like a sharp wedge, had already torn a gash in the Orcish mass. Passing the breach in the walls, they drove toward the mountain of the Sacred Tree.

"Faster!" Reger roared, and he speared a Dark Númenórean through the chest. The King's Guard smashed through the enemy like a hammer through dead wood, their advance relentless. Their armor had been forged of fine gold metal mixed with a little mithril, enough to defy Orc-axes and the swords of Dark Númenóreans. Their war-horses, too, were clad in heavy armor; each charge bowled down several foes, opening the way for those behind.

No matter how many the enemy were, they could not halt that charge, for this was the most elite host in Middle-earth, the king's own household, the Tarbêlûn of Eowenría, high Men among high Men, born beneath the Auricálen.

The five Nazgûl soon perceived the danger of this relief. They sent forth two ten-thousands of Orcs and ten thousand Dark Númenóreans to bar Reger's path.

"Stop them!" hissed the Nazgûl on the far left, its bone-claw pointing at Reger. "Do not let them reach the Tree!"

Orcs and Dark Númenóreans formed a stout wall of bodies and blades, striving to hold the King's Guard at the foot of the mountain. Seeing this, Reger abruptly changed formation, ordering his soldiers into a great ring.

"Archers, ready!" Reger shouted. "Loose!"

The archers of the King's Guard drew and loosed at once, firing at a forty-five-degree arc. A dense rain of arrows, dark as a storm-cloud, sailed over the Orcs' heads and fell among the Dark Númenóreans behind, throwing them into confusion and breaking their order.

"Charge!" Reger seized the moment, spear pointing forward. The ring flowed swiftly into a wedge again, and they struck once more.

At that same instant, from the heights of the Sacred Tree there came a cry that seemed to shake the world.

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