Middle-Earth: Kaen, Lord of Light

Ingwion himself was now leading the Vanyar in a countercharge.

He went first, sword whirling, and the golden light that burst from it was like a blade of sunrise cleaving through the enemy before him. "It is King Ingwion!" rose the shout among the King's Guard, and their hearts leapt.

Reger's spirit flared. He swung his sword with renewed fury. "One more push! We are about to join them!"

Thus the two hosts became like two swords, one descending from above and one driving from below, biting into the enemy's line from both directions. Orcs and Dark Númenóreans, trapped between, fell into chaos. Their ranks buckled, men turning to flee only to be blocked by their own comrades behind, until the press became a knot of terror and slaughter, and many were cut down where they stood.

Reger, leading the three thousand of the King's Guard, broke through at last after suffering several hundred casualties, and reached the foot of the Sacred Tree's mountain. Horses could not climb the steep ways, and without hesitation they abandoned their mounts and stormed upward along the winding steps, fighting as they went.

Halfway up, Ingwion saw Reger amid the charge. With a sweep of his blade he sent a stream of golden light toward him, blasting away the Dark Númenóreans who hemmed Reger in, and the two forces met upon the mountain path at last.

"Commander Reger!" Ingwion's voice carried both kingly authority and a disbelief born of relief.

"King Ingwion!" Reger stepped forward and bowed. "Forgive us. We rode night and day, and still we came late."

"Not late," Ingwion said, smiling as he let out a long breath, as if a weight had eased upon his chest. "That you have come is more than I dared to ask."

So the two armies joined and formed a strong defense upon the mountain of the Sacred Tree. Their total strength now stood at fifteen thousand, yet few faces held any true ease. Reger placed the King's Guard on the outer line, while the Vanyar, sheltered by the Tree's light, formed the inner ring.

The five Nazgûl hovered above, and when they saw the defense set firm again, they gave cries of rage. They knew that taking the mountain swiftly was no longer possible.

"Withdraw," decided the Nazgûl on the far right. "Hold the foot of the mountain and starve them where they stand."

The Dark Númenóreans and Orcs still held an overwhelming advantage in numbers, watching the heights like hungry wolves eyeing penned prey. Especially the Dark Númenóreans were perilous: strengthened by Morgoth's power, fifty thousand of them were almost of legendary rank, only a shade less fierce than the King's Guard themselves. During the earlier breaking charge, it was the Dark Númenóreans who had felled those hundreds of the King's Guard.

At the foot of the Sacred Tree, Reger came to Ingwion and looked upon the wound in his chest, so deep that bone could be seen. His brow tightened. "My lord, this is beyond…" His voice trailed, as if the words would not come.

Ingwion lifted a hand and shook his head, leaning against the Tree's trunk as he struggled to breathe. "I will not die yet. While this Sacred Tree stands, its light can suppress the dark poison for a time."

He looked at Reger, and in his eyes there was a pleading hope. "Do we have more aid coming?"

"We do," Reger answered firmly. "Before I departed, our lord went to Lond Daer to rescue Prince Eluréd of Doriath. Now he has turned his spear-point toward this place. Gondor and Rohan have also sent cavalry. In no more than three days, they will reach us."

Ingwion nodded, and hope brightened in him like a candle sheltered from wind. "Good. If we can endure these three days, then we may yet be saved."

He lifted his gaze to the Sacred Tree, and its light seemed brighter than before. "This Tree is our last hope. Its radiance not only suppresses the darkness, it also grants us strength."

Reger ordered the soldiers to seize what rest they could. The King's Guard began to clear the battlefield, gathering enemy weapons and supplies, while the Vanyar used the Tree's dew to tend the wounded. For a little while the mountain knew a fragile calm, yet every heart understood it was only the stillness before the storm.

Night fell again, and fires were lit upon the heights. The dancing flames threw light upon the faces of Elves and Men, and they shared the little food and water they had, and spoke of their journeys and their homelands. The Vanyar were astonished by the valor of the King's Guard, and asked whether they were Dúnedain, but received an answer new to them.

They were Eowenrían, and in each ran Kaen's blood, members of his warrior house, the highest of high Men.

And on that battlefield of blood and fire, two peoples, bound by one enemy and one belief, forged a deep friendship that the darkness could not easily undo.

...

Far away across the moors of Enedwaith, Ingolossë and Cardilaman led a thousands of Vanyar folk, trudging with aching feet and weary hearts. They knew nothing of the battle upon the Sacred Tree's mountain, and could only pray in silence: praying that their father and their kin would be safe, praying that Kaen Eowenríel's reinforcements would come swiftly.

The wind of the Ettenmoors carried grit and dead grass, cutting the face like knives. War had scarred the land until it was a ruin of mud and broken stalks. Cardilaman supported an aged Elven wounded, step by heavy step along a road turned to mire. Her white gown was smeared with mud, and her golden hair, once neatly bound, now clung in disarray to her cheeks. Only her eyes, like stars, remained astonishingly bright.

Suddenly Ingolossë pointed westward, his voice trembling. "Sister… I think there is an army ahead!"