Middle-Earth: Kaen, Lord of Light

"Sister, I think there is an army ahead!"

Ingolossë's voice made Cardilaman lift her head. She narrowed her eyes and looked into the distance. Far out upon the barren plain, hooves thundered and dust rose in great billows to stain the sky. A black tide surged from the edge of the horizon, dark banners snapping in the wind. Upon them, half-veiled by dust, she glimpsed the sign of a black sun.

It was the host of the Dark Númenóreans.

Cardilaman's heart gave a sharp leap. She whirled and shouted behind her, "Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"

In this retreat the Vanyar had brought with them only some five thousand warriors. At her cry, the soldiers ran at once to the front of the Elven refugees. With spear and shield they hastily raised a wall of wood and steel between the foe and their people.

Cardilaman called to her brother. "Ingolossë, go. Take our folk and get them away. I will hold the enemy and buy you time."

"No." Ingolossë shook his head and drew his sword, stepping to the very front of the line. His face took on the calm of one who has already died in his heart. "The ground here is open and flat. We cannot outrun the enemy cavalry. Since Father chose me, then in his absence I am king here. No king abandons his people and flees."

On the young Elf's face there was nothing but resolve, as if life and death were a small matter, hardly worth weighing.

Behind them the great host of Vanyar stood, and upon the faces of that host there was no panic. They arrayed themselves in ranks behind the warriors according to age, eldest to youngest. They were Vanyar, beloved children of the Light, fairest in the sight of the Valar, the purest of the Elven kindreds. They had their own pride.

They had already lost Alcarosto, the first fair garden they had raised in Middle-earth with their king. Now that escape seemed hopeless, they would not cast away their dignity for the sake of a few more frightened steps.

Cardilaman drew a long breath and let her gaze pass over their people. She reached to a warrior's belt and drew forth a sword. Without any further words she took her place before her brother, as elder sister, and as a princess of the Vanyar.

Thunder rolled.

The cavalry of the Dark Númenóreans charged toward them. This troop had been sent merely to scour the wilderness, yet in their hunting they had stumbled upon a fleeing people of the Vanyar. That discovery filled them with joy.

Slaves, glory, plunder; in their eyes it was all already theirs.

They shouted in glee as they rode, like wolves that have scented a flock of lambs.

Yet in that very moment fate turned.

From behind the Elves came the sound of more hooves, ringing clear. They glanced back and saw, from the flank of a low hill, a flood of golden-armored horsemen bursting forth like a mountain torrent. A banner bearing the Golden Sacred Tree streamed in the wind, bright as a tongue of sunlight.

They were wrapped in radiance, a host clad in light, like the army of some high power, holy and terrible.

"That is... the royal banner of Eowenría."

"It is the host of Eowenría!" cried one of the Vanyar, recognizing the flag. A long-suppressed cheer tore itself from many throats. "We are saved!"

In the span of a few short minutes the faces of the Vanyar had passed from despair, to resolute acceptance of death, to sudden joy. Hearts could scarcely bear such heights and depths, and countless Elves wept openly with the shock of deliverance.

"Sister, do you see? We are saved!" Ingolossë said, his voice trembling with excitement.

Cardilaman did not answer at once. She stood staring at the forefront of that golden flood, at the man with black hair streaming behind him, riding a white steed, clad in silver armor banded with gold, a kingly harness wrought for a ruler of men.

Once, upon the ships that bore them East, she had seen him from afar and learned his name: Lord of Eowenría.

Almost without thinking she smoothed her tattered gown, and the hand that gripped her sword trembled slightly. However calm her face might seem, her heart was already shaken like a leaf in storm.

Thunder crashed again.

Two thousand of the King's Guard poured past the ranks of the Elven refugees like a burst dam, racing toward the three thousand Dark Númenórean horsemen to the south. In Kaen Eowenríel's hand the Sword of Courage and Glory blazed, casting a light so bright that the charging enemy could scarcely look upon it.

Out upon the wild he had already sighted this enemy troop and intended to sweep ahead to cut them off. Never had he thought that in doing so he would find the Vanyar refugees. A battle of annihilation had become a battle of rescue.

The two lines of horse crashed together. War-steeds collided with shrill screams, and Dark Númenóreans grappled with the King's Guard in a storm of steel from the saddle. Kaen, upon his Mearas, drove through the foe like a falling star.

In the first clash more than a thousand Dark Númenóreans fell dead, and the King's Guard lost several hundred of their own. The enemy slowed, drawing rein, turning their horses to form again for another charge. Kaen gave them no such grace. With a thought he sent his command into the minds of his men, and at once the King's Guard parted into two wings, sweeping out to either flank.

This time they struck from both sides, plunging deep into the enemy ranks and turning ordered lines into slaughter.

The Dark Númenóreans broke apart, some trying to flee, but when they looked outward they saw that at some hour they had not marked, three thousand Caladhîn shadow-wardens had encircled the plain, holding every way of escape in a ring of sharp arrows.

"For the Light! Slay!"