Chapter 286 286: The Bloody Battle of Alcarosto
Kaen's purpose was clear in his heart. He sought the commander of the Dark Númenóreans, Horad Aman.
He rode through the enemy like a storm, and each swing of the Sword of Courage and Glory left a shining arc of gold, cutting down foes and casting them from their saddles. Mearas moved beneath him like a streak of white lightning, golden light flaring from its hooves as it struck.
"Leader of the Dark Númenóreans! Hound of Sauron, Ringwraiths' ally! Come forth and die!" Kaen's voice crashed over the battlefield like thunder.
"Leader of the Dark Númenóreans! Hound of Sauron, Ringwraiths' ally! Come forth and die!" Again his cry rolled out, echoing from slope to slope.
The Dark Númenórean lines parted. A tall figure on a black horse rode forward. He wore black plate armor etched with writhing runes of malice. This was Horad Aman, the chieftain of the Dark Númenóreans.
"Boy," Horad growled. His voice rasped like grinding iron, and the huge axe in his hand shone with a sickly black radiance. "So you are the northern king, the one they call Lord of Lords, Kaen. You are not worthy of the title."
Kaen laughed softly, cold as winter. Mearas reared, screaming a fierce challenge that made hearts falter. Kaen leveled his sword at the dark captain. "Servant of shadow, you dare loose your tongue against a king. This day I will have your life."
He drove his steed forward, and the two met in a clash that shook the air. Sword and axe struck together, gold and black light exploding outward in a shockwave that flung the nearest soldiers stumbling back.
Horad's strength was fearsome, raised to the level of myth. Each sweep of his axe came with the force to hew stone and split mountains, his body clearly hardened by the power of Morgoth. Yet Kaen was a hero of the highest myth, and the light within him was born from a source that far outshone the dark which had twisted Horad.
His sword-strokes seemed almost careless, yet within them lay the pattern of the heavens' turning. Every blow fell precisely upon the weakest points of the great axe, sending numbness up Horad's arms again and again.
"Impossible!" roared Horad. Never had he dreamed that even with his body strengthened by shadow he would feel such helplessness. "How can you be this strong?"
Kaen gave no answer. Instead he only quickened the dance of his blade. Golden arcs fell like a driving rain upon Horad's armor, striking the runes carved there and shattering them one by one.
At last a final beam of golden light cut through Horad's throat. As the Dark Númenórean captain toppled, his eyes still held that same look of disbelief.
"The commander is dead!" a cry of terror rose among the Dark Númenóreans, and their line broke entirely.
EXP +250.
At that moment the five Nazgûl swept toward Kaen together, their black robes whipping in the wind, rusted swords in their skeletal hands trailing black sword-gleams that hemmed him in from every side.
"Look out!" Cardilaman's voice came from the hillside above. She stood upon a rock, fighting fiercely, her silver sword flashing back the light of the sun.
Kaen did not turn. He tightened his grip on his sword, and a brilliant golden radiance flared out around him. "Good," he said, calm and terrible. "Now I need not hunt you one by one."
He hurled himself straight at the five Nazgûl, and for a heartbeat they vanished together in a ball of blinding gold. Unlike before, Kaen now held nothing in reserve. The Ringwraiths, who once had left the Sacred Tree expedition almost helpless, were like paper figures before him.
"In the name of Eowenría, be cleansed."
His blade pierced the black robe of the Nazgûl on the far left, and golden fire devoured it in an instant. When the light faded only a scatter of black ash marked where it had been.
EXP +250.
Level: 8 (2 / 900).
The power of the Light of Creation burned in him at full strength.
The remaining four Ringwraiths shrieked in fear and tried to flee, but the golden arcs that followed sliced through their robes, and the shadows within broke apart like a tide of night scattering before dawn. When the last Nazgûl was unmade, a sudden hush fell over the field.
Level: 9 (102 / 1000).
Every dark creature paused, staring at the figure standing wreathed in gold, at the sword in his hand that shone with a light able to scour away all shadow. Terror rose in them, deep and wordless, from the oldest, darkest places of their being.
"Charge!" Kaen cried, and his shout sounded like the trumpet of victory.
Reger and Ingwion led the remnants from the Mountain of the Sacred Tree in a final charge down the slopes. The riders of Gondor and Rohan thundered through the valley like a rolling river, and the shadow-wardens of Eowenría moved among the routed foe like ghosts, cutting down those who tried to flee.
Cardilaman drew her silver dagger and ran behind IngWION, racing down toward the valley. Her golden hair streamed behind her in the wind, shining like a banner that would not bow.
The Dark Númenóreans and the Orcs broke completely. They flung aside their weapons and fled in a wild rush toward the harbor of Londe Daer. In their blindness they believed it a road to safety, not knowing they ran straight toward their doom.
...
Far out upon the sea, great ships plowed through the waves. Upon the foremost deck stood Gíl-galad. He looked toward distant Lond Daer, drew his sword, and cried in a clear, ringing voice, "Seal the bay!"