On the eastern marches of Rohan, a brutal war was already underway.
From the Black Gate, tens of thousands of Sauron's host poured forth, sweeping past the Dead Marshes and driving westward toward the Anduin.
The assault had come so suddenly that the Rohirrim stationed along the river's eastern border were caught unprepared. They fought valiantly, but the sheer press of Orcs and Easterlings overwhelmed their defenses.
In desperation, the Rohan captain gave the order to destroy the bridge across the Anduin, hoping to stall the advance. Yet Mordor had come well-prepared. Wave after wave of crude boats, black with tar and iron-bound, slid across the river under a storm of Rohan arrows.
Though many fell to the shafts of the Rohirrim, countless others reached the far bank. As their numbers swelled, the defenders were forced to give ground.
Step by step, they fell back to the Entwash, Rohan's second line of natural defense.
There, after crossing to the western bank, they broke the bridge behind them and steeled themselves for a desperate stand. Beyond the Entwash lay only the open plains, and if those were breached, Mordor's armies would march straight upon Edoras itself.
Thus the Rohirrim gathered what strength they could at the river. King Fengel himself rode to the front, rallying his men, grimly determined to bar the way.
Yet too many of Rohan's riders were scattered across the wide land, and the muster was incomplete. The men of the Mark stood few against the dark tide that loomed across the waters.
With a harsh blast of a war-horn, Mordor began its crossing once more. Boats pushed forward, and great Trolls waded directly into the stream, heaving massive planks onto their shoulders to form makeshift bridges. Across these, the Orcs surged in an unending flood.
"Loose! Bring them down! Aim for the Trolls!" cried King Fengel, his voice ringing above the din.
Arrows rained from the western bank, but most glanced harmlessly from the thick hides of the Trolls. Only when the Rohirrim rolled forth their great ballistae did the beasts begin to fall. One by one, bolts struck true, piercing skulls and sending the monsters thrashing into the current.
Fengel himself, bow in hand, drew and loosed. His arrow found the eye of a Troll, which howled in agony, flinging aside both plank and Orc before collapsing into the waters. The crash swept others from their footing, carrying them downstream.
But still, the horde pressed on. Boat after boat, beast after beast, Mordor's army came across, relentless and innumerable.
"Your Majesty, fall back!" cried a rider, bloodied sword in hand after felling an Uruk. "We cannot hold them here. Their numbers are too great!"
But Fengel only lifted his greatsword and cleaved down another foe. His face was set, his eyes unyielding.
"Behind us lies Edoras," he said, voice heavy with resolve. "If we yield the Entwash, the capital will fall. Then all Rohan will be lost!"
For Edoras was no fortress. Its walls were low, its defenses few. Within it dwelt not only his guard but his kin and countless innocents. To abandon it would be to consign his people to ruin.
Fengel lifted his gaze westward, toward the unseen heights of Isengard. A glimmer of hope stirred in his heart.
If salvation were to come, it would be by the hand of the wizard who dwelt there.
Yet as more and more of Mordor's host poured across the Entwash, and as the Rohirrim's line grew thinner, that hope began to dim.
Was this to be the doom of the Mark? Would Rohan be swept into shadow?
But just as King Fengel steeled himself to lead his riders in a last, desperate charge, a dozen piercing cries split the sky.
Every head on the battlefield turned upward.
From the clouds swooped a flight of Hippogriffs, their vast wings flashing in the sunlight. Like thunderbolts they struck, talons slashing, wings sweeping aside Orcs and Easterlings as though they were dry leaves. Trolls bellowed in terror as razor-sharp claws tore into them, hurling their hulking bodies aside.
On the backs of the Hippogriffs rode the Dunlendings, led by their chieftain Brog. Bows bent in their hands, and every shaft they loosed found its mark, felling Orc captains and Easterling lieutenants. Their sudden assault from the skies threw Mordor's ranks into confusion.
The dark host rallied quickly, sending a black hail of arrows upward, but the shafts clattered harmlessly against the Hippogriffs' iron-feathered wings and thick hides.
"Your Majesty! It's me!" A voice rang out above the din. Fengel looked up to see his cousin, mounted behind a Dunlending rider, calling to him.
An Orc crept close behind the king, blade raised. Before Fengel could react, the Dunlending warrior loosed an arrow with deadly speed. The Orc dropped lifeless at the king's feet.
For an instant Forcyr's hand flew to his knife, mistaking the shot for treachery, but the Dunlending only snorted, guided his Hippogriff lower, and set Forcyr down safely before winging skyward once more.
"Forcyr!" Fengel cried, cutting down another Uruk with his sword. "What tidings? Has the Wizard come?"
Breathless, Forcyr shook his head. "No, my king. Wizard Sylas remains at Isengard… but he has sent the Dunlendings to aid us!"
Fengel's face darkened with disappointment. In his heart, he had hoped to see the black-robed wizard astride the fire-drake Smaug, scattering Mordor's host with flame. Instead, there were but a dozen strange steeds and their grim riders.
"And this is all?" he asked grimly, glancing again at the sky.
"No, my king," Forcyr answered, his eyes alight with hope. "Not all. They have brought ten thousand warriors, armored beyond anything we have seen!"
Even as he spoke, the truth revealed itself. From the air, the Dunlendings flung down great chests, which burst open upon the ground with a thunderous crack. Enlarged by wizardry, they split wide, and from within poured forth hosts of mounted warriors.
Out rode the Dunlendings, tall and broad, clad in gleaming spider-silk mail that turned aside blade and arrow alike. With savage cries they thundered into Mordor's host, their charge a spearpoint that ripped the dark tide asunder.
Mordor's arrows and blades could find no purchase on the Dunlendings. Their spider-silk mail, light as linen, strong as steel, turned aside every blow. Realizing their protection, the warriors fought with unrestrained fury, hacking down Orcs in bloody swathes.
The Trolls they left for the Hippogriffs. With shrill cries, the mighty beasts swooped, claws like iron hooks seizing the lumbering monsters. High into the sky they lifted them, roaring, flailing, and then cast them down like stones. The Trolls struck the ground with sickening force, crushing scores of Mordor's own soldiers beneath them.
King Fengel, watching from the lines, was shaken and overjoyed all at once. Seizing the moment, he raised his sword high.
"Now! Ride them down! Drive the enemy into the river!"
The horns of Rohan blared. From the flanks the Rohirrim charged, their spears glittering, cutting into Orc ranks already thrown into turmoil.
Above, Brog the chieftain wheeled his Hippogriff and barked orders. Half his riders rained fire and arrows upon the Entwash crossings, smashing boats, splintering crude bridges, and sealing Mordor's retreat. The rest, led by Brog himself, swept down upon the rear of the host, striking at the command tents and standards.
Mordor's captains shouted for their bowmen to bring down the fliers, but their shafts fell harmless against feather and hide. On the ground, Dunlending warriors in their shimmering mail pressed deeper, swords flashing, unafraid of steel.
Caught between hammer and anvil, Mordor's army broke. Many tried to flee back across the Entwash, only to find the bridges gone and their boats carried away in the claws of shrieking Hippogriffs. Panic spread. Orcs and Easterlings hurled themselves into the current, but the swift waters dragged them under.
At last Brog himself loosed an arrow, felling Mordor's general where he stood. Then, leaping from his saddle, he cut down the black banner with his own hand. At that sight the host of Mordor collapsed into chaos. Leaderless, they scattered eastward, leaving the plain strewn with corpses.
Though the river barred pursuit, the victory was theirs. Cheers shook the field. The Rohirrim had braced themselves for death, yet found deliverance instead. And the Dunlendings, once scorned as savages, were hailed as saviors.
When Brog descended from the sky, King Fengel strode to meet him. Though envy glinted in his eyes at the sight of the Hippogriff, he spoke with true solemnity:
"Chieftain Brog, you have saved Rohan. This day's friendship will be remembered. Let there be peace between our peoples, neighbors, not foes."
Brog regarded him with the cool, proud gaze of a man long wronged. Then, slowly, he extended his hand. King and chieftain clasped wrists, sealing an oath that had eluded their peoples for centuries.
Yet even as relief swept the field, the light dimmed.
Dark clouds boiled overhead, smothering the sun. The Hippogriffs cried out, wings beating in unease, their riders struggling to calm them. Men and Dunlendings alike looked upward in dread.
From the black sky came a roar like the breaking of mountains.
A shadow vast as a stormfront descended, the shape of a dragon, black as midnight, a thousand feet from snout to tail. Its wings blotted out the heavens, and with it came a bitter cold, a breath, as if winter had arrived.