A host had assembled. Not of mere men, but of warriors forged by fire and faith.
There was a Ranger battalion, hardened by long marches and wildlands. A medic corps, ever ready with balm and blade. A company of mounted archers, swift as the wind upon open plain. An elite force of heavy cavalry, clad in steel from helm to hoof. A division of heavy infantry, shield-bound and unyielding. And lastly, a regiment of archer infantry, marksmen who darkened the sky with deadly shafts.
These formed the core 2,700 regulars of Eowenríel's expeditionary force.
Alongside them marched 2,300 auxiliaries — engineers, quartermasters, builders, and support troops. Not even counting Kaen's own royal guard, this 5,000-strong army was the spearhead of the campaign. In Middle-earth, save for the mightiest realms, there were few who could stand against such strength.
From Rivendell came another gift — three hundred Noldorin heavy cavalry, each a legend in their own right. Led by Captain Thaliondir, these Elves were no ordinary warriors; they were veterans of the Last Alliance, that mythic war three thousand years past, where Elf and Man once stood against the Dark Lord.
They bore themselves like living statues of wrath, their very presence brimming with killing aura. In raw power, they surpassed even Kaen's finest heavy horsemen or shieldwall infantry. Though only three hundred, Kaen harbored no doubt — these were the kind of warriors who could withstand tenfold their number in orcs without yielding an inch.
This — this was the reason Rivendell had held firm in the northwestern wilds for millennia, despite its modest numbers.
It was not that others were weak…
It was that the Noldor were terrifyingly strong.
….
Now, the army marched.
A steel tide flowing northward along the river, glinting like dragon-scale in the sunlight. As they reached the vale of Anduin, where the hillfolk toiled on the growing city, their coming cast a long shadow.
The people paused their labor. Stone-carriers, woodcutters, craftsmen — all stood still, mouths agape, watching the procession.
"By the heavens… what do I see? Is this the army of the gods?"
"It is the army of Kaen the Divine! And if he is a god, then this is our host!"
"Look at their arms — brilliant, perfect. Are they marching to war with the Woodland Realm?"
"I must enlist. I want armor like that!"
"And the Elves… by the stars, they are beautiful — and strong beyond belief…"
The murmurs spread. Awe turned into feverish excitement. Many dropped their tools and crowded the roadside just to behold the host.
Kaen, standing at the head of the road, watched the army's arrival with pride.
The generals dismounted and approached.
"We salute you, my lord!"
Kaen raised his hand.
"Be at ease," he said.
Thaliondir stepped forth, placing a hand over his heart.
"Lord Kaen. By the command of Lord Elrond of Rivendell, I bring three hundred Noldorin heavy cavalry. We are yours to command."
"On behalf of the hillfolk," Kaen replied, "I welcome you to these lands."
The formalities passed swiftly. Kaen then addressed the gathered officers.
"At present, the Carrock bridge is still under construction. Our ships cannot carry so many across. Thus, the host must camp on the western bank for now."
"We are building a city here — a city for the hillfolk. But our people are unskilled in masonry or craft. Much of their labor has been quarrying and logging…"
He turned to Lairon.
"You shall mobilize the architects and craftsmen from our auxiliary corps. Join the construction effort. Andric will aid you."
"Yes, my lord," Lairon bowed.
Kaen then turned to Caden, Zakri, and Mundar.
"Your families have been well settled. You have been apart for a year — go, be with them."
"Thank you, my lord!" they chorused with joy.
Finally, Kaen addressed the whole.
"Let the army rest. I expect the host from Lothlórien to arrive soon. When they do… we shall hold a great feast."
"Yes, my lord!" they answered in one voice.
…..
At that very moment, upon the wide waters of the Anduin, five great elven ships pressed against the current, sails billowing with enchanted wind.
On the foremost vessel, a young Elf stood at the bow, bowstring drawn tight.
He loosened.
Far downriver, a warg tracking them from the riverbank crumpled with a shaft in its skull.
"The further we sail upstream," the archer said, "the narrower the river becomes. The orcs' arrows cannot reach us here — but ours can reach them."
Beside him stood another Elf, identical in visage, but his brow furrowed with worry.
"I have already sent word upriver by bird. Let us hope the wise and valiant Lord Kaen receives it, and dispatches scouts to intercept."
These two were none other than Elrohir and Elladan, the twin sons of Elrond Half-elven. Though their hearts dwelled in Lothlórien, they were of Noldor and Sindar lineage, for Galadriel and Celeborn were their grandparents.
Not long ago, Lady Galadriel herself had returned from Rivendell, bearing tidings of the northern campaign — the dragon hunt. She had entrusted them with five hundred Lothlórien warriors, to sail north and join the armies of Eowenríel and Rivendell under Kaen's command.
Yet even before leaving the Golden Woods, their ships had drawn unwanted attention.
The wargs followed them like shadows.
Though the Elves sang to the winds, speeding their vessels beyond mortal craft, the beasts were relentless. As the river narrowed, the danger grew.
"If this continues," said Elrohir, "the orcs will surely ambush us before we reach the Old Ford."
Elladan nodded grimly.
"But Kaen will come," he said. "He is our Father's pupil. Even the Valar sing praise of his wisdom and courage."
"Then may we meet him soon," Elrohir replied.
…
At last, their fleet reached the Old Ford.
The river narrowed to less than a hundred meters. The water surged faster here, battering the hulls and slowing their ascent. The banks closed in, and all aboard grew tense.
The Elves stood, eyes keen, bows ready.
If the orcs struck, it would be here.
And indeed — just as the lead ship entered the pass — a roar tore through the still air.
From both banks, hidden among bushes and rocks, a horde of orc archers rose as one.
A storm of black-fletched arrows surged toward the ships.
"Shields!"
"Defensive formation!"
"Sing to the wind! Full speed through the pass!"
The warriors moved as one. Shields were raised. Magic songs rose — ancient melodies of power — and the wind howled in answer. The ships surged forward.
Then the cries of the orcs rose again.
"Flame arrows! Burn them!"
Blazing shafts arced through the sky, striking the decks and sails.
Fire bloomed.
If the ships caught fully alight, the Elves would be trapped — not by strength, but by flame.
Their choice was dire:
Lower the sails and die under a thousand arrows,
or charge ahead and burn, gambling on speed.
The twins met eyes. The same choice burned behind them.
"Return fire!" Elladan roared.
"Full speed! Break the line!" shouted Elrohir.
Just then, another roar echoed.
But this was no orc.
A creature burst from the trees. A giant crab, easily five or six meters tall. It tore into the orcs, limbs like scythes, leaving carnage in its wake.
From the far side of the river, another volley came, but not of orc arrows.
Black-feathered shafts rained from the sky, striking orc after orc.
Then came a voice — bold, resolute, and full of fire:
"Servants of the Shadow, your doom has come! For Eowenría — charge!"