[150 powerstones bonus chapter]
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The dwarven chariots and mountain goat cavalry crashed into the Orc ranks like a wedge of thunder, cleaving the Red-Eyed legion in two—separating those pressing the southeastern front from their kin on the southern flank.
Kaen, with the agility of wind-walkers, led his eighty Royal Guards to seize a vital ridge by the rushing River Running. The high ground overlooked the battlefield like a throne above the storm.
Beside him, Tauriel raised her curved Elven blade high and called out, "Shield Kaen, His Radiance!"
The warriors moved with swift discipline, forming a semi-circular defensive line upon the riverside hill, with Kaen at its heart.
From center to edge, they arranged themselves in a descending formation: Kaen and Tauriel in the middle, surrounded by the eighty Royal Guards. Around them, Elven archers nocked silver-feathered arrows. Beyond that stood Elven swordsmen, and farthest out,spear-bearers—lean and grim, their points aimed toward the storm.
Together, they were a single nail hammered into the heart of the Orc horde—a bold thrust that split thirty thousand Red-Eyed Orcs in twain.
With the Ironfoot warriors on one side, they encircled a force of fifteen thousand Orcs. It was not a perfect encirclement—not tight enough to choke them—but in a battle of this scale, even the act of dividing the enemy was a victory in strategy.
Dáin, watching the maneuver from his newly adjusted front, bellowed with mirth and admiration, swinging his warhammer above his head.
"Ha! That towering lad! He's done something magnificent!"
Gandalf chuckled, "He always finds a way to turn the tide."
Saruman, more grim than impressed, muttered, "Their numbers are still too few. Now surrounded, they'll surely endure a fierce assault."
Dáin just laughed again. "Let them come. We need only hold our line. And soon enough, Kaen's heavenly hosts will descend."
….
Upon Raven's Ridge, Azog the Defiler stared down at the fractured remains of his once-unified army. His dark eyes glinted with bloodlust.
"Kaen... Eowenríel," he growled. "You shall perish here, and with you the last of Durin's cursed line shall vanish from this world."
He raised his cruel claw and gave his command: "Release the war-beasts. Crush them on that ridge. Our second legion draws near—this war shall end beneath my banner!"
The war-horns of Mordor cried again—long, grim notes echoing across the blood-soaked fields.
From both halves of the split Orc horde, three thousand Red-Eyed Orcs were dispatched—six thousand in total, surging like twin waves toward Kaen's hill.
Among them rumbled thirty war-beasts—towering trolls clad in black iron, their eyes vacant with blood-mad rage.
….
Kaen surveyed the oncoming tide. He knew well the Red-Eyed Orcs—these were not rabble. They were the black heart of the Shadow's army, brutal and disciplined, a match even for the finest Elven warriors.
He had intended to hold the hill and fight a defensive stand. But the arrival of the war-beasts changed everything.
No formation of flesh and blood could withstand such monsters.
Then there was no point in waiting.
Kaen raised his gleaming sword and roared, "Archers, remain! All others—with me!"
"Death to the darkness!"
The Elves opened their ranks, clearing a path as Kaen and his Royal Guards charged down from the ridge like a river of light.
Behind them followed every sword and spear, their battle-cries rising:
"Courage and Glory!"
"For Eowenría!"
They struck the oncoming Orcs in a tempest of steel and flame. Blades flashed. Spears drove deep. And on the ridge above, five hundred archers let loose a ceaseless hail of Elven wrath.
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Kaen was a tempest. Wherever he moved, Orcs screamed and fell, unable to withstand the light that swirled around him like the breath of the Valar.
Then the war-beasts came.
Kaen raised his sword high, voice echoing like thunder across the battlefield.
"I shall lift this blade—and bring the long-lost light back to this cursed land!"
And the sword blazed.
A beam of golden brilliance burst forth, blinding in its splendor. It was no simple conjuring of light—it was sacred power, drawn from deep within him. It shone with the purity of justice, the weight of kingship, and the fury of the heavens.
Red-Eyed Orcs and war-beasts alike staggered, recoiling from the brilliance. They shut their eyes and screamed in agony.
But to the Royal Guards and the Elves, the light was a balm.
Fatigue fell from their limbs. Strength surged anew in their blood. Wounds closed as silver light laced their flesh.
Awe swept through them. And something deeper—reverence.
They looked upon Kaen and saw no mere man. They saw a figure cloaked in divine purpose.
Tauriel raised her voice, fierce and clear.
"For Kaen Eowenríel!"
The cry swept like wildfire through the ranks. Every warrior shouted it. And with that fervor, they surged forward—no longer merely fighting, but transcending battle.
They brought down the war-beasts—yes, those towering giants.
They leapt upon their backs, drove spears into throats, plunged blades into hearts. Ten... fifteen... twenty fell. Until all thirty lay dead upon the battlefield.
The Orcs quailed.
They stared into Kaen's burning light and into the wild, fearless eyes of the Elves—and their hearts broke.
They fled. The battlefield turned to chaos.
Six thousand Orcs had come to break the hill.
Only three thousand corpses remained to mark their folly.
But it had cost dearly.
Kaen, with a sweep of his mind, took tally.
Thirty Royal Guards had fallen. And of the Elves, nearly one-third had perished.
But against a foe such as this, it was a glorious victory. A tribute to the power that radiated from Kaen and the valor of those who followed him.
….
He led the survivors back to the high ground.
Again, they formed ranks—spear and sword facing outward, archers nocking arrows once more.
Below, the remaining Orcs gathered, watching with wary eyes. They did not attack. They dared not.
The light had seared their courage from them.
Kaen closed his eyes, letting the divine energies ebb and flow within him. The burst of holy power had drained him—it had been the blaze of a star, and now he needed to restore the flame.
Sword planted in the earth, he stood tall upon the ridge. Light still wreathed him—gold and silver, sacred and still.
Around him, warriors watched in reverence. They did not speak, but turned their eyes upon him often, drawing strength from his presence.
….
Far below, the Ironfoot Dwarves had re-engaged with the enemy.
Wave after wave had broken against their shields, and thousands of corpses now littered the field. Yet the line held, and now the tide had slowed.
They had seen little of Kaen's charge, only the descent, the flash of holy gold, and the return of warriors bloodied but unbroken.
Dáin looked up at the two Wizards.
"Well? How went the charge?"
Gandalf's eyes twinkled beneath his hat.
"Kaen led a strike as fierce as the wrath of the stars. Not a single war-beast survived. Of six thousand, more than half lie slain."
Dáin whooped with joy.
"I knew he had it in him! By Durin's beard, that man's got the fire of the mountains in his blood. I'll tell this tale to my son a hundred times over!"
He turned and ordered the Ironfoot host to withdraw slightly, clearing the battlefield of the dead. They needed fresh ground—so the fallen would not become a hazard beneath their boots.
….
Upon the walls of Dale, Bard, Legolas, and every warrior—Man and Elf—had witnessed the radiant charge.
They had seen the blaze of holy light on the plains, seen Kaen strike down darkness incarnate.
And now their voices rose.
"Eowenríel!"
"Eowenríel!"
Their hearts surged with new strength. The Orc assaults faltered, beaten back again and again by renewed courage.
….
To the southwest, Fifteen Hundred Elves stood at ready, blades gleaming like moonlight on ice.
Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, heard the scout's report.
He looked eastward and smiled.
"Kaen truly is full of surprises," he murmured. "And the light that shines from him... even I envy it."
Though Thranduil himself was wrapped in elemental brilliance, it was not the same. His was the light of power. Kaen's... was something more.
Then the air shifted.
From Western Ridge, the horns blew once more. The skies darkened.
Clouds gathered, thick and roiling with black vapor. The stench of shadow spread across the heavens.
Screech! Screech! Screech!
A thousand shrieks pierced the air—blood-curdling and sharp.
Vampire bats by the hundreds rose into the sky, their wings blotting out the last rays of day.
And at the edge of sight, the next army appeared.
A black tide of Orcs—vaster than any before—marched forward.
They came as one, endless and dreadful.
No banners. No drums.
Only silence—and the roar of countless feet.
The second army of the Shadow had arrived: one hundred and twenty thousand Orcs of Mount Gundabad.
Thranduil narrowed his eyes.
He drew a long breath and raised his voice.
"My people—prepare for war."