A chilling howl split the air.
Aragorn froze mid-motion, his hand tightening upon the hilt of Narsil's broken blade. From the slope beneath their position, one of the Wargs had caught their scent and lifted its head, eyes gleaming wickedly beneath the dim sky. It loosed a keening cry, a signal that rolled like thunder across the frozen plain.
"Spears!"
In a flash, ten golden lances hurled downward, their flight true and swift as lightning. Five Wargs collapsed in the snow with strangled roars, their Orc riders impaled beside them. But the cry had already been heard. From the black fortress below, war-horns blared—deep, hollow notes that shook the very bones of the mountain.
More Wargs burst forth from the fortress gates, a tide of dark fur and steel, bounding across the snows toward the high ridge where Aragorn's company stood.
"Go!" Aragorn ordered.
He and his King's Guards leapt down the escarpment, retrieving their spears and shields as they landed. There was no time to regroup. They turned and fled toward the path they had come by, snow scattering behind them like shattered glass.
The golden armor of the King's Guard was no mere ornament, it was inscribed with runes of power, gifts of Kaen Eowenríel's art. Its weight was but half that of common steel, and enchantments of lightness lent its wearers great speed. They ran like the wind over the drifts, the heavy snow seeming not to hinder them at all.
Yet Aragorn knew well….they could not outrun wolves forever.
No matter how strong the heart or how swift the foot, the legs of Men could not match the fourfold stride of the Wargs. And when exhaustion came upon them, when strength was spent and breath grew short, then the pack would fall upon them and tear them apart.
His thoughts raced. Plans came and died within his mind. He was young yet, barely nineteen, brave beyond measure, but green in the ways of command.
Then, without a word, the King's Guards halted.
Aragorn turned in disbelief. "Why do you stop? Run!"
"No, my lord," said their captain, his voice steady and resolute. "The land here is too broken. On foot, we cannot outpace the Wargs. To keep fleeing would only see us hunted to death. Better to make our stand."
He met Aragorn's gaze without fear. "We are the King's Guard, sworn protectors of the Lord of Eowenría. It is our duty to die as soldiers, not as prey. My lord, take our pendants. Bring them to His Grace, and tell him that the King's Guard in Ettenmoor died with honor."
One by one, the soldiers removed small golden pendants from their necks, tokens engraved with their names, and placed them into Aragorn's hands. They bowed low before him, then turned, forming ranks as they faced the oncoming tide of beasts.
The pendants felt impossibly heavy. Aragorn's throat tightened.
It was not sorrow that filled him.
Nor anger.
It was something colder—a sharp, bitter helplessness.
The wolves' howls drew nearer, echoing through the mist. The Guards raised their spears, steady and silent, ready to die.
Aragorn stared at them for a long moment, then clenched his fist around the pendants. Without another word, he stepped forward to stand beside them.
"My lord, what are you doing?" one cried.
Aragorn smiled faintly. "Forgive me, but I cannot abandon you. Not for honor, not for duty. Once, when you were Dúnedain, I failed to bear the weight of our lineage. But now, as King's Guards and sons of the Lord of Eowenría, you are my brothers-in-arms. I am your commander, and if I must fall, then I shall fall beside you."
He lifted his sword, the light in his eyes fierce and unyielding. "If we die here, Kaen will know. He will come. Our deaths will not be in vain."
The Guards exchanged silent looks. Then they nodded, their resolve hard as the frozen earth beneath them.
They climbed to the crest of a snow-covered ridge and took their stand.
In the distance, hundreds of Wargs encircled them, snarling as they closed in.
For a moment, time seemed to still. Aragorn thought of many things, his unseen kin of the North, King Elrond's weary gaze, his mother Gilraen's gentle hope, and Kaen Eowenríel, his mentor and brother-in-arms, whose trust he feared he had betrayed.
Yet he did not regret it. Not now.
The Wargs surged forward, howling.
Their fanged maws opened wide as they climbed the ridge, black eyes glinting with bloodlust. The Guards braced their shields, spears leveled, and Aragorn lifted the fractured blade of Narsil high, its broken edges catching the pale light of the sun.
Steel met flesh. The first Wargs fell, skewered through the throat. Blood hissed upon the snow.
The King's Guards fought as only the finest of Men could. Their armor, gleaming with enchantments, left no weak point exposed. Only sheer brute force, or endless numbers,could bring them down.
The battle raged long. Time blurred into the clash of metal and the stench of death. One after another, the Wargs fell until the slope below was strewn with a hundred corpses, beasts and Orcs alike.
Not one King's Guard had fallen. Yet they were utterly spent. Only Aragorn still stood upright, breath rising in mist, Narsil's shards trembling faintly in his grasp.
The Guards, weary but unbroken, sank to one knee, facing the South.
With hoarse voices, they chanted as one:
"Eowenría shall stand eternal. Our Lord Kaen, his light forever shines. By blood we seal our loyalty!"
Then they rose again, trembling but determined, ready for the final charge.
Aragorn raised his sword high and cried, "For courage and for glory!"
"For Eowenría!" they roared in answer.
It was to be their last battle cry.
But fate had other designs.
From the southern mountains, golden light burst through the clouds, scattering the shadow. It fell upon them like the touch of the sun itself. Warmth and strength surged through their limbs, burning away exhaustion.
The Wargs shrieked, their black mists writhing as they recoiled in pain.
"It's the Light of the Golden Tree, Auricálen!" a soldier shouted. "Our lord saves us!"
Aragorn could feel it too, the divine radiance of Kaen's power filling his heart. He gripped Narsil anew, feeling the broken sword hum with life.
Then the world rumbled.
From behind the Orc ranks, the cliffs of Mount Gram cracked with a thunderous roar. An avalanche tore loose, sweeping down the mountainside like a white flood. Snow and ice engulfed everything in its path, Orcs, Wargs, fortress walls alike.
But before the tide could reach Aragorn and his men, a black mist surged from the depths below, halting the avalanche mid-flow.
A voice followed….low, rasping, heavy with malice.
"Kaen Eowenríel… It has been long indeed."
The golden light flared once more, ignoring the voice, carrying its message into Aragorn's heart:
"Go."
And then it vanished.
"Retreat!" Aragorn ordered.
He gathered the weary Guards, and together they fled the high ridge, vanishing into the storm.
Far below, within the black fortress at Mount Gram's base, a dark figure rose from a throne of iron. His armor gleamed like oil under the pale fire of the torches. He watched as the last rays of gold faded beyond the peaks, and the distant forms of Aragorn's men disappeared into the mist.
He did not pursue. Instead, he walked forward to the edge of the battlements, his cloak whispering against the stone.
Beneath him, the ground quaked as foul chants echoed from the depths. Black magic seeped from the earth, thick as smoke, and thousands of Orcs screamed as the darkness filled them, twisting their bodies with new power.
Chains rattled. From the pits below, Cold-drakes roared in agony, bound in fetters of rune-carved steel. Black vapors coiled into their scales, corrupting the beasts until their breath turned the air to frost.
Then, the Witch-king of Angmar spread his arms and laughed, a sound colder than the grave.
"Once, I laid waste to Arnor," he said, his voice echoing across the dead land. "Soon, I shall lay waste to Eowenría as well. I will tear down your sacred tree… and bury your light beneath eternal shadow."
And as his laughter rolled across the moor, the fires of Mount Gram burned dark and cruel, staining the snow with night.