From the seven hundred soldiers that Idhrion brought back, two hundred veterans were retained to strengthen Minas-Elion's thousand-strong host.
The remaining five hundred recruits, led by Idhrion and Elger, departed at dawn the next morning for the Vale of Arms, the southern fortress Ryan had commissioned.
Before their departure, Ryan gathered the two captains in the courtyard, his expression grave beneath the cold dawn light.
"The training of these new soldiers must not slacken," he instructed. "Take them into the wilds when you can. The orcs there will serve well enough as their tutors."
He gestured to the wagons lined beside them.
"Your weapons, armor, food, and all provisions are ready. Should the worst come to pass, I will hold Minas-Elion against whatever storm comes—but the turning of this war may rest upon you both."
Idhrion and Elger exchanged a firm glance, then dropped to one knee in unison.
"My lord, we will not fail you."
So began their march south, the sound of hooves and iron fading into the misty morning.
…
Half a month later, Minas-Elion's first generation of soldiers—those who had trained under Ryan's eye for three long months—stood transformed.
No longer green recruits, they moved with the discipline of true warriors. Through relentless drills, philosophy, and purpose, they had become more than a mere garrison—they were the foundation of a kingdom.
Three hundred heavy infantrymen now marched in perfect step, their silvered mail gleaming in the torchlight. Their weapons, forged in Dulod's forges, made them nearly the equals of the elite legions of Gondor itself—save that Ryan's men fought not for a king's coin, but for a dream of rebirth.
Even the archers—once farmers and hunters—had grown deadly in precision. Their volleys struck like rain upon steel.
Of course, their progress owed something to Ryan's unseen blessing—the strange gift that multiplied the growth of his warriors threefold.
What took great realms years to forge, he achieved in mere months.
…
By September's end, the weather turned grim. The northern sky lay in constant shadow, clouds rolling thick and low.
Winter loomed—a long, bitter season that would last nearly half the year.
When the snows came, orcs and trolls would descend from their dens to raid the valleys. Villages would burn, and farmers would die clutching their sickles.
Ryan knew this well—and prepared.
One cold morning, a column of black smoke rose suddenly from the northwest.
The watchmen on the wall saw it first and blew the alarm.
Minas-Elion erupted into motion.
"Move! Quickly, to your posts!"
"Arm yourselves! Archers, to the walls! Heavy infantry, hold below!"
Ryan emerged from his chamber, fastening his cloak as he strode through the courtyard.
"Erken!" he called out to where the young captain was shouting orders. "What's happened?"
"Smoke, my lord! Northwest beacon!" Erken answered, his voice taut with urgency. "Lady Alaina has already ridden out with a squad to investigate!"
Ryan climbed the western wall and peered toward the distant hills. Sure enough, the beacon tower burned, sending a black pillar into the clouded sky.
"Send word to the Vale," he ordered sharply. "From today, couriers will ride twice daily—dawn and dusk. If we lose contact, Idhrion and Elger are to bring their men here at once."
"Yes, my lord!"
Moments later, Ailin came running from the infirmary, hair bound hastily behind her.
"My lord! What do you need of me?"
"Prepare the healing tents," Ryan said without turning. "Boil water. Ready your herbs and bandages. Treat the wounded as they come."
"Yes!"
"Another thing—bring the craftsmen inside the walls. Destroy the outer steps. Lower the draw-bridge and seal the gate. From now on, entry and exit only by the lift platform."
"At once!"
Within moments, the fortress transformed.
The clamor of iron echoed as gates slammed shut and men hurried to their stations. Minas-Elion's heart began to beat like a living thing—fast, fierce, and ready for war.
…
Far to the southwest, however, the cause of that beacon's fire played out in blood.
The first watchtower stood upon a low hill—a handful of wooden huts clustered around the beacon pyre.
Now those huts burned, smoke choking the sky.
Six archers remained alive, pressed against a tide of more than twenty hillmen clad in fur and bone.
Their young leader, Anarson, no more than nineteen, stood amidst the carnage. His men fell one by one around him, yet his eyes burned hotter with each death.
"Hold!" he roared, loosing an arrow into the face of a charging foe. The shaft buried itself to the fletching.
"Fall back to the huts! Hold the door!"
The archers retreated inside the wooden shelters, using spears and shields to block the entrance.
Within the cramped space, bows were useless—they fought hand to hand, striking, parrying, bleeding.
Another comrade fell. Blood splattered across Anarson's cheek, streaking down to his jaw. He bared his teeth and surged forward like a maddened wolf.
"The First Beacon will not fall!"
His last two soldiers echoed him, their voices raw, their blades trembling but unyielding. They met death as brothers, their final cries carried by the wind.
…
When Alaina's riders arrived, it was too late.
The beacon still burned, but its defenders were gone—all of them slain.
Anarson's body lay against the wall, his dagger buried deep in the throat of a dead hillman. Even in death, he guarded the beacon.
Alaina's jaw tightened. Around her, the soldiers' faces darkened with fury.
"There!" someone shouted. A group of hillmen was fleeing across the plain.
"After them!" Alaina's voice cut the air like a whip.
They spurred their horses forward. Bows sang, arrows flashed, and the fleeing enemy fell one by one, their bodies tumbling into the frost-hardened grass.
When the last of them was down, Alaina rode to the corpses and said coldly,
"Raise them. Let their own kind see what awaits those who cross our borders."
"Yes, my lady!"
Returning to the tower, she knelt beside Anarson and gently closed his eyes.
"Bury them here," she said softly. "Take their nameplates home. Heroes do not vanish—they live as long as we remember them."
The soldiers bowed their heads.
…
The attack on the first beacon was only the beginning—a test, nothing more.
But in the days that followed, more skirmishes erupted along the frontier.
Small, sharp, and relentless.
Ryan ordered all remaining beacon towers dismantled, replacing them with roving patrols.
He knew now what the silence of the north had meant.
It was not peace.
It was the breath drawn before the storm.
And somewhere beyond those black hills, in the frozen wastes of the north, the mountain tribes were gathering.