Midnight lay heavy upon the wilderness — a stillness so deep that even the wind dared not breathe.
Neither Minas-Elion Fortress nor the hillfolk's encampment stirred. The land itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
Ryan, after setting the night watch upon their posts, turned and descended the steps from the wall.
In the infirmary, the wounded from the day's battle were being tended. The air was thick with the reek of blood and iron, and between the rasping breaths came soft groans of pain.
Ailin had just finished binding the arm of a soldier when she caught sight of Ryan entering. She straightened at once and bowed. "My lord."
"Mm." Ryan gave a brief nod. "How fare the wounded? Give me the numbers."
Ailin's tone was solemn, though her hands were still busy with linen and salve. "The situation is still within control. In today's battle, we lost three hundred and fourteen soldiers. Eighty-seven are grievously wounded and unfit to fight. Two hundred and forty-four bear light wounds, but most can still hold the line."
Ryan drew in a slow, heavy breath. "Do everything in your power," he said quietly, "to save every last man."
"Yes, my lord."
He had commanded all through the daylight hours without pause, and the weariness clung to him like a shroud. After visiting the infirmary, he meant to return to his chamber for a brief rest — but before he could take three steps, the sharp cry of the horn split the night.
Without thought, Ryan turned on his heel and raced up the wall once more.
"What's happened?" he demanded as he reached the parapet.
"My lord — look!" The horn-bearer's face was pale as ash. He pointed downward.
Ryan stepped forward, and the sight that met his eyes froze the breath in his throat.
Beneath the walls of Minas-Elion, the ground writhed with movement — a horde of creatures, clawing and shrieking, fighting one another over the corpses that littered the plain.
Trolls, Orcs, wargs, and bats — all manner of foul beasts pressed so thickly together that even the moat seemed filled with their writhing bodies. The thousand corpses of the slain hillfolk were being torn apart and devoured by these monsters from the wilderness and the dark of the Troll-woods.
The soldiers upon the wall tightened their grips on sword and spear, the lines of their faces hardening.
Then — movement, far off among the enemy fires.
A thousand torches flared to life, winding from the hillfolk camp like a great serpent of flame. They spread across the plain, enclosing Minas-Elion in a glowing ring.
From within that light rose a chant — harsh, ancient, and strange to the ears of men. It was the language of an older, darker age.
Then came a rasping voice, carried eerily upon the wind:
"Creatures born of darkness, you have feasted upon our fallen kin.
Now, turn your hunger upon our foes.
We make this offering — all within the fortress shall be your meat!"
Arion's face blanched. He pointed toward the voice. "The hillfolk's priest!" he shouted. "He's casting foul sorcery — binding the beasts to his will!"
A murmur of dread rippled along the wall.
Ryan did not hesitate. His voice rang clear above the tumult: "All units — battle stations!"
"ROAAAR—!"
Before his words had even faded, madness took the horde below.
Those hillfolk who had fallen that day had chewed the hallucinogenic herbs before death. The beasts that devoured them had consumed the poison too — and now, under the priest's sorcery, the frenzy bloomed in full. Their roars rose like thunder.
They seized the ladders left by the hillfolk and, howling, began their assault upon the fortress.
Out in the dark, a black chariot rolled forward, wheels grinding the earth. On it stood Sakaban, the Mountain Chieftain himself. He raised his staff and called across the plain, his laughter carried by the wind.
"Dúnadan!" he cried. "Do you like my gift? This is the price of your insolence! My forefathers used the same art to bring Rhudaur to its knees. Now you, little lordling, shall taste your ancestors' despair! Hahahaha!"
Ryan did not so much as glance at him. His eyes were fixed on the wave of Orcs clawing up the ladders.
"Loose arrows! Quickly!" cried Alaina and Arion together.
Arrows hissed from the battlements like rain upon a storm-wind. In an instant, the night became a maelstrom of shrieks and firelight.
The Orcs, more practiced in siege than the hillfolk, moved with grim precision. Even under that deadly rain, they swarmed upward with feral strength.
"Heavy infantry — forward!" roared Erken, long prepared for this moment. His war-axe gleamed as it fell, cleaving the first Orc to mount the parapet clean in two.
Arion and Alaina directed the archers, their commands sharp and quick — focusing their volleys wherever the beasts gathered thickest.
Ryan drew a long breath, his hand closing around the hilt of Glamdring, the King's Sword. He leapt to a gap in the wall and began to fight alone, each stroke of his blade cutting down another snarling foe.
Then before his eyes a familiar glow appeared — the flicker of the system's panel:
[System Prompt]
Enemies slain: Orc ×12
Experience gained: +26
Current Exp: 200 / 200
Level increased to 3.
Reward: Complete physical and spiritual enhancement; permanent buff — "Desperate Valor."
The power coursed through him in an instant — strength like molten gold flooding his veins. Ryan felt his senses sharpen beyond mortal ken. In the chaos of battle, he could hear every sound distinctly — the scrape of claws on stone, the hiss of an arrow's flight, even the intake of a dying breath.
The Orcs seemed to move in slow motion before his eyes. He struck them down one after another, his fatigue melting away as if it had never been.
Raising Glamdring high, Ryan roared into the night: "For Eowenríel!"
The cry rang across the fortress like a clarion call.
"For Eowenríel!" came the answering thunder from the walls, hundreds of voices strong.
And as they fought, none saw that Ryan himself was wreathed in a faint golden light — as though the dawn of a new kingdom was already beginning to stir around him.