Evening had come, and the sun was sinking behind the western hills.
The fortress of Minas-Elion stood ringed by Sakaban's host — seven thousand hillfolk massed in a vast crescent, their campfires already smoldering like embers of war.
The air itself seemed to tremble, thick with the promise of blood.
Yet beyond the western slopes, hidden behind the ridge, three figures stood ready — Idhrion, Elger, and Arion — leading five hundred men in silence.
Two hundred were heavy infantry, clad in rough-forged mail; three hundred were archers, their bowstrings taut with anticipation.
Idhrion spoke in a low, hard voice that carried across the ranks.
"When battle begins, Arion and I will lead the heavy infantry forward — wedge formation, straight into their center."
"Elger, you will command the archers behind us. Keep their flanks pinned — our aim is not to slay them all, but to scatter their ranks and shatter their order."
"Understood!" both answered at once, their voices firm.
Idhrion nodded once, his expression grave. He turned, drawing breath to give the signal to advance —
When suddenly, from the far west, a sound split the silence.
"Wuuu—"
"Wuuu—"
"Wuuu—"
A horn's call — deep, unfamiliar — rolling across the plain like thunder.
Every head turned at once. On Minas-Elion's walls, Ryan froze, his gaze lifting toward the horizon. Sakaban, atop his war-chariot, did the same. And on the western slope, Idhrion and his men stood still, eyes wide.
Then came the pounding of hooves.
Da-da! Da-da! Da-da!
Under the blood-red sun of the west, a line of horsemen appeared — armor glinting, banners streaming.
Three hundred riders strong, all clad in full plate, riding east along the great road.
Their banners snapped in the wind — upon them gleamed the sigil of the hammer and anvil.
The House of Dulod.
At their head rode none other than Lord Grinwald of Grinwald, the elder patriarch of the Dulod line, his silver hair streaming beneath his helm.
Behind the knights thundered a second force — five hundred foot soldiers, their arms uneven, their armor patchwork, yet their stride resolute.
Leading them were Torvin Dulod, current lord of Dessen, and his sister, Lady Isabel.
The House of Dulod had come — unbidden, uncalled — bringing every last sword and soul they could muster.
Sakaban's face darkened at once, his fury breaking through.
"Who in the abyss are these?" he bellowed. "You! Take three thousand men — stop them! Do not let them reach the fortress!"
As his lieutenants scrambled to obey, Sakaban turned to the remainder of his army — four thousand men still uncommitted. "The rest, with me! Storm the fortress! Break their shell and bring me Ryan Eowenríel's head!"
The horns of the hillfolk howled, long and terrible.
Three thousand turned to meet the oncoming cavalry, while four thousand surged toward Minas-Elion, their war-cries shattering the dusk.
From the wall, Ryan watched the banners of Dulod advance, and a tangle of emotions welled within him — gratitude, awe, guilt.
He had never wished to owe any man such a debt. But this — this was a debt beyond repayment.
There was no time for thanks. The enemy's assault was upon them.
"Archers, ready!" he commanded.
Bows bent across the parapets, hundreds of strings drawn tight.
"When they enter range — three volleys! Fire!"
Thrum-thrum-thrum!
Arrows screamed through the air like a storm. Their flight was swift and sure; the hillfolk, poorly armored, fell by the dozens. But against the tide of four thousand, their deaths were no more than pebbles cast into the sea.
"Pour the oil!"
Ryan's voice cut through the din. Barrels were upended, black liquid cascading down the walls, soaking the corpses of Orcs and Trolls that still lay piled from the night before.
Then came the flame-arrows — and in an instant, a ring of fire blazed around the fortress.
For a brief moment, the charge faltered — a wall of heat and death barring their way. But the pause lasted only heartbeats.
Ladders were hoisted, laid across the burning corpses, and the hillfolk climbed — screaming, aflame, their madness feeding the inferno.
The battle was joined once more.
On the battlements, steel clashed with steel, and Ryan fought at the fore. Glamdring — the King's Sword — rose and fell, cutting a path of ruin. He fought without flourish or ornament — only precision, strength, and wrath.
None could pass him.
Minas-Elion, the five-pointed bastion, burned like a star amid a sea of foes. Fifty men held each wall-face, arrows flying crosswise from tower to tower, reaping their foes in staggering numbers.
One in five of the hillfolk who climbed reached the top.
And those few were met by spears and shields of the heavy infantry — and thrown screaming back into the flames.
The enemy adapted, loosing volleys of their own in return. Under the hail of arrows, their chances rose to one in three — but still the cost was hideous.
Minas-Elion stood like a rock in a flood, enduring, bleeding, unbroken.
….
On the western plain, the banners of Dulod rippled beneath the sunset.
Grinwald turned to his children, his face grave but calm. "I'll lead the charge. When I break their line, you press through — the rest is in the hands of fate."
Torvin and Isabel both nodded. They said nothing, but their eyes burned with unspoken pride.
Grinwald smiled faintly. "Aye… it seems this old man gets to ride once more."
He looked down at his hands upon the saddle. The leather was worn and scarred — as were his palms, marked by battles long past. He brushed a thumb across a faded groove in the wood, a scar from a younger day when his lance had struck true.
The wind swept through his silver hair, and in the red glow of the sun his face took on the hue of iron — dark and weathered as an anvil that had endured a lifetime of flame.
He spurred his horse forward, halting before his three hundred knights. Their armor shone dully, their breathing low and steady. Even the horses seemed to listen.
"The wind of the North," he began softly, "has blown against my back for sixty years."
"When I was twenty, I rode across the ice-fields, my father's lance in hand. I stained our banner with Orc blood, and I thought myself a hammer — one that could strike glory from the world itself."
His grip tightened upon his reins. "But now…"
He laughed quietly, the sound warm and cracked. "Now these old hands can barely hold a sword."
A murmur rippled through the ranks, but Grinwald only raised his voice — strong again, proud again. "Look at me!"
He cast aside his sword, letting it fall to the earth with a dull clang. Then he raised his lance — the same lance that had ridden through half a century of war. Its tip gleamed, a single thread of light in the dying day.
"It still remembers me," he said, smiling. "And I remember it. An anvil does not rust because the smith grows old. Nor do northern bones grow soft with time!"
His gaze swept over the riders — veterans scarred and stoic, youths bright-eyed and trembling — all beneath the banner of the hammer and anvil.
"Look east!" he shouted, pointing. "There stands Minas-Elion — the hope of the North! Upon those walls fights a young king, one who dares to dream of a realm reborn!"
"The hillfolk would slay him, stamp out that light, trample our fields into mud, and turn the name Northman into a jest for their drinking songs!"
Rage roughened his voice; even his horse pawed at the ground in fury, snorting steam.
"I know what you're thinking — that the old lord's gone mad, riding three hundred against thousands! But have you forgotten our cry?"
He rose high in the saddle, his voice ringing like steel on steel.
"Our cry has never been live on! — it has always been Unto death—for life!"
He leveled his lance. The point glimmered like fire. "Then let this old body strike one last blow upon the anvil! Let us shatter their line — and forge a path so the sun may rise tomorrow upon Dessen!"
His back straightened, and the stoop of age vanished. For a heartbeat, he was twenty again — the boy who had ridden the wind, the warrior whose blood sang to the sound of hooves.
"Remember!" he cried. "When you fall, do not look back! Behind you lies the forge, the wives who bake our bread, and the king whose sword will cleave the darkness itself!"
He thrust his lance toward the black ranks ahead, its tip piercing the veil of smoke and dusk.
"Men of Dulod!" he roared. "Show these fallen wretches that northern iron, even in its last heat, can burn through the gates of hell!"
"Unto death—for life!"
The three hundred answered as one — a cry that shook the plains and scattered the last leaves from the trees.
Grinwald spurred his mount forward, his shadow stretching long across the field like a burning banner, and led the charge straight into the heart of three thousand foes.
The wind tore at his cloak, and he smiled beneath his helm — a warrior's smile, fierce and free.
"For the North," he whispered. "For the kingdom yet unborn. For the true king — Ryan Eowenríel."
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T/N:
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