Rumble—!
Grinwald's three hundred heavy cavalry thundered forward like an arrow through a narrow hall, a spear of iron and fury that tore straight into the line of three thousand hillfolk.
They struck with crushing force. Men were hurled into the air with shrieks of pain, others were trampled beneath iron-shod hooves that crushed bone and ground armor into dust.
Warhorses screamed, men howled, and the battlefield split apart—a jagged wound opened in the hillfolk's ranks.
Through that gaping breach, Torvin Dulod and Isabel led five hundred infantry forward in a swift, merciless assault. Steel clashed upon steel as they plunged into savage melee.
The young lord, valiant as his father before him, stood at the very front—his blade flashing silver in the sunlight, his courage shining unyielding amidst blood and chaos.
Isabel fought like a spirit of battle—her swordsmanship graceful and deadly, each stroke flowing with the elegance of the Elves she had once trained among. Wherever her sword passed, foes fell silently, as if the wind itself had slain them.
….
On the southern slope, two hundred heavy infantry stood in a razor-sharp wedge formation, while three hundred bowmen stretched their line on either flank. Arrows already nocked, they waited.
Idhrion's keen eyes swept the distant field. Among the seven thousand hillfolk, three thousand battered the fortress, another three thousand held back the Dulod reinforcements, while the rest scattered across the ridges and gullies.
"A thousand remain…" he murmured. Then, with a sweep of his arm, his voice rang out like a blade drawn from its scabbard:
"Archers—three volleys! Loose!"
Whsshhh!
Hundreds of arrows arched into the sky, tracing dark curves across the light. They fell like rain upon Sakaban's central camp.
Caught off guard, many hillfolk were struck down before they even raised their shields.
"Who dares—!" Sakaban's face twisted in shock and fury. The Dulod host had already thrown his plans into chaos, and now yet another foe had emerged from nowhere.
Then—
Hroooom!
A deep, mournful horn sounded from behind the southern hills.
Two hundred heavy infantry marched forth in steady rhythm, their iron boots shaking the ground. Led by Idhrion and Arion, they charged in wedge formation straight into the hillfolk's center.
On the ridge, three hundred bowmen loosed again, arrows raining down without pause. Each volley thudded into flesh and shield alike, sowing panic and ruin.
"Stop them!"
"Kill them all—whoever they are!"
Sakaban roared. Over a thousand warriors wheeled about and surged to meet Idhrion's men head-on.
The two forces collided with a thunderous crash.
The fighting was fierce and close—steel upon flesh, shield upon shield—but Idhrion's line did not break. His order was firm, his voice cutting through the chaos:
"Hold the formation! Advance!"
"Spears—thrust!"
"Shields—lock!"
The heavy infantry, clad in gleaming plate, moved as one. Their discipline and training turned them into a living wall of iron. The poorly armed hillfolk crashed against them like waves upon a cliff—and broke.
"Forward!"
"Forward!"
Their unified roar shook the very air. Step by steady step, they crushed their enemies beneath the rhythm of iron boots. Wherever they passed, only broken bodies remained.
Each fallen man of theirs cost the hillfolk five, ten lives in return. Such was the might of armored men against bare flesh.
Yet even iron has its limits. Sweat pooled beneath helms, breath grew ragged. The weight that shielded them could soon drag them into death's grasp if the battle dragged on too long.
Seeing the wall of steel drawing ever closer, Sakaban's composure finally cracked. His voice broke into a shriek:
"Stop them! Stop them, damn you all!"
More of his soldiers were pulled away from the flanks to reinforce the center. His entire host was now bound and tangled in battle lines he no longer controlled. Only three hundred warriors remained at his side.
…..
Upon the walls of the fortress of Minas-Elion, Ryan Eowenríel's eyes flashed as he saw the enemy's center thinning. The moment of victory had come.
He turned and shouted, his voice like thunder:
"Erken!"
…..
Boom!
The fortress gate—three meters above the ground—swung open with a heavy crash. A massive draw-ladder dropped outward, thudding onto the blood-soaked earth.
Erken was the first to leap forth, springing down upon the hillfolk below.
Fueled by burning hatred, he swung his great war axe in wide, terrible arcs, cleaving through men and shields as though through reeds.
Behind him surged a hundred heavy infantry, steel-clad and grim. They spilled from the gate like molten iron, clearing the approach in moments.
Arrows hissed from afar, striking their armor with sharp clang—clang—clang, yet not one shaft pierced their plating.
Under Erken's command, they formed into a tight defensive wedge, shields interlocked, unmoving amidst the chaos—a bastion of living iron.
Then a lone figure stepped from the gate, his cloak flaring in the wind.
Ryan.
He raised his sword high, his voice echoing across the field:
"The Black Fortress stands unbroken!"
A thunderous cry answered him:
"Ahhh!"
The war-shout rolled over the battlefield like a storm, shaking heaven and earth.
The fortress gate slammed shut behind them. From its shadow, Ryan leapt down, his blade cutting through a charging hill tribesman in one clean stroke.
With Erken and his hundred armored warriors at his back, he advanced straight toward Sakaban's command.
The three thousand hillfolk besieging the fortress were scattered too thin to resist. The steel wedge tore through them as through paper, leaving chaos in its wake.
Ryan's force cut forward—swift, unrelenting, unstoppable.
What had begun as a desperate gamble now turned into a triumph. The Dulod family's timely assault had drawn away three thousand enemies, easing Ryan's advance and sealing Sakaban's doom.
His men roared their victory cries, spirits blazing, every step bringing them closer to the heart of the enemy.
….
Sakaban had been watching the southern battle, fixated on Idhrion's heavy infantry battering his line. When he saw their momentum slow, pinned by his reinforcements, he finally exhaled in relief.
In his mind, Minas-Elion's defenders were exhausted. Once the fortress fell, he would have his hands free to crush the others at leisure.
But then—he turned.
And froze.
Ryan Eowenríel was there.
He and Erken had already shattered the outer ranks and were less than a hundred paces away. The hillfolk leader felt a chill crawl up his spine, a suffocating wave of death closing in.
"Stop them! Stop them now! Kill that Dúnadan!"
His voice cracked with terror. The last three hundred men at his side rallied with despairing cries, forming a ragged line between their lord and doom itself.
Sakaban had no soldiers left to spare.
Never—never had he imagined that with thousands of warriors, he would find himself cornered before a single fortress.
But that was the trap Ryan had set from the very beginning.
Three battlefields—
The fortress siege, the ambush from the Valley, and Ryan's own daring strike.
And with the Dulod family's arrival—a fourth battlefield was born, shattering Sakaban's numbers and scattering his strength.
The hillfolk's only advantage had ever been sheer numbers. Their weapons were crude, their armor thin, their tactics ancient and clumsy.
And now, deprived of that advantage, the balance between the Dúnadan and the hill chieftain had shifted.
The rest would be decided by steel, courage, and the will of men.
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