"Kill!"
Ryan Eowenríel led his hundred heavy infantry straight into the crush of Sakaban's three hundred royal guards.
At the very front strode Erken—battle axe in one hand, shield in the other—cleaving a path through the mass of hillfolk. Every swing of his axe tore through flesh and bone, scattering limbs like falling branches in a storm.
Step by step, the Dúnedain pressed forward—unyielding, relentless. Each step cost lives, yet not one man faltered or turned back. In every heart burned the same word: Victory.
Sakaban, watching Ryan draw closer through the smoke and carnage, felt the pride that once defined him crumble into fear. The arrogance that had carried him through countless raids now drained from his face, replaced by raw, trembling dread.
Ryan advanced, his armor drenched in enemy blood, his fair features hidden beneath grime and crimson streaks. His eyes—cold, bright, filled with killing intent—locked onto Sakaban, who stood upon his chariot like a beast cornered.
He roared: "Sakaban!"
The shout tore through the din of battle. It made the hill chieftain flinch and glance up. For a heartbeat, their gazes met—and Sakaban felt as if Death itself had fixed its eyes upon him.
He was the warlord of the hills, the High Chieftain of his people, but in that moment he knew: the tide could no longer be turned.
Ryan had turned an uneven war into a duel—an ending between two men, two kings.
Now, the fate of thousands no longer rested in the hands of soldiers, but in the strength and will of these two alone.
Whichever fell here would drag his entire host into ruin.
Sakaban drew a deep breath and stepped down from his chariot. In his hands gleamed a heavy, strangely curved war-blade, dark as blood. He knelt before the priest beside him.
The old shaman lifted his staff and began to chant.
A black vapor coiled into being—writhing tendrils of shadow that sank into Sakaban's flesh.
Dark crimson patterns crawled across his skin like living runes, pulsing with unholy light.
Then came the roar.
"Raaagh!"
Sakaban threw back his head and howled like a beast, eyes turning a glowing, blood-red hue.
The priest's cracked voice rasped over the chanting wind:
"Go, my lord! Show them who is the true King of the North!"
….
Ryan froze mid-swing as a sudden pressure fell over the field. His heart clenched—an instinctive, primal dread.
When he looked up, the monstrous figure of Sakaban was already striding toward him, blade dragging a black trail through the dirt. The giant warlord smashed through two armored men on his way—splitting them clean in half.
The crowd of combatants instinctively fell back, forming a ring of silence around the two.
A king and a warlord—face to face.
Ryan could feel it now—the unnatural surge in his foe's power. This was no longer a mortal man; Sakaban had called upon dark sorcery, his strength twisted beyond human measure. He had become something near to an epic-tier warrior, something that belonged in a nightmare.
"Ryan Eowenríel!" Sakaban's voice was thick and guttural, his red eyes burning. "I will drink your blood, and with your death I shall proclaim to all—the Dúnedain shall never again raise a kingdom!"
Ryan's lip curled in disdain. "Then you truly have let that foul magic rot your brain."
He raised Glamdring, its edge shimmered faintly in the smoke, runes glinting like trapped starlight.
Ryan did not charge. He could feel his exhaustion, the weight in his limbs. Recklessness now meant death. Against this monster, he would need precision—patience—control.
Sakaban moved first.
With a roar, he lunged forward. His towering body blurred in motion, his massive blade crashing down like a falling boulder.
Ryan slipped aside—barely. The strike slammed into the ground, sending sparks flying and carving a half-foot gouge into the stone beneath his boots.
"Coward! Why do you run!"
Sakaban's furious bellow shook the air. He came on again, each swing heavier, faster, the black-red blade singing its dirge of power.
Ryan met him with both hands on Glamdring—silver steel clashing against cursed iron in a storm of sparks.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The impact threw them both apart, boots sliding in the blood-slick mud. Ryan looked down—his palms were torn open, blood dripping down the hilt.
So this was the strength of a creature touched by the darkness of Arda.
He gritted his teeth. He had never faced such power—not in this world, nor the last.
But retreat was death.
Ryan steadied his stance and launched forward. His speed became his weapon, his every movement a dance of instinct and precision.
Glamdring flashed—a streak of silver toward Sakaban's neck.
Blocked.
Ryan spun, drove his fist into the warlord's chest.
Thud!
Sakaban staggered back, a snarl tearing from his lips. "Cunning Dúnadan wretch!"
Ryan advanced again, but the warlord's counterstrike came faster, his war-blade hacking and cleaving in a relentless storm. Ryan dodged, barely keeping his footing.
Then pain—sharp and hot—flared through his back as he brushed against the jagged haft of a broken spear, its splintered tip piercing the gap in his armor.
He hissed through clenched teeth, forced to twist aside as another blow came whistling down.
And then—he turned.
With a roar of defiance, Ryan spun on his heel, using the momentum to drive Glamdring upward in a sweeping strike.
CLANG!
The blades met once more. The shock sent Sakaban stumbling back.
Ryan saw his opening. His hand shot out, seizing the broken spear beside him, and with every last shred of his strength, he rammed it deep into Sakaban's side.
Shkk!
A burst of black-red blood sprayed out—but instead of flowing freely, it stopped. The wound closed before Ryan's eyes, flesh knitting with unnatural speed.
His eyes widened. The runes on Sakaban's skin pulsed again, brighter, faster. The dark energy was healing him.
Sakaban laughed, the sound hideous and triumphant. "Hahaha! The Dark God grants me immortality! You cannot kill me!"
The dark beast charged again.
But Ryan was ready.
He sidestepped the lunge and, in a single fluid motion, drove Glamdring upward from below, its tip piercing one of the glowing runes across Sakaban's chest.
Ssshhhhh!
The sword sank into his flesh with a searing hiss, as though plunged into molten tar. Black vapors rose, wrapping around Ryan's arm, burning his skin. He grimaced but did not let go.
Sakaban roared in pain and fury, gripping the blade to keep it trapped within him. The runes on his body flared wild, feeding the curse back along the steel. The heat grew unbearable.
Ryan's arm screamed in pain—but he held firm. He could feel Glamdring's elven runes awakening, golden light clashing against the corruption, the two forces tearing at each other.
Then, with a shout that was half agony, half fury, Ryan drove his knee hard into Sakaban's gut.
The warlord gasped, loosening his grip just enough.
Ryan surged forward.
With all his strength, he thrust the sword deeper—until the hilt slammed into Sakaban's chest.
"No—!"
The cry broke apart as the runes cracked, spiderwebbing across his torso. Black energy poured out in torrents, forming wraithlike shadows that clawed at the air before vanishing into dust.
Sakaban convulsed, his great frame trembling. The crimson fire in his eyes dimmed, flickered—and died.
The chieftain fell.
His war-blade dropped beside him with a hollow clang.
Ryan staggered, pulling Glamdring free. Blackened blood dripped from the blade, pooling into a small, sinister puddle beneath his boots.
He knelt, breath ragged, every muscle screaming. His wounds bled freely now, yet the pain felt distant—muted, swallowed by exhaustion and triumph.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then—cheers.
His men, the hundred armored warriors who still stood, erupted into a thunderous roar that shook the battlefield.
Ryan rose slowly. His gaze lifted to the smoke-veiled sky, where a single shaft of light pierced through. It fell upon him, upon the blood and grime that cloaked his face, gilding him in weary glory.
He placed a boot upon Sakaban's fallen head, raised Glamdring high—and with one clean swing, severed the warlord's head.
Lifting it upon his sword tip, Ryan let out a cry that split the heavens.
It rolled across the battlefield like thunder.
Every warrior, hillfolk and Dúnedain alike, froze.
And in that moment, beneath the torn sky and drifting smoke—
Silence reigned.