Night fell.
Around Dol Guldur the darkness was absolute, a void in which no hue survived. Kaen's radiance and the fell power of the fortress pressed against one another, two tides meeting, hissing at the edge where they touched. The heavy finfantry of the host kept watch by turns, facing the beasts that prowled beyond. Neither side advanced; neither could prevail.
Within a league the trees had all been hewn down, their twisted trunks left in heaps. The army's toil had cleared a vast open plain, a killing ground of Kaen's design. At dawn, when the wings of Elves swept in from south and west, the beasts would be herded here. Then three sides would close, and the monsters of the forest would be destroyed root and branch.
Yet Kaen knew the peril of isolation. He would not allow his host to be swallowed whole. So when the work was done he withdrew the main force to the edge of the wood, ordering them to rest in armor and keep sharp watch.
The night belonged to Orcs and creatures of shadow. He expected the assault.
The horns rang.
"Enemy attack! To arms!"
From the black came ten thousand or more, howling under the starlight. Had the host slumbered unwarned, the loss would have been ruinous. But the soldiers burst from their tents already armed, shields shining in the pale moon.
"Shields in front! Archers behind!"
"Dwarves of Durin, cut them down!"
"Knights—flank and ride!"
"Loose!"
Arrows fell like rain, then the heavy wall advanced, then the riders thundered in. The ambush turned to rout, Orcs reeling beneath the counterstroke.
When Kaen strode from his pavilion, he beheld a stranger sight still. In the midst of the clash, three kings—Thorin, Bard, and Dáin—strove desperately against three of the Nine. And one of them was Kaen's old adversary, Khamûl.
But now they were changed. Their forms were denser, their presence heavier, cloaked in a black vapour that stank of ancient dread. Kaen's eyes narrowed. He remembered it—long ago, before his realm was born, in the dungeons of Azure Spring. There the Black Robes had granted the man a taste of that power: the residue of Morgoth. With it, Brill had become a twisted thing, able even to withstand Gandalf in his unveiled might.
Now that same corruption cloaked the Ringwraiths. Two nameless ones near the height of legend; Khamûl himself raised to the very pinnacle. Plain it was: this was Sauron's doing.
Kaen did not hesitate. His sword leapt free, and he hurled himself into the fight. A blaze of gold burst from him, driving Khamûl back, sundering him from Bard.
"Go, King of Dale!" Kaen shouted. "Take command of the host, scour the Orcs from the field. Leave these to us."
Bard nodded once, grim, and was gone.
Khamûl's laughter rasped. "So we meet again, Kaen Eowenríel. But the game is changed. The power of Morgoth flows in us. By what will you stand now?"
Kaen's gaze hardened. " filth, you think this form gives you courage? I have no fear of borrowed poison."
His light blazed brighter, a sun amidst the night. Once, when still but a lesser hero, Kaen had quailed beneath that shadow, scarcely able to move. But no longer. Now he was a high hero of the world, at the summit of Legendary might. Even were Morgoth himself to walk forth, Kaen would draw sword and defy him.
Steel met steel; the shock hurled sparks like stars. Though Khamûl was raised high, Kaen's light was the bane of all evil. Blow by blow he pressed him, and the Ringwraith's form grew thin, wavering.
Snarling, Khamûl broke away, fleeing into the dark, his voice trailing behind: "Light cannot master Darkness, Kaen Eowenríel! Your kingdom shall fall beneath it!"
Kaen's answer was contempt. "Coward!"
The other two slipped away likewise, shadows vanishing into shadow.
Dáin came, his helm dented, his beard bloody. "They are stronger now," he growled.
Thorin's eyes were grave. "There are Nine. As long as Sauron endures, they cannot be slain. Dol Guldur hides the rest—I have no doubt."
By then the Orcs were scattered, most cut down, the remnant slinking into the trees. Thorin and Dáin oversaw the field, while Kaen returned alone to his tent.
From his breast he drew forth a medal wrought with the sigil of a sun. He gazed long upon it. Glorfindel had given it to him in Rivendell, saying: Hold it, and speak my name, and I will come.
Kaen had not thought to use it. But now, having seen three of the Nine swollen with Morgoth's taint, he dared not withhold any resource. For what of the Witch-king of Angmar? Always he was Kaen's destined foe. If that wraith were lifted yet higher, to the very rank of myth, then even the might of their combined forces would falter
Kaen could no longer gamble. Against Sauron, the greatest of the Maiar, he must marshal every weapon.
He clenched the medallion, whispered the name.
"Glorfindel."
Far away, in Rivendell, beneath the silver moon, a lord of Elves lifted his head. Bright as flame, mysterious as starlight, he paused—and smiled faintly.
"I am coming…" he murmured.