At the height of summer, dawn broke over the lands of Rhûn.
The golden sun rose from the far eastern horizon, spilling its light upon the wide plains like molten fire.
In the great camp of the dark men, silence still lingered; most slept within their tents, save for a few drowsy sentries wandering aimlessly, weapons in hand, muttering in the harsh tongue of Mordor.
From the west, a heavy mist began to rise, curling low across the barren fields until it enveloped the enemy's encampment at the foot of the mountains.
Some among them stared at the strange fog, muttering in mild surprise, yet none were alarmed. In this distant corner of the East, no one imagined any foe would dare approach, not when two hundred thousand warriors lay gathered beneath their banners.
Here dwelt the men of the East and the Variags of Khand — a people bred for war. From childhood they were taught the arts of blood and battle. Their women and children were guardians of the rear, their elders hardened as iron.
Mercy was not a word among these men. Every soul bore arms. And for centuries they had brought ruin to Gondor and even Rohan bled through Gondor's wars. They struck westward in countless wars that bled the free kingdoms thin. Gondor's dominion had shrunk to a third of its ancient might, its borders scarred and weary.
Now, within the great war-tent, the chieftains of these tribes were quarreling.
"Where are the chariot clans? Have they grown soft with hunger, that they still have not come?" shouted one.
"And you Easterlings," barked another, "have brought only eighty thousand! Once you count the women and old left behind, what remains worth the name of war?"
"Bah! Variags! You boast of your horsemen, yet you've brought barely fifty thousand! Your heavy riders, not even ten! What use are you?"
The tent thundered with curses and scorn.
At the head sat a great bald warrior, his chest covered in black totems, who watched them in silence.
This was Hamanûl, servant of Sauron, commander of the legions of Rhûn.
"Enough," he said.
His voice, low and deep as rolling thunder, silenced the hall.
He rose, and his eyes gleamed like coals. "Do not fear. Our hosts are not yet whole, half still march to join us.Tumlakí shall lead us to victory."
He raised his hands and his words slithered through the smoke-filled tent.
"Gondor and Rohan are broken nations. Their kings and princes are dust beneath our feet. Their power wanes; ours grows. We shall take their gold, their women, their horses and with Tumlakí's blessing, we shall win this war!"
A roar answered him. "Tumlakí! Tumlakí!" they cried, drunk on the promise of plunder and glory, blind to the doom that crept ever closer through the mist.
…
Outside, beyond the veil of fog, the hosts of Kaen Eowenríel stood ready.
Thirty thousand armored riders, one hundred and fifty thousand steeds, drawn up in silence.
Kaen stood at the fore, his silver-gold armor gleaming faintly in the pale dawn. Raising his hand, he began to chant, his voice like the echo of wind across the mountains:
"Spirits of the wind, children of the earth,
Hear my call!
Before me stand the hosts of darkness —
Rise, and cast upon them your wrath!
Let the storm be our song, and the gale our trumpet!"
At once, a furious wind surged from the ground. The mists swirled, lifted, and broke apart. Dust and sand whirled into the sky, rolling like a living storm. Within the dark camp, confusion erupted…. shouts, neighing, crashing tents.
Kaen drew his sword, and light spilled from its edge. His voice carried like thunder:
"Some of you will die this day. Some shall live and wear crowns of glory. But whether life or death awaits, your deeds shall be remembered through all ages of men!
Now!raise your weapons! Follow me into the storm! My light shall guide you through the darkness!
Ride to death….. and through death, to life!
Kill!"
"Kill!"
A roar shook the plains. Kaen spurred his steed forward, a blazing figure at the head of a roaring tide of steel.
From the left thundered the heavy riders of Gondor; from the right, the horse-lords of Rohan; in the center, the King's Guard, and behind them, the mailed knights of Eowenría.
The earth trembled beneath their charge.
Rumble — rumble — rumble!
It was as if the mountains themselves had come alive.
Through the whirling dust they stormed into the black camp, spears lowered, banners snapping in the wind. The air filled with the sound of neighing, screaming, and the clangor of iron upon flesh.
The dark host had no defense, they were caught sleeping, unarmored, unready. Men, women, children, all fell before the avalanche of horse and steel.
Trumpets blared and horns wailed in chaos.
From the heavens it might have seemed as though a silver tide had poured down from the north, sweeping through the camp from west to east.
"What is this?!"
The dark chieftains burst from their tents and what they saw drove the blood from their faces. Their people were fleeing, trampled, broken beneath the hooves of Kaen's riders.
A chieftain seized a fleeing soldier, striking him across the face. "Speak! What happened?"
"Riders!" the man screamed. "Endless riders! The earth itself is coming for us—"
He did not finish. A blade cut him down.
"Form ranks! Drive them back!" bellowed Hamanûl, fury in his eyes.
But even as he shouted, a light appeared through the haze, a radiant gleam, moving swiftly toward them.
And then they saw it.
Across the plain surged thousands of armored horses,an unstoppable torrent of gold and silver.
Three banners streamed above them, snapping in the gale:
the Golden Tree of Eowenría, the Horse of Rohan, and the Crowned Citadel of Gondor.
Their war-cries rose to the heavens.
"For Eowenría!"
"Riders of Rohan…. charge!"
"Warriors of Gondor…. to arms!"
Hamanûl's face went pale. "Gondor… and Rohan? Here?"
He stared in disbelief. The men of the East had fought those banners for generations, but never had they seen them here, deep in their own lands.
Terror swept the dark hosts. They did not think of resistance now, only of flight.
"Retreat!" Hamanûl roared, his voice cracking with fear. "To the mountains! Fall back!"
He leapt onto his horse and spurred it toward the rear, but Kaen had already seen him.
The king's eyes narrowed. He bent, snatched a fallen spear from the trampled earth, and, with a single motion, hurled it.
It flew straight and sure, whistling through the storm.
Hamanûl turned at the sound… too late. The spear struck like lightning, driving clean through his chest.
He screamed — a sound like a dying beast — yet black smoke boiled from the totems on his skin, wrapping him in a foul light.
The darkness held him, kept him from death.
Kaen's eyes hardened. He raised his hand, and his voice cut through the storm.
"Spear to me!"
…