Night had fallen.
Within the great war-tent, the flickering lamplight glimmered over the faces of those gathered. Before them lay a broad sheet of parchment, the map provided by the Ironfist Dwarves. Upon it were clearly drawn the lands that encircled the Sea of Rhûn, each realm and power marked with meticulous care.
At the heart of all lay the Inner Sea. To the west rose the mountain ranges, the strongholds of the Ironfist and Stiffbeard clans of the Dwarves. Northwest, beyond the rushing waters of the River Running that flowed from the northern reaches of the Eastern Continent, lay Dorwinion — a land of free trade, where goods and gold mingled freely, and where dark-skinned Men, Avari Elves, and the scattered folk of the Edain mingled in uneasy peace.
To the north stretched the territories of the Wainriders — nomadic tribes whose horses thundered across the plains, and who bent their knees to Sauron, the Dark Lord. To the east spread a vast forest, home to hundreds of thousands of Avari Elves. They took no part in the wars of the world, and dwelt in quiet accord with the darker breeds of Men. Beyond that forest stretched the lands of countless barbarian tribes, scattered and untamed.
Southward lay the realms of the Easterlings — a host of tribes numbering in the millions. Beyond five hundred miles to the south of their dwelling places began the rear-lands of Mordor itself, the dark domain forged by Sauron's hand. There lay the black furnaces and hidden forges from which flowed the armor, arms, and fell gifts that sustained his wicked hosts — the very heart of Middle-earth's shadow.
Denethor studied the map with a frown. "Your Majesty Kaen," he said, his voice steady, "perhaps we might divide our host, one army to strike the Easterlings, another to assail Mordor's rear. If we act swiftly, we may deal a grievous blow to the Enemy."
"No," came the reply, not from Kaen Eowenríel, but from Aragorn. The Dúnadan's brow was furrowed, his voice grave. "We march deep in hostile lands, with no supply lines and no hope of reinforcement. Our strength lies in motion, in the spoils of each battle. Were we to plunge toward Mordor, we would be caught between hammer and anvil — and doomed."
Marshal Wudred of Rohan nodded. "I stand with Estel," he said. "Prince Denethor, Mordor is not the mere mark it seems upon a map. It is a world of shadow. In the days of the Last Alliance, a host of a million men waged war there for seven long years, and yet could not cleanse it. With thirty thousand, we would march only to our deaths."
Denethor exhaled and waved a hand, the fire of youth in him unquenched by rebuke. "Very well," he said lightly, then turned toward Kaen. "Then, Your Majesty, what course do you command?"
Kaen Eowenríel stood silent for a long while, his gaze fixed upon the map as the lamplight danced across his eyes. None dared disturb his thought. At length he spoke, calm and iron-bound:
"Divide into three. Cleanse Rhûn."
His mind was clear. They would strike like the storm, swift as lightning, fierce as thunder. Before the dark hosts could gather strength or sense the blow, their rear would be set aflame, their lines broken, their spirits shattered. And before they could recover, the riders of the West would vanish again into the dusk, triumphant and unseen.
...
At Kaen's command, all eyes turned toward him, eager and resolute.
Caden rose with a grin. "My lord, give the word," he said. "I can scarce wait for battle."
Kaen nodded. "Marshal Wudred," he said, "you and Caden shall lead ten thousand riders of Rohan north, to sweep through the lands of the Variags.
"Estel, Denethor — take ten thousand of Gondor's heavy cavalry. Strike the southern Easterling tribes.
"I shall lead three thousand of the King's Guard and seven thousand of the Éowenrían Heavy Riders far into the East, to scour the barbarian lands."
He looked among them, his voice carrying firm resolve. "Our aim is not slaughter alone, but ruin, to cripple the enemy so deeply that for generations they shall not trouble the West again. Do not linger in battle. Strike fast, strike unseen, and vanish before they rally.
"Do not assail Dorwinion, even should foes flee there. It is a neutral land."
Kaen gave many such commands before he took from his breast a golden badge — the sigil of the Golden Tree. One by one, he pressed the emblem into their palms.
"Within this," he said, "rests a spark of my will. Should dire need arise, or should your task be complete, hold it close and speak my name. I shall hear you. In one month's time, no matter your gains, you are to return here. I await your glory….. and your homecoming."
They bowed deeply. "We shall not fail," they swore.
And so the three great hosts departed. For the dark tribes of Rhûn, a new terror had come.
Two thousand years had passed since the free peoples had last marched so far into these lands.
Now, one by one, the strongholds of the dark Men fell, by night, by fire, by the thunder of hooves.
The tribes were many, but scattered and leaderless, and they could not rally in time. Only the Variags, nomads ever moving, managed to flee before the Riders of Caden and Wudred. The rest were crushed without mercy.
In the far East, Kaen Eowenríel's host swept through the wild lands of the barbarians like a cleansing flame.
For history had taught them bitterly: the dark Men of Rhûn could never be tamed. They worshipped power and bowed only to it. Gondor had once tried to rule them with justice, and in return had faced rebellion after rebellion, invasion after invasion.
Kaen looked into their eyes and saw only fear, awe, and madness. Not sorrow. Not repentance.
He knew then that most of these people would never sow peace, only blood. For long ago, in the First Age, Morgoth had woven cruelty into their very flesh and spirit, and it had bred in them ever since.
The cleansing lasted but a month, though to Kaen it felt an age of shadow.
For that month held nothing but death. More than a hundred thousand of the dark Men perished beneath their blades.However Kaen spared any who surrendered,for Kaen knew that among these people there still lived some who were not entirely viled.
...
Then, a glimmer of light, Aragorn's voice, borne through the golden badge:
"My lord! Denethor and I have destroyed twenty-seven tribes of the Easterlings. They flee eastward. The prince asks, shall we pursue?"
Kaen's answer was swift. "No. Cease pursuit and fall back. By now the enemy gathers strength. They prepare to resist."
Next came Caden's report:
"My lord, Wudred and I crushed the Wainriders and scattered the Variag horsemen, but they are regrouping. The Marshal requests withdrawal."
Kaen replied, "Granted. Beware the steppe-riders, they are swift and cunning. Move before they surround you."
He knew the moment had come. The lightning had struck, now the storm must fade.
Leading his army back along the coast, Kaen passed near the great forest of the Avari. The radiance of his host shone even through the trees, and soon, from the shadowed woods, the Elves emerged — fair and quiet, their eyes like starlight, watching in silence.
Upon a green hill stood one of their kin, clad in furs, bright-eyed and proud. His voice, soft yet carrying through the evening air, called out:
"O King from the West, slayer of the dark, will you not stay your steed awhile? Come, rest by this fair shore, and speak with me beneath the moonlight."