Night had fallen, and the flames of Dessen rose high against the dark, painting the town in fire and shadow. Though the lord's castle still held, the streets and alleys blazed with battle.
The folk of Dessen, skilled in the making of weapons and hardened by the stern spirit of the North, did not all flee in fear. Many of the men seized sword, spear, or hammer and struck back against the invaders.
When Ryan Eowenríel and his two companions beheld this, they did not hesitate. At once they drew their blades and joined the fray.
Against the servants of darkness, they would never turn aside—for to stand against the Shadow was the duty of every free soul, and above all, the calling of the Rangers of the North.
The three spurred their steeds into the burning town. No words were wasted: steel met steel, and Orcs fell before them. Their foes bore little armor, wielding only rusted swords and crude spears. Against Ryan, Arion, and Alaina, hardened by years of war, they were as straw before the scythe.
The clamor of hooves thundered down the narrow streets, and the sweep of bright blades laid Orcs low in heaps.
"It's the Rangers!"
"The Rangers have come!"
Cries of hope rose from the townsfolk. To the free men of the North, those cloaked in deep green, bearing sword and bow, were figures half-legendary—mysterious, fearless, the bane of Orcs and all fell things. Their coming meant that hope yet lived.
"Strike! Fight with the Rangers!"
"Curse these foul Orcs—I'll drink from their skulls before this night is done!"
"For our homes! For Dessen! Kill!"
Emboldened, the men of the town rushed forth—some with spears, some with swords, others with bows snatched from the fallen. They followed hard behind Ryan and his companions, surging against foes many times their number, and for a time the Orcs broke and scattered before them.
But then, without warning, a stone wall to their side crashed down in ruin. Shards of rock and a cloud of dust filled the air. Ryan, Arion, and Alaina sprang from their saddles in an instant, rolling or leaping clear just as a mighty shadow loomed through the haze.
A hulking form emerged, its hide like granite, grey and ridged as stone, ears sharp, eyes glowing red.
A Stone-troll.
"It's a stone troll!" Alaina cried from the rooftop where she had sprung. Ryan and Arion fell back, their eyes fixed grimly upon the monster.
The beast swung its great wooden club through the smoke, shattering the ground where they had stood but a heartbeat before, leaving a pit in the cobbles.
"Rrooaaar!"
The troll roared in fury at its missed blow and lumbered forward, shaking the street with every step. Ryan and Arion darted to either side, swift and nimble, blades striking whenever an opening showed. Yet their swords could do no more than scratch its hide, leaving shallow marks upon its stony skin.
The stone-troll's body was near-invulnerable, save to the sun—and its eyes.
On the rooftops, Alaina watched, waiting for her moment. At last, as the troll turned, she leapt, her Elven dagger flashing silver in the firelight. She landed upon its shoulder and drove the blade deep into its left eye.
"RRRAAARGHH!"
The troll shrieked in torment, staggering as it clawed at its face. With a mighty sweep, it struck toward Alaina.
"Look out!"
Ryan flung himself forward, seizing her and bearing her to the ground as the blow smashed into the street where they had been. The two rolled across the stones, coming to rest—directly at the monster's feet. Ryan looked up in time to see the vast foot of the troll descending upon them.
"No!"
Arion roared, grief and rage burning in his eyes. He snatched up a fallen spear and hurled himself forward with reckless courage.
Yet even as the beast lifted its foot, an arrow sang through the night. It struck true, piercing the troll's right eye.
Once more the monster screamed, reeling backward, blood streaming from its ruined sockets.
"Hyah!"
A bellow rang out, and a great form —broad of shoulder, bald and bearded, wielding a two-handed axe. With a single stroke, the weapon cleft deep into the troll's neck. Blood fountained as its head was hewn free, flying through the air. The monster's body stiffened, then toppled with earth-shaking force.
"My lord!"
The voice was one Ryan knew well. He and Alaina rose quickly, joy dawning on their faces.
Through the firelit streets came a band of familiar figures:
Towering among them, two meters in height, broad as an ox, bald and bearded—Erken, one hundred and twenty-eight years of age, a legendary warrior unmatched, his axe never striking in vain.
Beside him, the bowmen Elger and Ailin, brother and sister. Elger, seventy-two, a marksman of legendary skill; Ailin, fifty-five, both healer and archer, her shots swift and sure.
With them walked Idhrion, aged one hundred and forty, a Dúnedain of grave bearing and calm wisdom. He was not only a warrior of great renown but Ryan's most trusted counselor.
And behind came eighteen more Rangers of the Dúnedain, each one an elite warrior, bound to Ryan through battles fought and victories won.
"My lord!" they all cried together, saluting him.
Ailin hurried forward, concern plain on her face.
"Are you hurt? Tell me you are unscathed!"
"I am well," Ryan answered, shaking his head. Then he turned with a smile to Elger.
"It was your arrow that spared us. Without it, Alaina and I would have been crushed beneath that troll's foot."
Elger bowed his head humbly.
"Every arrow loosed is loosed for you, my lord."
Then came Idhrion, his voice low and steady.
"My lord, we cleansed the streets of stragglers as we came. Judging from their weapons and their stature, these Orcs hail from the Troll-woods to the east. Only there do stone-trolls dwell."
"Your thought is sound, Idhrion," Ryan replied, though his gaze had already turned toward the lord's castle, where the press of Orcs still battered the gates. The din of battle there rose even above the crackle of the burning town.
"But this is no hour for long pondering. The fight is not yet ended."
Idhrion understood at once.
"Then, my lord—what do you command?"
Ryan frowned, his thoughts running deep. With himself and his followers, they numbered but twenty-five. Each was a warrior of the highest skill, the best of the Dúnedain. Yet two or three hundred Orcs besieged the castle. To charge headlong would be folly, no more than casting themselves into death.
As he wrestled with the choice, a rough voice called from the shadows of a nearby alley:
"Ranger-lord! Take us with you—we'll fight!"
From the smoke and gloom stumbled a band of bloodied men, weapons clenched in weary hands—swords, spears, even blacksmiths' hammers.
They were the survivors of Dessen, their homes burned, their families slain. Grief and fury lit their eyes, and in their despair they had become fearless.
And so they came, ragged and resolute, ready to stand with Ryan against the tide of darkness.