Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

The dawn broke over the Anduin, its light glinting off the armor of 15,000 mounted warriors. The air was crisp, but beneath it lay a current of tension, as if the land itself knew what was about to unfold. Before us stood an orc host of unprecedented size—20,000 strong, their black banners whipping in the morning breeze, their guttural cries reverberating across the plain.

This would be no mere skirmish. It would be the first great battle between the children of Ilúvatar and the foul servants of Melkor—a clash of light and shadow that would echo through the ages.

I sat astride my steed, Raumo gleaming in my hand, its thunderous power humming softly as I strung it with care. Beside me, Denethor, his face set with grim determination, surveyed the enemy ranks.

"Do you think they understand what they face?" he asked, his voice low.

"They will soon enough," I replied, my gaze unwavering. "The arrogance of evil is its greatest weakness. They believe themselves invincible, yet they cannot fathom the discipline of our kind, nor the fury we bring to bear when our homes and kin are threatened."

Denethor nodded, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "Let us show them, then, the might of the Avari and the Laiquendi."

As the sun rose higher, the armies prepared for battle. I divided our forces carefully, the plan already shared and memorized by every captain under my command:

The Vanguard: 7,000 horse archers, including myself, would engage the orc host first. Flanking Units: Two groups, each comprising 1,500 horse archers and 2,000 light cavalry, would circle wide to position themselves on either side of the enemy.The Reserve: 1,000 light cavalry would wait for the critical moment to strike or pursue fleeing foes.

The orcs roared as they advanced, their ranks thick and lumbering. Shields clanged, and spears bristled like a sea of jagged teeth. I raised my hand, signalling the vanguard forward.

"Loose!" I commanded.

A storm of arrows rained down upon the orcs, their dark armor clattering as shafts struck home. Screams rose from their ranks, and chaos rippled through their formation. Yet they pressed on, their numbers seemingly endless.

The vanguard did not linger. Following precise drills, we wheeled away, staying just out of reach of their crude weapons. Again and again, we darted in, loosing volleys before retreating. The orcs' frustration grew with each attack, their attempts to strike back futile against our swift mounts.

Hours into the battle, the time came for the feigned retreat. I signaled with Raumo, its thunderous sound echoing across the field. The vanguard began to fall back, their movements deliberate yet frantic enough to appear genuine.

The orcs took the bait. With guttural cries, they surged forward, abandoning their tight formation in their eagerness to catch us. Their ranks stretched thin as they pursued, their leaders shouting futile orders to maintain discipline.

Denethor's voice came through the din, sharp and commanding. "Flankers, now!"

The flanking units emerged from their concealed positions, sweeping in from both sides like the wings of a hunting hawk. The orcs, caught off guard, found themselves peppered with arrows from the horse archers while the light cavalry charged their exposed flanks.

The chaos was absolute. The orcs tried to turn and face the new threat, but in doing so, they exposed their backs to the vanguard, which had regrouped and resumed its assault. Arrows fell in deadly arcs, and Raumo sang with each shot, its thunderous peals sending fear rippling through the enemy.

I loosed a shot at an orc captain, the arrow striking true and sending him sprawling to the ground. The power of Raumo left a visible ripple in the air, and for a moment, the orcs hesitated, their morale wavering.

"Press them!" I shouted, spurring my steed forward. The vanguard surged, their arrows finding gaps in the orcs' armor.

The final phase of the plan came into play. The reserve cavalry, led by Denethor himself, charged from the rear, closing the circle around the enemy. The orcs, now fully encircled, fell into disarray.

"Break their will!" Denethor called, his sword raised high.

The cries of the dying filled the air as the encirclement tightened. Panic spread among the orcs, and their once-formidable host became a writhing mass of desperation. Some threw down their weapons and tried to flee, but the light cavalry pursued them relentlessly, ensuring no regrouping could occur.

Near the battle's end, as victory seemed assured, an orc archer loosed a desperate shot. I saw it too late. The arrow struck my shoulder, the impact jarring me back in the saddle. Pain flared, but it was not enough to unseat me.

"My lord!" one of my captains cried, riding to my side.

"I am fine," I gritted out, breaking the arrow shaft and tossing it aside. Raumo remained steady in my grip, its power undiminished.

The sight of their leader still fighting seemed to rally my warriors. With renewed vigor, we pressed the attack, driving the remaining orcs into full retreat.

As the battlefield fell silent, the weight of what had transpired settled upon us. The bodies of orcs littered the plain, their banners trampled and broken. Our losses were not insignificant, but the victory was decisive.

Denethor rode up beside me, his expression weary but triumphant. "Dagor Hathol Raph," he said quietly, gesturing to the broken weapons scattered across the field.

"A fitting name for this battle," I replied, though my mind was already on the journey ahead. This was but the first step in a long and arduous campaign.

And yet, for the first time in the history of Middle-earth, the light of the Eldar had prevailed against the darkness of Melkor.

Dagor Hathol Raph, means "The Battle of the Shattered Spear" in Sindarin.

Right now it is the Year of the Trees 1370 of the first age of Arda.