Allen, who was fighting his way through the wolf pack, had none of Círdan's many concerns.
All he knew was that the ravenous wolves around him seemed endless. No sooner had he killed one than another lunged at him.
He tirelessly swung the Noldorin Rune-sword in his hand, taking one enemy's life after another. Foul-smelling wolf blood had spattered his silver-white armor.
Whenever his energy recovered even a little, lightning flashed from Allen's hand and ravaged the pack.
By now, no human on the battlefield except Allen remained fighting on horseback.
Even the valiant Gryphon Knights had all dismounted, battling the Wargs with swords and shields.
For a force of only twenty Gryphon Knights, there were simply too many wolves.
Between killing enemies, Allen quickly surveyed the battlefield.
Under the desperate attacks of the human and Dwarven warriors, far fewer enemies remained active on the field.
The mangled corpses of the vicious wolves had piled into small hills around the warriors.
Blood seeping from those bodies gathered into streams across the scorched brown earth.
But these Wargs had not died for nothing. Besides successfully fulfilling their task of delaying the enemy,
their bloodlust had driven them to inflict considerable harm.
Allen's men, in particular, had paid a terrible price during the battle.
Fewer than two-thirds of the original Heavy Cavalry were still standing and fighting the Wargs.
Although Allen had equipped them with Plate Armor that covered their entire bodies, humans were not as strong or resilient as Dwarves.
Their heavy armor and the relentless fighting had long since exhausted them in their struggles with the Wargs.
The pack attacking Allen's force included not only Wargs native to the Wilderland, but also Demon Wolves from farther north.
At Sauron's summons, they had returned to the Dark Lord's service, though there