Chapter 112: Battle of the Five Armies Pt 4
[General POV]
The situation looked bleak for Gandalf. His uneasy premonition had come true. The one-sided advantage they held had been dwarfed by the tumult of orcs descending the arms of the mountain, a black plague in the eyes of those present.
"This is wrong," he muttered, desperately searching for a solution that could lead them to victory. But no matter how hard he thought, the answer eluded him.
'The eagles,' he thought. 'They will bring an advantage if they arrive in time.' His hope now rested on the eagle clan, though he could see no sign of them. This was strange to him, eagles were swift, and he couldn't fathom the reason for their delay.
With resolution burning in his eyes, Gandalf rose as the figure he truly was: an Istari, a spirit subordinate to the Valar, tasked with guiding the unsuspecting inhabitants of Middle-earth against the darkness of Sauron.
His presence caught the attention of the downtrodden, those who had already surrendered to the immense, sharpened weapons of the orcs descending the mountain. His authoritative voice rang out like thunder following lightning.
"Prepare to fight!"
His voice echoed among the humans, whose frightened eyes took a step back. Those words carried a magic that ignited their spirits—a blazing fire like the light of dawn now shone in their eyes. That light was "tenacity," a peculiar quality in humans that Gandalf so deeply admired.
"Bows!" cried a soldier, inspired by Gandalf's words. Not long ago, he had considered fleeing like a coward, abandoning his comrades. But something within him responded to that command.
"More arrows here!" some shouted.
Those once fearful for their lives organized themselves, their newfound determination flickering in their eyes. They were now ready to die if it meant defeating the vile creatures before them.
"Prepare the bows!" Bard called from the side, his palpable resolve visible to anyone who stopped to look. Moments earlier, he had been issuing orders to hold the line, trying to awaken the will of his men. Fortunately, Gandalf's deep voice had bolstered their spirits.
The tense sound of footsteps and breaths made the impending clash almost tangible. The soft twang of bowstrings being drawn echoed across the wall. The savage forest of steel borne by the orcs overshadowed the tender, freshly sprouted green grass.
The elves, commanded by Thranduil, dispersed along the wall, filling the gaps left by the men. Their numbers had not diminished; all had survived the battle thus far. Their radiant faces presented a sharp contrast to the grotesque visages of the beasts below.
Aware of what was to come, Thranduil approached the Grey Wizard, who stood firm on the wall, observing the massive horde of orcs still descending. His gaze caught sight of Legolas and Aldril's group, leading six hundred elves toward the gates of Erebor.
It was a wise decision, knowing that those elves had recently charged to eliminate the remaining orcs. They were now halfway to Erebor; attempting to return to the ruins of the valley amidst the incoming flood of orcs would be suicide.
"Mithrandir," Thranduil said, drawing the Grey Wizard's attention. Gandalf met his gaze with those piercing grey eyes.
"Will the eagle clan come?" It was a question laden with meaning. Their survival hinged on external support. In years past, the orcs had exploited their overwhelming numbers to crush even the most skilled of elves.
"They will," Gandalf affirmed. He understood the Elven King's concerns but could only offer reassuring words. He trusted the eagles and believed they would not abandon them in such dire circumstances.
----
On Aldril and Legolas' side, the situation had been far from ideal. Alongside their phalanx of elves and archers, they retreated toward the foot of the mountain. It was the only way to survive.
The orcs had arrived without warning, blocking their path back to the ruins of the valley. The elves on the wall protected their rear as they advanced toward the gates of Erebor.
"Let's regroup with the dwarves," Aldril ordered. The dwarves' refusal to charge and instead leaving the elves' rear exposed had caused visible unrest among their ranks. However, after Azog's surprise attack, the dwarves' decision to remain steadfast behind their walls had, in a way, proven advantageous.
Aldril understood that the dwarves were gambling on the opposing armies wearing each other down before they made their move. This tactic, clearly part of Thorin's increasingly erratic plans, was risky.
It now depended on whether the king under the mountain would regain his senses and not betray them by attacking from behind. In the worst-case scenario, Aldril knew he would have to make a drastic decision: kill Thorin and redirect the dwarves' attention toward himself, forcing them to join the battle.
"Quickly, quickly!" Legolas urged his elven companions. Their advantage lay in their superhuman speed and endurance, what would take hours for a human could be covered in mere minutes at their full pace.
Despite their efficiency, Legolas couldn't deny his distaste for heading toward the dwarves. They had already proven unreliable, their refusal to leave Erebor and join the fight was proof enough.
However, there was no other choice. Turning back would mean facing the enemy hordes lying in wait to besiege the ruins of the valley.
On their way, Aldril and his company encountered Bard's men. The humans, forced to retreat from the eastern arm of the mountain under enemy pressure, joined the elves in their withdrawal toward the dwarves' walls. Nearly two hundred men ran desperately, their footsteps a chaotic symphony that stood in stark contrast to the orderly march of the elves.
The sharp contrast between the two groups was impossible to ignore. The elves advanced in a perfectly structured formation, every movement calculated and synchronized, as if the danger behind them did not exist.
Their faces remained impassive and stoic, masks that spoke of a thousand battles and centuries of experience. Many had fought in the War of the Last Alliance, and that weight of history was evident in their gazes.
Yet discipline was not universal. Amid the serene expressions, nervous eyes could be seen—flickers of repressed emotion that the younger elves couldn't completely conceal. The looming threat of Azog and his forces cast a shadow over their minds. Even so, not one of them faltered.
In contrast, Bard's men were a reflection of humanity in its fragility and bravery. They ran without order or coordination, their breaths ragged and fear etched into their faces. Some stayed at the rear, covering the retreat, while others helped injured comrades. It was a clear demonstration that in war, despite racial and military differences, there was one shared truth:
Everyone wanted to survive.
----
At the summit of the southern arm of the mountain, banners were raised over the ruins of what had once been a bustling trade hub for men, dwarves, and elves. A place once filled with joy and commerce now stood silent, its only inhabitants the snow and the crumbling remnants of a bygone era.
High atop the remains of a tower, Azog stood like a formidable general. From his vantage point, he looked down with great jubilation upon the rows upon rows of orcs marching at his command. The dense formation of spears formed a shadowy forest, their rusted edges adding an even more dreadful aspect to the already horrific orcish ranks.
"Gathûr, krimpû lughi golug thrakatûk agh dûmpatûk dûm! (Regroup and encircle the elves running toward the dwarves)," he commanded. His voice, speaking in the Black Speech of Mordor, was overwhelmingly dominant, filled with hatred and mockery. The sound of that vile tongue, spoken only in Mordor, could unnerve even the most resolute, inducing nervous fits or, in extreme cases, paralyzing fear.
The blare of a trumpet echoed across the valley, and the banners shifted—one moving to the right, the other to the left. Orc leaders, who had endured countless beatings to understand each signal, remembered their orders despite their natural stupidity.
"Gathûr dûmpatûk golug agh dûm, bagronk thrakatûk agh ushburz! (Close in on the elves and dwarves, await the order to attack)," an orc barked.
At his command, the orcs divided. A portion of the horde pursued Aldril, Legolas, and Bard's surviving men as they made their way to Erebor's gates.
The true Battle of the Five Armies was about to begin.
***
Filthy orcs!!!
Someone asked me why I upload chapters at night, isn't it obvious? night is when we go out hunting! By the way, that wizard was already on the menu guys!!!
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