Chapter 21: Battle of Five Armies (2)
"Retreat!" Thranduil shouted in fury as he witnessed his people falling to the half-orcs.
A massive surge of wood-based energy gathered around him, and a cyan crescent moon rose behind him…
"Whoosh!" The crescent moon flew from Thranduil's hand, swirling around the battlefield with a life of its own. Every half-orc within a 50-meter radius of Thranduil was sliced in two.
"Wow! An Elven Hunter? A top-tier ranger?" Even Rynar and his companions, watching from the hillside, noticed the stunning crescent moon.
"Lunar Pursuit! A unique combat skill of the Hunter; that crescent will automatically attack marked enemies within a 50-meter radius of the caster," Caslow explained with a glance.
"The Woodland Realm has some impressive depth; it's not as lacking as I thought," Rynar remarked, somewhat surprised.
Thanks to the Elves' long lifespan, they often become professionals, honing their magic and combat skills over time.
Thranduil commanding nearly 5,000 Elven professionals was quite a surprise for Rynar, although the Elven race's tragically low population and reproductive rate remained a concern…
"Roar!"
A gigantic troll, burdened with a makeshift catapult, squeezed through the cave entrance.
With a tremendous effort, it slammed its arms down, stabilizing the catapult while half-orcs helped load a massive boulder into it.
"Boom!" Several boulders flew through the sky, crashing heavily into the Dale.
"Ah~" A group of Elven archers on a stone stack were violently flung away by a boulder.
"Ugh!" The flying debris struck a human soldier running below, causing him to let out a pained wail before collapsing.
"Kill! For the Goddess!" An Elven ranger, witnessing several covering Elven archers surrounded by ugly half-orcs, gritted his teeth and charged back into battle…
"Hold the line!" Several human soldiers, armed with spears, desperately poked at the half-orcs scrambling up the crumbling battlements.
"Roar!" A massive troll, wielding a stone battering ram, bellowed and charged headfirst into the outer wall of the Dale.
"Crash!"
With the sound of the troll crashing down, the already dilapidated wall finally gave way under the strain, collapsing with a thunderous roar and leaving a gaping hole several meters wide.
"Abandon the walls! Prepare for street fighting!" Bard said in anguish, seeing the wall breached.
"Bain! Take the women and children to the church!" Bard pulled his panicking son close.
…
"Ha!" Below the city of Erebor, Dain Ironfoot was desperately leading the remnants of his Ironfoot army, now reduced to just over a thousand, against the half-orc onslaught.
"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
The finely crafted Dwarven crossbows proved invaluable, raining down arrows that effectively repelled the half-orc advance.
"Roar!"
A raging Dwarven berserker, fully berserk, dispatched the half-orcs that dared to approach him with brutal efficiency.
"Thorín! Where are you? We need you!" Dain Ironfoot cried out in despair for the Dwarf king.
At that moment, Thorín stood before a mountain of wealth, gleefully stroking the treasures of the kingdom below…
Meanwhile, his followers stood atop the high walls of Erebor, watching helplessly as their kin were slaughtered by the half-orcs…
…
"Whoosh!" Thranduil rode his moon deer, cutting a path through the half-orcs jamming the stone bridge at the city gate, slashing and trampling them all.
"Roar…" The moon deer let out a pained cry, collapsing to its knees, tossing Thranduil off.
Only then did he notice several crude iron swords lodged in the deer's chest—this area had already been overtaken by the half-orcs! Thranduil was the last elf to leave the battlefield…
The others either retreated into the city or died outside…
He scanned his surroundings and found a dozen ordinary half-orcs closing in.
"Ha~" He scoffed; when did even lowly half-orcs dare to approach him? Thranduil felt a surge of anger.
"Whoosh!"
His sharp Elven twin blades cut through the air in beautiful arcs, instantly disemboweling the half-orcs.
"This…" He swiftly navigated through the city, venting his rage on any half-orc he encountered, his fury directed at the corpses of fallen Elves scattered along the way.
Finally, he encountered a group of elves fighting valiantly. He roared as he swung his weapons, swiftly and mercilessly slicing through the necks of the half-orcs.
"Rally our troops!" Thranduil ordered his elves.
"Let us leave this cursed place!" Thranduil said angrily.
He had originally planned to retrieve the Elven race's most cherished treasure—the sacred white gem—only to find himself facing overwhelming half-orc forces.
In just this short time, nearly a thousand elves had perished in this damned place.
"You can't do this! You can't leave!" Tauriel appeared before Thranduil in a flash.
"My kin have spilled enough blood for this land!" Thranduil replied coldly, unwilling to sacrifice his people for the sake of dwarves and men.
"The dwarves and men still need us!" Tauriel pleaded desperately.
…
"Forget it, let's retreat…" Rynar sighed and shook his head.
It was too chaotic; humans, elves, dwarves, and half-orcs were fighting here, and he felt overwhelmed.
Rynar backed down, unwilling to risk his men in a battle that could lead to total annihilation over mere wealth.
"Why, my lord? Aren't we here to find an opportunity to strike?" Reynard looked up in surprise.
"Why retreat? They need us…" Reynard pressed on stubbornly.
As expected, Reynard was still the same troublemaker as in history. Rynar helplessly held his head.
The reason why Reynard was known as the Beacon of the North was precisely due to his chivalrous spirit—drawing his sword for the weak, raising it against the stronger, fighting for the defenseless civilians, and for his allies!
"We have almost no chance of winning; even with our dragon knights, it's not enough!
The half-orc reinforcements from Gandalf are on their way, and we lack the ability to turn the tide!" Rynar patiently explained to his subordinates.
The group fell silent; a few hundred men stood quietly, fully aware of the harsh reality. But simply turning around and leaving was not something they could do.
Rynar glanced at the silent crowd, furrowing his brow helplessly.
Perhaps knowing the essence of it all made him lose the chance to empathize with them. He might never understand the knights of the Zaltarion Empire and their pursuit of honor…
"Forgive me, my king! Perhaps this is the first and last time I defy your orders!
The honor of a knight doesn't allow us to abandon our allies!" Reynard suddenly looked up and performed a standard knight's salute to Rynar.
"Don't forget you are also a noble paladin!" Reynard said with a slight bow.
"Zaltarion soldiers! The glory of our ancestors still flows in our blood! The waters of the River Running still nourish our homeland!
Perhaps today we will fail! Perhaps we will die!
But the will of the Empire will never perish! We! Will! Fight!" Reynard mounted his horse, raising his dragon spear in a roar.
"For the glory of the Empire!"
"Long live Zaltarion!"
"River Running protects us!"
"Pointing the way forward with my longbow!"
Instantly, the crowd was filled with fervor, the glorious mark of Zaltarion deeply engraved in their souls. For their homeland and honor, they were willing to face the world as their enemy!
"Perhaps you are right; I am also a knight." Rynar quietly regarded the faces before him, smiling gently as his hand rested on the hilt of his dragon-slaying sword.
After a long moment, Rynar raised his head and gazed toward the distant battlefield of the Lonely Mountain.
"Then we will join the fight! For the honor of knights! For the glory of Zaltarion Empire!" Rynar drew his dragon-slaying sword and mounted his horse.