The Whirlwind 11: Harry
The Orcs hadn't breached Dale further than the first courtyard beyond the main gates; that was where a squadron of fresh looking Elvish swordsmen met them.
She flew over the fighting front, checking for familiar faces, but didn't find any Lake-men. Knowing this battle would be soon over, she left the capable Elves to it, flying up to the upper streets, looking for Bard.
Surprisingly enough, she found him where he should be─in the remnants of a pavilion they had taken for a command post of sorts, with an ample view of the valley, and with Gandalf and Thranduil for company.
She strengthened her Occlumancy, as she'd taken up doing around Elves and Wizards, and glided down. There were two other Elves, a blond and a redhead, whom she'd first taken for guards, but now that she'd landed near enough to listen, she realised they were part of the conversation.
She also remembered where she'd seen their faces before—those were the Elf and Elleth she'd spotted chasing the pack of wargs out of Lake-town. Well, small world.
Taking in the worried and frowning faces, she quickly realised the atmosphere wasn't as celebratory as she'd hoped. Suppressing a groan at the complications sure to come, she listened in.
"-another army, of Gundabad Orcs. They are almost upon us."
Oh, well.
"They are riding to their deaths."
She looked up at Bard's voice. He spoke softly, somber eyes turned to the north. She followed his gaze to see the last of the mounted Dwarves just cresting the hill on the west side of the valley.
"Driven by their thirst for vengeance," Thranduil spoke next. "I doubt they would abandon their pursuit, even should they know the odds were against them."
"Send our archers up the hill," the blond Elf urged. "They are fresh—they had not been touched by the battle yet. Their arrows could perhaps help the Dwarves in time."
"And why would I send our archers into danger when they can easily fire their arrows from the safety of the ramparts? The Orcs will reach us here. I will not support Dwarven greed for revenge with the lives of our people."
"The Dwarves don't ride for revenge," Bard spoke. "They think Azog flees, defeated. They are right to grasp the chance to stop him before he returns once again. He's the enemy of us all—we should be out there, helping them."
Harry puffed up her feathers in pride at Bard's words. She remembered him professing such courageous unity back in Lake-town to Thorin, then still a beggar king without his mountain; it was good to see Bard throw the same sentiment into the face of an Elven king dressed in a mighty armor, towering a head over him.
"And yet, I do not see you, Lord of Dale, sending your men-" Thraindul started but was quickly interrupted.
"Lady Galadriel," Gandalf's voice boomed and Harry startled, because she immediately recognised it. Although the tone was very much different, this was the voice she'd heard speaking in her mind, up on her perch. She should have guessed, she scolded herself and forced her ears to listen in again.
"-impossible!" Thranduil just finished in a hiss.
"And what other force in Middle-earth would explain the feats we witnessed today, performed to our aid? Unless you think it more likely that the Valar themselves would deign to interfere?"
"The power required to influence minds through such a distance would have been too immense to-"
"And yet, she has spent it!" Gandalf spoke over the Elvenking. "She has spent it, to aid us here, hundreds of miles from her realm and home, for she understands this is a fight that we all have a cause to win. And still, you refuse to help?"
Merlin bless wise old men who believe they hold answers to everything.
Harry fought off the relieved chuckle that threatened to escape her at such a fortuitous explanation of events; knowing the sound would come out most unnatural from the peregrine's beak.
She'd read of Galadriel. She wouldn't have thought the Elf capable of controlling minds across hundreds of miles, but Gandalf seemed to accept it as a possibility. And wasn't that a frightening thought? Here was to hoping she'd never make enemies out of that one. But at this moment, Harry was just grateful for the excuse Gandalf's incorrect conclusion afforded her. It seemed she wouldn't be outed today, after all.
That was… well, that was excellent.
Gandal's assumptions wouldn't hide her for long, she was aware of that. Who knew how often he and Galadriel spoke, but if they could do so with their minds they were probably in a habit of chatting from time to time. Still, she was glad for any reprieve she hadn't counted on.
Exalted by the prospect of a slightly less difficult tomorrow, she took to the skies again. Thranduil had a Man, a Wizard and an Elf working against his stubbornness; apart from using an Imperius on an Elven king, which she was quite sure would end in disaster, there was nothing she could add to this particular fight.
Idly, she pondered her state of mind if the idea of using Imperius to win an argument popped up so quickly. She couldn't wait for this day to be over.
For now, though, her help was needed elsewhere.
A fog had settled over the frozen river and the derelict watchtower she found on top of the hill. It took her a moment to spot the Dwarves but spot them she did, across the river and by the entrance to the tower.
Five Dwarves stood guarding their mounts, thirty goats or so. She landed on a crumbling fence near them just when the rest of the Dwarves started spilling out of the tower. She recognised some of them, even with their faces covered in dirt and dark blood.
"He's gone," the bold one, Dwalin, growled. "Fled like the sheilve shaikmushz he is."
"Kíli," the golden-haired of the two brothers called. "Can we track them?"
"In this snow? Piece of piss."
"They'll be far from here by now, fleeing on their wargs," Dwalin pointed out. "We won't catch them, not even on goats."
"'Cept they haven't fled on wargs," Kíli called back, already a bit further away, his eyes glued to the ground. "This way!"
Harry watched as the whole company moved to follow the young Dwarf, quickly disappearing into the fog ahead. With a slight pang of guilt, she realised Thorin wasn't among them. She couldn't imagine he would willingly miss out on the hunting party, which meant the king probably slept through the whole battle. Well- ouch.
She took off after the company before they disappeared from her sight completely. They directed their mounts up the frozen river, the tracks of the fleeing Orcs clearly visible even to Harry from above.
"Halt!" Dwalin barked several minutes, rather softly for his normally booming voice.
It was enough to stop the Dwarves in their tracks, as well as Harry in the air. She circled above them, silent on her wings, searching the river and its high banks for anything that could have caught the warrior's attention. But the place was silent, the fog seemingly deafening her as properly as it blinded her to anything further than several paces of the Dwarves' goats.
Dwalin dismounted and placed his palm against the ice of the river. "Incoming," he grunted after a moment of silence.
Fíli quickly followed his example, presumably also feeling for the quakes of the ice. He hissed out a curse a moment later. "Fall back," he called next.
"Fíli-" his brother almost whined.
"No, Kíli. Way too many," Fíli cut him off resolutely, already mounting his goat. "We've been led into their attack. Fall back!"
For a moment, Harry watched the retreating Dwarves, the goats' hooves clunking loudly on the ice. Still, they weren't loud enough to completely drown the faint, but persistent clatter and thrumming that had now reached her ears. It was distant, and yet already seemed thunderous.
Well, knowing that she'd better do whatever was needed to halt the Orcs out of sight of the Dwarves, Harry took off towards the incoming army. Only to pause a moment later, catching a strange swish of air way too close to her body.
Next, claws were tearing at her wings, a swirl of black bodies circling her, attacking her from all sides, screeching high notes into the air around them.
Making a swift decision, she quickly transformed back into a witch. Gravity took hold of her, but she knew she had a second or two to spare, and she flung a strong banishment at the black mass surrounding her. Were those bats? Rather massive ones at that, she observed before the ground approached rather quickly and she changed into peregrine just in time to whip her wings out and get her fall under control.
She raised her head when she heard the awful screeching again. She hadn't caught the whole cloud with her banishment charm, and the nearest bats were once again upon her. She transformed back and landed on her feet, arm already raised to sweep the whole sky above her into a whirlwind. The bats were clever beasts, though, flying away the moment she'd turned into her bigger body capable of magic. Either way, the sky around her was now clear. She changed back into her winged form.
Only for the awful screeching to return, the bats hurling back at her again.
"Oh, bugger!" she swore the moment she had to transform once more, having barely flapped her wings.
This was quite enough.
Fire? It seemed to respond very well to her in this world, and she was annoyed enough to feel vindictive.
Fire it is.
Arm already outstretched, she hesitated. The fog had cleared away, of course it had, and she was clearly visible up on the ridges above the river. She could see the oncoming Orcs now, a whole horde of them running down from the hills. And on the river below her, a large pack of wargs was quickly gaining on the Dwarves.
Fire could not be explained by Galadriel's telepathic powers. She would lose the cover of the wizard's assumptions. Hadn't Imperius already proven useful enough? She could carry on with the same strategy, sticking to the invisible beams of the Unforgivable. Not the most effective plan, but still sufficient to protect the Dwarves before help would arrive.
She nodded to herself and lowered her arm. She could lay low for now, preserve her anonymity—she could give herself as much. There was no urgent need to waste the unexpected boon given to her by Gandalf's need for an explanation. If Thranduil's archers didn't come in time, she'd change her strategy then, she promised herself.
Decision made, she sent the closest bats into disarray with one last banishment, turned into a peregrine, and dove from the banks.
In a plunge like this, the bats had no chance of keeping up with her. Not before long, she was upon the Dwarves, swooping over their heads at the same time as the first wargs caught up to them.
"Charge!" she heard Fíli roar, and saw the Dwarves turn their wargoats around, to meet the wargs head on.
The mounted Orcs were just a vanguard to the incoming army, probably to keep the Dwarves from running, but they still seemed to count more than a hundred strong. She'd always been bad at estimations, so there could very well be twice as many, rushing down the river at them in waves as they were. The Dwarves were outnumbered, several times over, that was for sure.
Her dive took her all the way down to the ice of the river. She landed some twenty feet behind the Dwarves, at the very edge of the waterfall, where the drop would guard her back and allow for a quick escape should the annoying bats interfere again. She spared one look at the valley below the waterfall—orcs now ran in disarray from the battlefield, fleeing from their pursuers; but more importantly, a wave of golden clad soldiers was running up the hill. Thranduil had listened. The Elves could be what, four five minutes away?
She lowered her wings to the ice and changed into a witch, sprawled with all her limbs as flat to the surface as possible. A beat later, her form disappeared under a Disillusionment Charm. Finally a bit more comfortable, now that she was no longer a visible target so close to the fighting, she rose to her knees and let the Imperius fly once again.
Wargs, dark Orcs, pale Orcs—she did not care, flinging one colourless curse after another over the Dwarves' shoulders. She only gave a command or two at a time, quick to withdraw her magic as her targets were also rather quick to die.
"It's happening again!" a Dwarf shouted. "The beasts are turning against each other."
"Mahal blessed us today!"
"Tis no work of Mahal," a redhead she'd seen before called. "Must be Tharkûn's doing, and we all know how reliable that wizard is. Stay on your guard!"
Later, she would wonder whether Glóin had prophetic powers, or whether it was just the cruel humour she'd learned to read from these moments.
Because not even half a minute later, she was made aware of a flaw in her strategy. An Orc she'd sent against his kin and then left free of her control had stumbled away from the fray. The Dwarves paid him little mind, thinking him converted.
She knew better and moved to intercede, but by that point, he already had his dagger buried in Fíli's shoulder.
Fíli roared in pain, but swung around at the same time and slit the Orc's throat with the sword in his other arm. She watched the Dwarf in concern, but Fíli kept on fighting with the same vigour, even using his injured arm, and Harry breathed in relief. He'd be fine.
Aware of the possible danger now, she slowed down her cursing and made sure her victims were truly on their way to dying before she left them to it.
"Hold on! The Elves are almost here," she heard Fíli shout just about the same time something punched her right shoulder. Winded, she looked down—to see an ugly hilt sticking out of her otherwise disillusioned body. She blinked, only slowly registering the piercing pain now throbbing up her bones and nerves.
Stabbed. Well, it's been a while.
Leaving the dagger sheathed in her shoulder for the moment, she lifted her head to search for her attacker. She was still practically invisible against the ice, how did the- Ah, Orcs and their sense of smell, she idly noted, as she spotted the two specimen almost upon her. Excellent situational awareness, Potter; truly. One quick thought later and one of the Orcs rushed the other over the edge of the waterfall, their tangled bodies disappearing into the abyss below.
She went to numb her right side then, only for the spell not to take. Oh, of course, no pain relief charms in this world. Swearing under her breath for the agony she suspected would follow, seeing the angle the dagger stuck out from next to her collarbone, she took a shallow breath. Yep, her lung was most probably bruised, if not punctured, she thought even as she squeezed her eyes shut under the shock of pain. Well, there was nothing to it. She locked her jaw and yanked the blade out with a Levitation Charm, trusting her magic to be more precise than her shaking hands.
She gritted her teeth and bit her tongue, keeping the cries of pain from escaping. This was… raw. She couldn't remember the last time she had to deal with a serious injury without the mercy of pain relief potions or, at the very least, a Numbing Charm.
Slowly, she picked up the discarded dagger and sniffed the blade, having heard of the poisoned weapons of Orcs. This one didn't smell like it, thank Merlin, but it certainly didn't appear sterilized, either.
She looked down, pinpointing the tear in her tunic through her Disillusionment Charm. She stared at it with a blank look, as her mind provided clear first-aid instructions, well practised by years of field experience, and yet all utterly useless in this world.
And yet- the suggestions for spellwork might be useless, but she could loosely follow the steps. Taking several shallow breaths, she focused on the tightness on her right side, attempting to distinguish it from the searing pain. Her lung wouldn't expand properly—she needed to watch whether the pressure would ease with time, or on the contrary, get worse. Infection and blood loss were other pressing matters. What techniques did healers use in Lake-town? She'd never investigated before but her imagination took over now, and she idly wondered if she would soon come to reminisce of the gentle care and sweet-tasting potions of St Mungo's. Maybe there was something she could do on her own instead?
She was wary of experimenting when it came to healing, the memory of Lockhart always warning her with his trick of disappearing bones. She'd rather deal with a stab wound than a chest without ribs, thank you very much. And yet, she didn't fancy revealing her elastic bra nor the breasts beneath it to any healers.
Could she levitate the dirt out? That sounded like a mighty stupid idea. She couldn't very well separate the filth from her blood, she'd end up carving half of her chest muscles. Pulverize it with flames? She recoiled at the very thought, her stomach already curling only imagining the agony.
She scoffed at herself in derision. She had gone soft.
Idly, she noticed that arrows started flying over her head. Good, the Elves had arrived. Good timing, actually, because the bulk of the Orc army also seemed to be upon them.
Good, she repeated in her mind, slow and sluggish. And it was around then that she realised she'd gone into a shock.
Well, that was certainly new.
The wonders of magical healing and modern medicine must have made her over-reliant on their convenience. Look at her now, panicking over one small wound, just because she can't numb the pain. Soft, indeed. Pathetic.
She must have lost her consciousness right about then, at least for a minute or two. When she blinked out the black spots from her eyes, there were now giant Eagles up in the sky above her, diving at the army of Orcs. Elves lined the edge of the cliffs, keeping the Orcs at bay with walls upon walls of arrows, engaging their swords only with the few lucky Orcs that had broken through the onslaught of feathered missiles.
Her dizziness was only slowly subsiding, but she had very little patience for it. She opened the collar of her coat and tunic with trembling hands, pulling the clothes aside to see the wound now, when her Disillusionment Charm had failed anyway. Breathing seemed less torturous and the bleeding didn't appear too heavy. She tore a strip off her tunic and pressed the cloth against the injury. She took her coat off and tied the improvised bandage to her shoulder with another strip, clumsy in her movements, as she kept her right arm still and secured the strap around it with her left and a Levitation Charm.
She realised now that her faint had probably been caused as much by the shortage of breath as her shock. It did not make her feel any less embarrassed for it, though.
Feeling responsible for the Dwarves she'd taken to guard, and then abandoned during her humiliating episode, her eyes swept guiltily along the river, afraid of what she'd see. There was a pile of bodies, but they all seemed to be Orcs? She couldn't tell for sure. Only one or two goats though, and that filled her with hope.
Casting her eyes further around, she spotted the Dwarves rushing their mounts down the cliffside. It was impossible to count them, what with the goats constantly overtaking each other on their nonexistent paths. Also, there appeared to be a massive bear leading their procession. Two Dwarves rode on its back; she spotted Kíli and Fíli by their mops of hair and golden armor. There was something strange about the way they clung to the bear; with Fíli bouncing in his seat with no coordination to his mount's bounds and leaps. Squinting her eyes, she now recognised the manner with which Kíli was clutching his brother's waist, only his arms securing Fíli to the bear's back.
He must be uncounciousness, or very nearly so. Unbidden, the image of an Imperius-freed Orc driving his dagger into Fili's exposed back sprung to her mind, and she looked at the Dwarves' rushed retreat back to the Mountain with new sinking apprehension. She sent a silent wish after Fíli, hoping for the Dwarven healers to be good ones.
She settled down on the ice to breathe her way to full composure. Back against a boulder, she sat observing the end of the battle. The Elves and eagles were rather effective at slaughtering the Orcs up here on the hill, and she saw the edges of the Orc army already turning tails. They would all start fleeing soon. At the foot of the waterfall, the fighting had all but stopped, the Orcs now scattered and disappearing from the nape of the Mountain into the Lake Hills. She could see many black dots running south towards the lake, and she spared a quick thought for Lake-town and the few Men who had refused Bard's invitation to safety in Dale. She hoped their burned bridge would indeed discourage the rogue Orcs.
The instant her eyes found the retreating Dwarves again, down below her, now almost at the bottom of the valley, the great black bear suddenly slowed down, his strides losing all their urgency.
Up on the hill, Harry recoiled, as if struck.
A/N:
I like changing POVs not only when I'm writing, but also as a reader. I've always enjoyed narratives that let you view the hero through the eyes of another. As an extreme example of this effect, here's one of my favourites, recounting a different battle, the HP canon Battle of Hogwarts, through the words of Potterwatch reporters:
Our Sad Duty by Hippothestrowl
It's a truly entertaining one-shot that will very quickly grab you, as the defining moments of the Battle get described on-air with more sensation than they could ever be narrated by the protagonist himself.
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(I'd like to give something back to the authors that have directly or indirectly inspired me in my own writing. At the end of my chapters, I'll be mentioning stories that I'm more than happy to recommend for your further reading)
