The Battle Under the Trees

by ziggy3

It had begun with a distant tremor in the Earth. Then the breathless messengers arrived from the East Bight.'Smoke in the South,' they panted, weariness and fear on their faces. More messengers came. 'It is not smoke but dust, lord. From legions of iron-shod feet spilling from Dol Guldûr like plague.' Thranduil fights for his folk, his land, for his life.

2. Battle

Non canon characters:

Laersul- oldest son

Thalos- middle son

Anglach- Thranduil's foster son, who was amongst those 'taken or slain' in Gollum's escape. He was killed cruelly.

Azgarâzir: Name given to Thranduil by the Nazgul. The Nazgul's name for Thranduil, whom they hate more than any other ruler for his defence and war against them in Dol Guldur. Equivalent to Warmonger, Death-dealer, Scourge.

Agannâlo – Nazgul's name for Mirkwood. Literally death-shadow.

Zigserat- names for Laersul. Sorcerer of Death

Thrakagâsh- and Thalos. Fire-bringer.

(Legolas is just Azgarâzir's whelp.)

Durb-hai - lord of our people

Búbhosh-dug - Great Filth (their name for the Woodelves)

Unbeta'd so all my own mistakes:) My wonderful beta is busily editing the next chapter of Seven.

Chapter 2: BATTLE.

15th March. Thranduil attacked.

Thranduil was ready. He had been ready for years now. Brakes had been dug over centuries, a criss-cross of dykes and leats spreading outwards from the stronghold every quarter mile, wide enough that any fires could not leap the brakes. The leats were built with culverts and sluices so that at a word, the Forest River could be diverted, and would plunge and swirl and foam into those leats and dykes.

He sent Laersul to the Carrock to defend against the Goblins of the Misty Mountains and told Thalos to protect the stronghold and release the River in their defence. He tried not to think of the danger his sons faced, tried not to think of the serious child Laersul had been, the curious Thalos- sword-sharp wit, and his sweetest youngest creeping silently into Mordor under the Eye's vicious gaze.

But he did think of Anglach, his curious, silly fosterling with his unshakable faith in Thranduil, the faith that was so misplaced. Thranduil berated himself, mentally flagellated himself for his own failure to keep Anglach safe.

He stood before the long mirror in his dressing room. 'I will revenge you,' Thranduil swore to Anglach's drifting soul, with a fury that was still and deadly.

He fastened the thick leather that was all the armour the Woodelves needed. The Noldor blamed this for the massacre in the Last Alliance but they were fools; the Woodelves were light, fast, swift. Archers. When Thranduil had led his depleted army back to the Wood, none had blamed Oropher. None in the Wood had blamed the leather armour. They had blamed Gil-Galad.

And rightly so, thought Thranduil bitterly. The confused orders, with words that meant different things in Silvan, the lack of care. He blamed Gil-Galad, his Herald, Elrond, his General, Glorfindel.

He paused briefly at the thought of Glorfindel. Met his own slate-green eyes in the Glass. An image flashed through his memory of that strong muscular body, yielding surprisingly quickly, and as hungry as he. But Thranduil shoved the memory of that body away as angrily as he had taken it, and pulled his leather cuirass over the padded shirt instead, and laced the curved graceful front and back together under his arm. The front plates were riveted in copper, and the bronze buckles gleamed softly in the rushlight. He wanted them covered in blood, and his sword, the white blade, frost-bright Gystalya, gift of Dain in return for Orcrist, to drip with the blood of his enemies. For Thranduil was to lead the Woodelves south, to Dol Guldûr itself. Thranduil intended to attack the ruined fortress and bring the battle to 'that old wight, Khamûl'.

He wanted Khamûl.

He wanted to be the one to strike with his shining frost-bright sword, to strike through that old iron armour and to shatter it, send it spinning back through time so it was but dust.

Knowing that Galion would want to check and fuss, he lifted his leaf-shaped, etched pauldrons over his shoulders and laced them up, all supple, thick leather, enough to glance a blow, to protect him from the clumsy Orcs. Not enough to turn a well placed arrow, or a silk-sharp sword. But the Woodelves depended on their lightness and supple agility between and in the trees. No heavy plate would protect him in the South of the Wood. And there was no armour could protect any of them from the Nazgul. Nothing would protect them there.

'Nothing but sheer Woodelf bloody-mindedness,' as Galion had said with a scary grin.

Thranduil smiled thinly as he pulled on his hip belt and laced that up, then pulled on the leaf-shaped tassets and buckled those to the hip belt. Finally, he pulled on his gauntlets, cinched his swordbelt and slung his bow over his shoulder. He was clad in green and brown, thick supple leather stamped with his sigil and etched with the leaves of the Wood they were to protect. As he had been in the Last Alliance.

0o0o

The scouts watched the Orc legions marching along the edge of the Wood, for the Orcs could not move quickly through the forest itself but on open ground, fifty miles a day was not unheard of. Wargs were swifter. But they would have to enter the Wood at some point, and Thranduil guessed that they intended to march towards the Long Lake and then cut through the forest to attack the stronghold.

It did not suit Thranduil at all to meet the Orcs out in the open. He wanted to draw them into the Woods where archers could wait silently in the trees, where the Elves light armour was an advantage, where the trees would give them cover and the heavy Orcs in their heavy armour could not move. They would have the advantage, briefly at least. Archers could kill as many Orcs as there were arrows. Then it would be hand to hand fighting.

'This will give us an advantage,' Thranduil told his Elves quietly, 'but only for a moment. We must make the most of it.' There was a wooded hill just north of the Bight that Laersul had fortified over the years but it was hidden by he dense trees and Dol Guldur had never discovered it. Thranduil set his lure, a smaller camp a few miles from the hill fort, and planted his own standard to declare that he was there. Concentric cordons of archers waited silently in the trees. Thranduil then withdrew the bulk of his army to the fortress.

0o0o

The legions of Dol Guldur marched past the East Bight and the land groaned under their iron-shod feet, the animals fled, so there was no food for the Orcs but each other. But there were so many of them it did not matter than much, though Orc-meat is tough and stringy. Búrzbag riding upon his Warg-Queen did not care if his army ate Goblin, Orc, Man or Elf as long as they marched. And he liked his warg packs hungry, it kept them mean.

And when a company of Woodelves suddenly appeared through the trees, seeming to almost stumble unexpectedly on this great army, it caused the Warg packs to slaver and turn on their keepers. Blood and gobbets of bloody meat were flung into the air before Búrzbag ordered their release and for Krimpsnag's battalion of Orcs to pursue the Elves. 'Bring us back some meat and sport, lads!' he roared to the cheering and baying of his hordes. The Elves were apparently poorly armed, few in number and fled noisily into Mirkwood. Wargs and Orcs pursued eagerly and disappeared into the dark tree-line. Búrzbag, trusted general of Khamûl, ordered a rest and he waited impatiently for the return of his soldiers with their captives.

He had fires lit in anticipation, drove stakes into the ground, hung chains over a gallows.

And waited.

The remaining Wargs were maddened with hunger and he ordered Zharg to have a few stragglers from the Mordor contingent butchered. He did not trust Mordor. They were too up themselves and this would be good to show who was in charge here; Dol Guldur. But he could see the ugly and ambitious Mordor captain, Grishnâk, watched him murderously as his men were slaughtered, and Búrzbag swore to himself that Grishnâk would be next. In fact, he might arrange for the captured Woodelves to give them a fight and goad Grishnâk into fighting them. Make sure there was a sneaky knife in the ribs somewhere…

Then from the dark tree-line came one of Krimpsnag's men. Some of the Orcs on the edges of the camp straightened up and shaded their eyes against the horrid sunlight. There was a frisson of anticipation of the sport to come. Fresh meat. Elf-meat. Sweeter than Mordor Orc certainly.

Búrzbag waited. The soldier staggered into camp, he saw it was Gob, a trusty lieutenant who had served Búrzbag in Gundabad before he had been promoted to Dol Guldur. Gob came towards him, bowing low. His spines were stiffened and his eyes darted everywhere like he was nervous. Or excited. Nervous of me, decided Búrzbag. Excited by the prospect of battle.

'Speak,' Búrzbag ordered.

'Most high and mighty General,' Gob started and Búrzbag growled impatiently, seeing Grishnâk sidle towards him, listening and Zharg had also come to hear what had happened. 'We came upon the Búbhosh-dug camp, Durb-hai.'

Búrzbag grabbed Gob round the neck and pulled him forwards, narrowed his yellow eyes and bared his fangs. 'What? Those snaga led you to their own camp? Then why have you not brought back their heads?'

He felt Gob swallow and enjoyed the stink of his fear.

'Krimpsnag sent me back to give you the message. He says they are weak. He says to show you where they are.'

Zharg shoved a map under Gob's nose. 'Show us,' he snarled.

Gob was a rare beast for he actually knew what a map was and he stubbed a thick, clawed finger down on the map. 'Here it is. And Durb-hai, there is more. Azgarâzir is there. His banner flies above a tent.'

Grishnâk pushed forwards, narrowing his yellow eyes avariciously. 'We will be well rewarded if we take Azgarâzir. Alive and screaming, to Barad-dûr.'

Zharg bared his teeth at Grishnâk. 'It will not be to Mordor that he is taken. You cannot call your curs soldiers. It will be for the glory of Gundabad that he is taken. It will be my soldiers who take the Scourge of Agannâlo and it will be to Dol Guldûr.' Grishnâk snarled and stuck his face in Zharg's as if they might fight between themselves and Búrzbag took out his short Warg-whip and slashed at them both.

'Get back both of you. It is for the Nazgûl to decide where he goes. My lord Khamûl will be joining us soon and so help you if you do not fight alongside each other.'

Grishnâk sneered at Zharg, but Zharg suddenly said, 'If Azgarâzir is here, where are his whelps? Zigserat and Thrakagâsh?'

'Who cares!' Búrzbag was getting angry with his captains sniping and snarling. He needed them to fight or they would soon fall upon each other and he did not want his army divided. 'If we get the King of the búbhosh-dug, they will fall and we will smash their little kingdom into dust.' He punched his fist into his palm emphatically and swung his heavy head around to glare at his minions. 'We will do this,' he snarled. 'Fall out.' He turned and barked at his own captains. 'Get them up. Get 'em moving. We'll do this by numbers, no point in stealth,' he growled at Grishnâk. 'Get 'em charging through the forest. Gob, where is Krimpsnag?'

Gob cringed. 'Fighting for the glory of Dol Guldur, durb-hai. The snaga raised the alarm and there were archers took our first ranks. Krimpsnag sent me back here for reinforcements.'

Búrzbag knew then why Gob stank of fear. 'Laggard were you?' he roared and grabbed the cowardly pushdug by his neck and shook him till his teeth rattled. 'Did you run before the battle?'

'No! No!' Gob squeaked. 'I swear Krimpsnag told me to carry the message to you.'

'And I swear, Gob, that if I find this is a trap, you will suffer the Vengeance of Thunder!'

Gob trembled. He valued his hide. It was bad enough evading the Sons of Thunder themselves but to have his own General threaten the punishment meted out by those devils was too much and he resolved to sneak away under cover of the dark trees and return to the Mountains where things were much safer. For he had heard screams as he scurried away from the Elves' camp, and they had not sounded like Elves. But he was no harbinger of bad news; he had seen too many times what happened to messengers with such news. Their entrails often ended up in dinner.

Búrzbag gave the order to turn from their road along the edge of the Wood and to enter the forest after Krimpsnag, just north of the East Bight. They crashed through the forest, hacking their way directly towards the Elves' camp, for there was no hope in stealth. The noise of the excited and eager army was deafening; gibbering and cursing and shouting harshly, and the Wargs howling and yipping in as much excitement at the Orcs for they smelled blood.

No chance the Búbhosh-dug wouldn't know they were coming, Búrzbag thought as he mounted his Warg-Queen. She spun round and gnashed at him but he thrashed her hide with his Warg-whip until she sprang round and leapt towards the tree-line. But if the Búbhosh were fighting Krimpsnag's soldiers, they would be too busy to know what was about to hit them. His blood surged in excitement and his cock bulged with power and anticipation. Brandishing the heavy mace he had been given by Azog himself, he roared, 'Attack!'

The Wargs leapt away, growling and yipping and roaring with blood-lust. Some of them had goblin riders but most were too wild for anyone. Búrzbag's Warg loped after them, her strong haunches gathered under her and she bounded after her pack.

The trouble with Wargs, thought Búrzbag angrily as they came upon the clearing where the Elvish camp was, is that they do not care if it was Elf blood or Orc blood they smelled. They do not much care what they eat if it is half alive and crawling. There were piles of bodies, each with a green-fletched arrow sticking out of various places. Some of them had two. But all were dead and no sign of the Búbhosh-dug.

A soldier crawled towards him from the slaughter, crying out for help. Which he gave with a swift mercy. He could see Krimpsnag's head on his own spear and sighed wearily; he thought he had taught his captain better. The Wargs were feasting and he motioned to his handlers to whip them back. If they were sated, they would be no good for the battle to come.

'A trap,' Grishnâk jeered. 'I hope you have a good story to tell the Nazgûl. He will not be pleased that you were so easily tricked by Azgarâzir.'

'They are still here,' Zharg said softly. 'I can smell them.'

But it was too late then and the swhoosh of arrows came from nowhere, the trees perhaps, and Búrzbag cursed Gob and swore that he would rip out of his beating heart and eat it in front of him. But Gob had gone and a green-fletched arrow pierced Búrzbag in the eye and he fell crashing onto the steaming pile of bodies already in the clearing.

Zharg picked up Búrzbag's insignia and pinned it to his chest. 'Shoot your bastards!' He yelled at his own men.' Upwards you curs! Into the trees! Their archers are in the trees!' But by then, the Elves were charging forwards and it was hand to hand battle.

0o0o

Thranduil shoved his hair out of his eyes, it was bloody and stuck to his face but he dared not stop. All around him was slaughter. Nearby he heard shouting and recognised Galion's cry and swung round to see his old friend at his back and an Orc standing headless right in front of him. The Orc's head was rolling away and Galion cast a quick glance round.

'Honestly, Thranduil. Did you really not noice that one?' Galion said crossly.

'I was too busy with that one,' Thranduil replied, pulling his sword out of another.

But that was the last time they could speak for suddenly the assault intensified. Orcs poured into the gaps created by the fallen and it was not just hand to hand combat but they had to physically hold the enemy back with their shields, their bodies, their own weight. The archers had taken out significant numbers of the first wave of Orcs and a good number of Wargs, but the Orcs had quickly realised the trap and targeted the trees. And once the trap had been sprung, it was as Thranduil had said, their advantage was quickly spent. The Elves were being forced back to the hillfort and while that was part of Thranduil's plan, it had sprung too soon, he thought.

There is no way out of this, he realised suddenly. No help is coming. There is no one else.

He could not see anything but snarling, gnashing teeth, yellow maddened eyes and blood. He thought some of it was his men attacked with renewed vigour, the endless slash and strike, inelegant, heavy, flesh sucking at his blade. And the sheer numbers of Orcs. A sea of malice and hatred. And there were the Wargs too, with gnashing teeth and slicing claws.

A horn sounded somewhere, a signal to retreat to the hillfort. Gilvaren must have taken that decision, Thranduil thought. Gilvaren would be able to see the battle from his vantage point on the hill and signalled the retreat. If they could get back, the defences would give them breathing space and a chance to rest a while before the Orcs figured out the next attack.

He was aware that his men were slowly retreating, as if they were being beaten back.

His feet slipped and slid beneath him and he did not need to glance down to know that he stepped upon the blood, the entrails, the pulp of his own men. The rich iron-salt smell of blood was all around him and the sounds of battle; the heavy, relentless clang of metal, shouting, screaming away over his left shoulder. Wargs snarling, their muzzles wet with blood.

Don't look, he told himself. Focus. Ahead. Behind. To the sides. Be aware. Sharpen your senses.

He blocked the heavy axe that would have split his head in two. Forcing it up and away he swung Gystalya, his shining frost-white sword, upwards and the huge Uruk that was lunging towards him stopped dead in its tracks and slowly toppled over. Thranduil did not stop to watch but leapt ahead and slashed at the next two, and the next and the next.

The bright swords of his elves had slowly disappeared, blackened with blood or vanquished, and there were fewer and fewer left standing now, and the standard of the Oak and Stag of the Wood had long since been torn down and trampled into the ground.

He caught movement in the corner of his eye, just in time to bring his own shield up against a curved sabre that slashed down at him. A sudden whine, an arrow whizzed past his ear and drove deep into the heart of the goblin. The goblin looked startled for a moment and then his eyes glazed and he toppled slowly, sinking to the ground. Thranduil did not hesitate but drove his sword into the trembling corpse to make sure it did not rise. Around him, the shouting and clashing blades was deafening but the shrill whine of arrows had lessened and he knew they were running out.

A Orc lay behind him, gurgling and clutching its belly in spasms. Thranduil curled his lip in disgust and slashed his sword across its throat and then turned to hack at an Orc that struggled with one of his own Elves.

But even he was beginning to feel the bite of exhaustion. Driving him on had been the battle fever in his blood, but he knew there was a limit to how long it could take him, his depleted forces before they tired. And the orcs seemed endless.

Behind him he could hear his own men and listened for the strength of their Song.

There was a roaring that reminded him of something that for a moment he could not think what it was. And then he remembered: Beleriand. The sudden silence in the midst of battle. And then the roaring flames as dragons roved to and from above the armies of the Host.

But Smaug was dead. Surely there was not a dragon? He scanned the sky anxiously and saw smoke billowing like a bank of grey fog. His men were coughing, running, shouting now. And then he realised.

Fire.

The enemy had set fire to the Wood and it burned.

Eru Illuvatar, help us now, he prayed knowing it was useless.

It was tiredness in the end that made him stumble.

A scream of steel arrows came instantly around him, felling any Orc close to him for his archers had, as one, turned from their targets towards their fallen King.

A heavy blow suddenly knocked him sideways and then as he brought up his shield to defend himself, another blow struck on his helm and made him see stars, literally, and he crashed to his knees. The Orc lifted its hammer for the killing blow, and suddenly it stumbled beneath the storm of arrows that rained down desperately.

0o0o