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Chapter Fourteen
The glisteningly pale eyes of the great Orc seemed to hold the Dwarf prince under a spell as he moved with such purpose over the tree trunk. His boots rang over the dying earth, scorched by their fiery defences, and his sword was held tightly in his grip. Thorin's eyes were unwavering in their gaze, focused on the pale, leathery skin criss-crossed with scars. His lip curled in a silent snarl as he continued forward, his stride never faltering. His pace quickened, and he began to run through the flaming pines, all the while keeping his enemy squarely ahead of him. Thorin thrust forward his chest and moved with a purpose; he would kill the disgusting creature before him, or he would perish in the effort.
Azog smiled a grim smile, a smile which made even the bravest of hearts quiver in fear. The evil behind that smile seemed to drip from his skin, like ice melting into droplets of the coldest water. His white Warg moved beneath him, rolling its muscles and growling low in its throat.
Thorin continued to run, his oaken branch coming forward as a shield and his sword swinging high in his grasp. The determination and surety in his eyes served only to amuse the pale Orc as he waited. Then suddenly, with a guttural roar, Azog leaned forward over the neck of his Warg and urged it forward, leaping as one being into the night air. As it leapt, Azog smiled his evil smile once more, before bringing his Warg down upon Thorin, knocking him to the hard earth. The Warg then wheeled about, dancing upon its forepaws with a strange elegance, before pulling back its white lips to reveal hideous teeth.
Thorin, dragging himself to his feet once more, allowed the years of foul hatred to well up from deep within himself, coming to the fore with a snarl of such ire that the Dwarves in the trees felt the vibrations in their own chests. They looked on helplessly, fighting to keep their grip upon the branches, silently willing their fearless leader to victory, or at least safety.
Azog hurtled towards the lone Dwarf, swinging his devilish mace forward and catching Thorin in the middle of his chest. This unbalanced him, causing his feet to slide from under him, and his stumble drew a collective gasp from the overturned tree. Then, with a command from its master, the white Warg opened its massive jaws and clamped them around Thorin, piercing his skin and armour alike. The Warg turned, presenting its prey to the company, and Azog smiled again, evil cascading from his very being. But as their attention was turned away from the Dwarf prince for a moment, he swung Orcrist high and sliced the top of the Warg's snout, causing the beast to roar in pain and fling Thorin away. He landed with a sickening crack on a stony outcrop, letting out a single gasp of agony. Then, turning towards the Dwarf with revenge glistening from its fangs, the White Warg made to pounce again.
Thorin's eyes were opened to mere slits as he watched the scene unfold in what felt like slow motion; every movement seemed sluggish, as if he were watching through a dense fog. His chest heaved painfully as he tried to drag air into his lungs, and his ribs screamed in pain when he tried to roll. He could not stand, and he could not fight, so he tried to consider death as an option, and found his mind wandering.
The first fully formed image that shuddered to a halt in front of his eyes was that of his sister Dis and his brother Frerin, who seemed much younger and happier than he could recall. Their faces were rosy, unlined by age or worry, and they seemed to laugh in his mind, as if they were but children again. The next thing he saw was the moment Fili had been presented to him, Dis proudly holding her new-born son in her arms; her face had been filled with such love that he had failed to remain aloof and impersonal, and simply wrapped an arm around her shoulders, before dropping a kiss on the babe's brow. Then appeared Kili, a baby with a shock of thick dark hair even at birth, who had gurgled and smiled from the moment he was born. Both of his sister-sons had been happy young Dwarflings, and had been mischievous in a way that reminded him of his own exploits with his siblings, causing him to be perhaps too lenient with their behaviour if he found their antics particularly amusing. The faces of those in his company swam before his eyes then; they were all smiling and laughing, in a happier time before the great Fire Drake had appeared and taken their stronghold.
A pair of startlingly bright eyes suddenly stared back at him, and for a moment he could not place the grey irises ringed with dark, thick lashes. Then, a strand of auburn hair curled forward, and his heart began to pound as he examined the planes of her face in his mind. Her lips were curved upward, and a wry thought struck him; she would not have be smiling so if he were the one before her, and he supposed he remembered it from her encounters with another. He stared at her bottom lip, which was too generous for her tiny face, but this further piqued his intrigue as he noted her slight imperfections. Her face was pink and delicately tanned from the midday sun, with her glossy hair twisted over her shoulder so it gleamed as she moved. Her mouth opened as if she were going to speak, but as a sound began to rise from her throat, the fog of his mind seemed to dissipate, leaving the crashing sounds of a battle raging around him.
Bilbo had charged from the tree with his sword held aloft, and parried the oncoming blow from the white Warg as it made to snap its jaws around a seemingly lifeless Thorin. It was at the sight of this courageous move that those of the company who were able had leapt from the fallen tree and bounded over the dry earth to defend their leader. The flames from their earlier defensive attack danced high into the night sky, throwing light and shadow across the hillside as they fought on, spurred by each other's battle cries and the clang of cold steel.
A flash of autumnal colour caught Thorin's half-lidded eyes as he lay on the flat outcrop of stone, and she turned to look at him with worry etched over her face. His lips formed her name, but she could not hear his softly rasping breaths as he lay wounded. An Orc swung a rough blade up behind her, and at a shout from one of the other Dwarves, she spun around and leapt to the side, bringing her own short sword down upon the foul creature's wrist. Its howl of pain was lost to the beat of enormous wings however, and as Thorin caught sight of the huge eagles descending on the hillside, his vision finally faded to inky blackness, and he succumbed to the insistent pain gnawing his bones.