I know, I know. Shame on me because I've kept you waiting so long again. I'm truly sorry, guys. I hope I can make it up to you with the upcoming battle. It's just quite interesting, because writing this story is becoming harder and harder the closer it gets to the end. I guess I don't really want to be finished so I dread writing the remaining Chapters :)
I'll try to be better with my updating schedule again!
Thanks a lot for your wonderful reviews and enjoy the next Chapter!
"RETREAT!"
Fíli's voice echoed across the fields and grasslands of the Desolation of Smaug. The jaws of a large Warg snapped shut before his face and he drove the blade of his sword deep into the animal's skull.
"EVERYONE RETREAT!"
Steam wafted across the battlefield, coming from the countless warm bodies that already lay scattered across the frozen grass and the air was so cold that the blood froze as soon as it hit the icy ground.
The breath of the young Dwarf came out in puffs of smoke before his face and he when he turned to look at Dwalin, he noticed some faint crystals in his thick beard already. His massive battle hammer smashed into the face of an Orc, breaking every bone as well as his neck and when the foul creature sank to the ground, he nodded contently.
"BACK TO THE CITY! NOW!" his deep voice roared and step by step the Dwarves began to back down.
The buzzing of blades and hammers hung in the air, mixed with battle cries and the moaning of the many wounded they left behind. Swords and axes were cutting and slicing, blades meeting other blades with a deafening clangour and the Orcs snickered and smirked, believing that the Dwarves were outnumbered and their death certain already.
Snow was coming down around them like a blizzard, the wind howling between the mountain peaks and in the valley before Erebor, sheltered by the large spurs, everything lay quiet.
Fíli quickly drew one of his throwing axes from his boot and hurled it at a large, dark Warg, hitting it right in the shoulder. The beast howled and snarled, snapping at the young Dwarf, it's rider sneering, drawing his spear. The weapon disappeared in the fog, stuck somewhere in the frozen ground for the young Dwarf had vanished already, running ahead. The Dwarves slowly, carefully lured the army of Bolg through the ruined streets of Dale, using every corner and alcove they found amongst the ruins. Fíli heard the large paws in his back as he dashed across the stoned pavement of the burned city, other Dwarves rushing close by. They zigzagged through the abandoned streets, occasionally riling the Orcs further on to make sure they kept following them. Small and sturdy as they were, they ducked below broken walls and roofs, purposely crashing them down onto their pursuers. Covered by fog and snow, the Orcs struggled to find them and the Wargs ran blind, only relying on their sense of smell, which, the Dwarves found, was quickly destroyed by cutting down on every massive snout they caught beneath their blades.
Soon they had passed the outer walls of Dale and led them on onto the open fields of the valley, the Running gushing along to their right. Dwalin's divisions lured some of them further on and in the thick fog they failed to see the deep slopes of the river. Howling and yelling echoed across the valley as dozens of Wargs and Orcs crashed into the sputtering waters, dragging them along in the quick stream and they drowned or froze to death. Soon the first disfigured bodies were washed ashore at the borders of Lake-Town.
Fíli's blades steamed in the chilly air, the sharp metal already glistening red in the dim light. Though the weather held them in a tight, icy grip, sweat dripped down his temples and got caught in his beard, forming little crystals in the tips of his braided whiskers as well. His swords thundered down on the enemy, slicing and cutting while he tried hard, not to loose his foothold, luring Orcs and Wargs further into the valley right before the Gates of Erebor.
One of the beasts howled in agony as the young Dwarf drove his sword deep in its throat and its rider was nearly buried underneath the large body. He was a tall Orc, grim and disgusting with pearly white armour forged from bones and the ribcage of a poor creature Fíli could not discern. The size of a man, the Orc towered above him, a frightening scimitar in his hands and Fíli had to look up to make out his head in the dense fog. The blade came down from nowhere, sending first Fíli's right, then his left sword flying and before he could draw his battle hammer, he stumbled over a frozen rock, losing his foothold and hitting the icy ground. The Orc roared with laughter.
"Seems like your plan has not worked out, Dwarf!" he hissed, raising his scimitar above his head to deliver the final blow to the youngster, when he suddenly stopped in his movement. A short, dark arrow stuck in his neck. The Orc coughed up blood, stumbled and fell dead to the ground.
"Seems like it did", Fíli sighed and kicked the beast in the face.
"It's always me saving your sorry bottom", Kíli's voice echoed across the battlefield and the younger brother appeared in the fog, bow still drawn and a broad grin on his face. Fíli chuckled and got back on his feet, picking up his weapons again.
"Just in time."
And just in time indeed it was. Believing their victory to be certain, the Orcs had already rejoiced and were thus stumped by the sudden tsunami of blood and violence that came crushing down the spurs to the sides. The sound of the cries and howls and the clangour of blades would forever resound in Kíli's head, the youngster was sure, but it was the sound of success. Of victory. The ambush of Dwarves, Elves and Men mercilessly massacred the Orcs and Wargs of Gundabad. They destroyed the ranks of their enemies, killing one after the other and soon they could not tread on firm ground any more for the entire valley was covered in dead, steaming bodies.
It was a horrible sight, so gruesome and terrifying that the youngsters gaped in terror, as the fog cleared a little. Bodies over bodies, Orcs, Elves, Dwarves, Wargs and Men alike and yet the battle went on and on with no end to it in sight. They hacked and slayed their way through the lines of the enemy, cutting and slicing and shooting them into their frozen graves. They crushed ribs and skulls, cut throats and chests and severed limbs and heads with a frightening ease, for Dáin had been right: battle did change everyone. And a natural instinct had awoken in them, an instinct they never knew they had. It was the innate will of the Dwarves of survive.
Hours passed by, the fog returned and the snowfall became worse and yet nobody faltered. Only few fighters had retreated to the Gates of Erebor, where Bilbo waited, tending to their wounds and providing them with hot grog, an offer that even the Elves did not decline anymore. Anyone who could fight was out on the battlefield, for fatigue was not an option to them.
He first appeared at nightfall.
Tall and grim, his pale skin glistening in the falling snow, the red beard and mane forming a horrid contrast to his pale armour. He sat on a black Warg, the sharp fangs peeking from its flews. Bolg had taken his time, watching from a save distance for a while, whilst his kin had been butchered right before his icy blue eyes. Safely covered by the shadows of Dale, he had waited until his time had come. And for all this time, his gaze had been on Thorin Oakenshield and he had waited.
When he came from the dense fog, Thorin was already beat and injured, exhaustion and pain slowly taking their toll on him. He had fought for hours, bravely defending his homelands and dozens of Orcs had fallen under Orcrist's blade. When he spotted Bolg in the fog, he picked himself up, standing tall in his blood covered armour, his face drenched red.
Bolg stood surrounded by a good dozen of tall Orcs, his own guard, equipped with whips and scimitars, bows and hammers. The large Orc sneered at the King under the Mountain, eyeing the desolate state that Thorin was in with great pleasure. He approached the Dwarf alone, drawing the massive mace as he came closer, his Warg snapping and growling with clicking fangs. Thorin steadied himself, Orcrist's blade pointed at the enemy and he knew that this battle would decide over the future of Erebor and Durin's line. And he would not run. He would not falter. And he would fight until either he or Bolg lay dead and unmoving on the frozen ground.
Thorin charged in first, slicing through the ugly face of the black beast, dodging the snapping jaws and with one fatal blow, the animal staggered and fell, it's head only hanging on some muscles in its neck. Bolg did not seem to mind much, getting onto his feet quickly and with one swift, forceful movement he brought the mace down onto the small Dwarf. Thorin blocked the blow, feeling himself pressed into the frozen ground until his bones hurt but he did not buckle. Orcrist's blade crashed down into Bolg again and again, cutting up the leather of his armour and the pale skin of his legs and arms but everything Thorin accomplished was to drive the Orc into frenzy, fuelled by bloodlust and the grim wish for revenge.
The memory burned in Bolg's heart just like it burned in Thorin's.
That one last battle outside the Gates of Moria. That day when the Dimrill Dale was drowned in blood and the waters of Mirrormere were tinted red. Though it had not been Thorin himself, who had beheaded Azog right before Bolg's eyes, it was a Dwarf of Durin's line. A Longbeard. A despicable creature.
Bolg had witnessed the silent slaughter of the Dwarves under Thráin, he had watched as they had wiped out the entire Orc population of the Misty Mountains, one stronghold after the other until none of them were left and only a small number stood, defending their home and honour. He had seen his father retreat into the mines and he had seen the Dwarf sprinting after him, up the Dimrill Stair and by the Gate he had caught up with him and with one swift swing of his battle-axe, beheaded him. He had seen his father's head tumble down the stairs, picked up by this murdering creature and stuck on a pike with a pouch stuffed in his mouth, filled with coins. And just like Thorin, Bolg had never forgotten. And never forgiven. This moment was his moment of revenge. And he would carry out his father's legacy and wipe out the Line of Durin, like they had wiped out his kin over a hundred years ago.
The mace thundered down on Thorin with a frightening force and the Dwarf blocked and dodged many blows, using his small size and his agility to confuse the bigger Orc and drive him into madness. None of Bolg's movements, however furious they were, were uncontrolled though and he fought with a skill that Thorin had not seen in an Orc before. While he had believed Bolg to be a bragger more than anything, he had to find that he truly was a warlord and a fierce and mean warrior at that. Far brighter and more skilled than his father had ever been.
His cold eyes glistened in the dim light and a smirk spread on Bolg's scarred and blemished features. He struck out, dodging a swing of Orcrist and, perfectly exploiting the gap in Thorin's defence, brought his mace down onto the Dwarf. The cruel weapon hit Thorin's chest full on, the massive spikes digging through his thick armour into his flesh, crushing bones and pressing the air from his lungs. He was blown off his feet and fell hard on his back, losing his sword.
He felt his heart racing in his chest. Never before had he felt a pain like this before. A pain that soon made his entire body numb and blanked his mind out, clouding it with fear and rage. He tried to get up. He tried hard, ignoring the numbness in his limbs and the blood pouring down his armour but it was to no avail. He coughed up blood, wiped it off and tried to get up once more, when Bolg appeared in the fog, towering above him. One heavy boot on his broken ribs, he pressed Thorin down onto the ground again, raising his mace once more.
Memories flashed before Thorin's eyes.
The day his mother had called him into her chambers and showed him a small bundle. A croaking little thing he had been, black hair standing from his head and his mother had called him Frerin and he had to be protected, for Thorin was the older brother. Years later, he carefully picked up another bundle, quiet and smiling and they had called her Dís and she should become the most beautiful and precious gem that Thorin had ever seen. He saw his father standing before him in a shining, red battle armour, the grey strands woven into his thick black beard and he saw his smile, full of pride and dignity. He remembered the battered body of his brother at the edge of the small forest at the border of Dimrill Dale, lying in the shadow of the trees, the blue eyes blankly staring up at the night sky.
He remembered the vast mountain range they had chosen as a new homestead, the countless years of hard work and labour until they had built a new home for their people in the Blue Mountains, glorious and beautiful, yet never matching the Halls of Erebor. He remembered the faces of Dwalin and Balin when they returned to Thorin's Halls, telling him of his father's disappearance and he remembered the emptiness he had felt the day he had been declared King. King of Thorin's Halls, a King in exile. Soon after that, he yet held another bundle in his arms, blond and cheerful and that child was named Fíli and Thorin knew back then already, that this little smiling being would one day sit on his throne. Five years after that, he picked up Kíli, laughing and squealing and for the first time, happiness had returned to his scarred, cold heart. He saw them growing up again, saw their first steps, heard their first words and their laughter rang in his head like beautiful silver bells.
And he remembered Erebor. The mighty throne that was his, the treasure and the crown of his forefathers. The pride that swelled in his chest and revived his senses once more and made his heart race. He ignored the sneer of the Orc above him, ready to face the final blow for he knew that his line was still secure in the hands of his nephews and it would not falter. Not on this day, nor any day after until Middle Earth would fall apart.
Unconsciousness swept over him like a relieving wave and he passed out.
Before Bolg could deliver said final blow however, an arrow came out of nowhere, drilling itself deep into the bare skin of his thigh. The Orc roared and feverishly looked around, unable to find the shooter. Instead, his sight fell on somebody else entirely.
A few yards away stood Fíli, the fog wafting around his legs. He stood tall, his chin high and the pride of Durin burned in his blue eyes. In his grandfather's armour he looked truly like a King and a worthy heir of Durin the Deathless, the blond mane shimmering like a halo in the dim light.
A grim smirk appeared on Bolg's face and he desisted from Thorin's shattered body, lifting his mace again and turned to the youngster. "Take care of him", he quietly ordered his guards, pointing at the King on the ground. "That one's next in line." And he slowly approached the young Dwarf like a predator approaching his prey but no sign of fear showed on Fíli's blood stained face. Instead, he pointed his blade at Bolg, declaring this to be a fight between only them and nobody else, for they still had a bone to pick and they both knew it.
Bolg's guards, chuckling and grinning turned to finish the King under the Mountain just like their warlord had commanded, but found themselves faced with Kíli. The youngster stood over his Thorin's body, sword drawn and determined to not let anyone touch his uncle. Neither whips nor blades frightened him and he would take on anybody who tried to harm his family.
"You'll be slain and dead before you touch him", he growled, clutching his sword firmly in his hands.