I don't really want to say too much right now. I only hope you guys won't hate me for this Chapter…
Thanks for your reviews again and – hopefully – enjoy this Chapter as well!
They'll fight for me.
Thorin's eyelids fluttered and he slowly recognised the blurred shadow of his nephew standing above him.
Steal back my freedom. Steal back my honour.
Too weak to help, too shattered to get up, he watched, drifting in and out of consciousness. It reeked of blood and murder, the cold clung to him like a second skin and though it soon dawned on him that he would die of the cold if not of the wound, he made no sound, too tired, too exhausted.
Kíli's sword crashed against the disgusting blade of an Orcish scimitar, again and again until the clangour resounded in his head and made him deaf. With no shield he relied on his agility alone, dodging many blows, blocking whenever he could but the frozen ground made it difficult to find a good foothold and more than once he slid out of range through sheer luck. Blow after blow came crashing down on the young Dwarf and he dodged them all until he felt his heart racing in chest and his sides ached.
The first massive Orc fell when Kíli drove his blade straight through his belly, slicing it open and gutting him like a fish and the bones of his armour were dappled black as he fell. Small he was and outnumbered, quickly underestimated by the enemy and when the whip of one wrapped itself around Kíli's wrist, the Orc gaped in wonder when the youngster grabbed the leathery string and forcefully pulled the beast close, bringing his blade up at the same time to cut through the ugly face, splitting the skull.
The Orcs took a few steps back, surprised by the ferocity of the young Dwarf standing over his uncle, the blade glistening red, a fire burning in his dark eyes that none of them had seen before. The next one attacked faint-heartedly and immediately regretted it, for Kíli violently cut down on his knees, tearing muscles and nerves and when the Orc sank down, he cut through his throat with an unmatched ease that frightened the foul beasts surrounding him. Yet they did not dare to retreat, for their warlord would have no mercy on them either.
Bolg meanwhile brought his mace down onto Fíli and the crossed blades of the youngster stopped the blow mid-air, pressing him into the ground once again. He faintly remembered their first fight. The countless cuts and blows he had brought on Bolg and they had been utterly useless, for his blades never cut through the thick armour, forged from bones, metal and leather.
Another blow hit the crossed blades full on and Fíli skidded on the icy ground, barely keeping his composure but with the enemy out of reach, he quickly changed his plans. Bolg laughed when the Dwarf put away his swords, shoving them neatly into the scabbard on his back. Believing it to be a sign of capitulation, he roared and spread his arms in a victorious gesture and was thus utterly astonished when the young Dwarf drew his massive battle hammer instead and, without a minute of hesitation, attacked.
The blow came from down low, crashing onto the bones that formed Bolg's corselet, framing his torso like a second ribcage. The bones cracked and splintered and the air was pressed from Bolg's lungs. He gaped at the Dwarf, for he hadn't expected this.
Fíli smirked up at him, striking out again and this time Bolg blocked the blow but only in the nick of time. It was a slow tactic, but one to work for sure and it took the Orc a long while to understand. One blow came after the next, shattering the bones and denting the metal of his armour. He felt the cracked bones and the sharp metal digging into his flesh and for the first time, it was true fear that drove him on. Fear that he might not survive this fight. A fear he had never known before.
His mace crashed down onto Fíli again and again but the youngster dodged the blows, crushing Bolg's armour at his chest, his back, his shoulders, any place he could reach. He was quick and remorseless, frightening Bolg with his speed and determination and the brute force he used to break the armour bit by bit.
Fíli remembered the battle against Smaug, the impenetrable armour and the few soft spots he had and he remembered how they had ripped out his scales and battered the thick layer of gold until they reached the flesh below. And though Bolg was no dragon, his armour was thick and hard to cut but easily broken. He trashed the bones until they fell of the warlord in trickles of dust and splinters, he dented the metal until it became unbearably painful for the large Orc and he used any moment of hesitation and surprise to deliver another blow to Bolg's massive body.
The tables had turned; it slowly dawned on the Gundabad Orc.
Gripped by fear, he went into a rage and suddenly Fíli found himself most distressed. The blows of Bolg's mace came down with a force that nearly blew the youngster off his feet and he skidded on the frozen ground, struggling to keep his foothold. He soon learned that the battle hammer alone would not be enough to block the mace and he quickly drew one of his sword as well, defending himself with crossed hilts and quick movements, breaking and slicing, delivering one stroke after the other.
Snarling and howling, the Orc struggled to believe that so much strength and brutality had lingered in the small frame of the Dwarf but his own pride drove him on and he would not go down so easily.
Around them, the battle raged on and still fatigue was not an option to the fighters. The Men of Lake-Town had been few in number to begin with and many of them had fallen at the hands of the enemy already but their strength and endurance lingered, for none of them wanted to lose yet another homestead. Nobody knew what Bard had told them to rile them up like this, but they fought so fiercely and passionately, that the Orcs soon began to run from them whenever they could.
Thranduil's Elves, trained in battle and hardened by it, worked like war machines, slicing through their enemy with a frightening routine and a grace that only their kin beheld. Arrows buzzed through the air, blades danced in the cold and they placed the Orcs and Wargs like puppets on a string, making them scream and howl.
No grace however lay in the fighting of the Dwarves. Small and sturdy they were and unfair beyond compare, for they had to outweigh their small body size with pure beastliness. Their weapons were spiked and vile, their armour sharp and bladed and they would go for their enemy's knees and hips and crotch, bringing them down before they could reach the head. They milled across the battlefield like tanks, breaking, crushing and slicing any enemy in their reach. They allowed no Orc or Warg to retreat, hunting them down into the ruins of Dale and butchering them mercilessly.
Dáin was the most powerful amongst them, leaving a trail of bodies behind wherever he went. The metallic red of his battle-axe had mixed with the red blood of Wargs and the black blood of Orcs, painting a curious pattern on the massive blade and still it hungered for more. He was so ferocious that for the rest of his days, Thranduil came to avoid him, disgusted and frightened by so much malice pressed into such a small body.
Under Dáin and Dwalin, the Dwarves drove many Orcs away and decreased their number to a mere third of what they used to be, like they had done it over a hundred years ago to the Orcs of Moria. After all, there were no better Orc slayers than the Dwarves of Durin's Line.
Bolg did not even notice his army vanishing like that. Too great was his rage, too strong the desire to end the Line of Durin once and for all, for him to realise that the only way to get out of here alive would be to run for it now. But he stayed and just when he was about to strike out once more and batter the mace down onto the Dwarf, Fíli's sword suddenly skyrocketed. The hook at the tip of the blade got caught beneath one of the metal plates that held Bolg's disgusting face together and with brute force, the youngster yanked his head down, nearly ripping the plate off in the process. Bolg howled as black blood gushed from the slash in his face but still the young Dwarf wasn't satisfied. The Orc saw the battle hammer dashing towards him from the corner of his eyes but the hook held him in place, no matter how hard he tried to pull away. The hammer struck him right in the face, breaking his jaws and cheek, denting the metal and nearly pounding his nose clean off.
With his face battered and broken, Bolg cried in agony, trying to get away from the devil that was sent to kill him, coming from the deepest chasms of the mountains, more vile and more dangerous than Durin's Bane itself.
Yet Fíli did not let him get away. Knowing that his tactics had worked, he tossed the hammer to the side and drew his other sword, dashing after the fleeing Orc. Two swift strikes and Bolg's hamstrings were cut. The Orc stumbled and fell on his knees, unable to stand or run any further. He struck out, trying to hit Fíli with his mace again but the youngster easily dodged the blow, cutting his wrist in the process and rendering his hand useless as well. Black blood was pouring on the frozen ground and in that moment, Bolg knew that he had lost.
When he looked up, he saw no mere Dwarf standing before him. Splattered with black and red blood, Thráin's old armour shone in the glistening snow like it was made from liquid gold, forged by the Mountain and filled with the spirit of the great King that had already driven Bolg from his home when he was still young. He did not see Fíli standing there. He saw Thráin, proud and honourable and stronger than any other Dwarf he had ever seen and the crest of Durin on the corselet burned in his eyes and reminded him of his father's death. It was the sign of destruction, the sign of death and loss and the sign of his ultimate defeat.
It was a strange feeling that befell the young Dwarf in that very moment. A strong presence lingered on the battlefield around him. The pride of his grandfather, the bravery of his father, the fire of his mother, all of that shone in Fíli's blue eyes when he crossed his blades before Bolg, placing them on his broad shoulders. He looked the beast straight in the eyes, a gaze met by Bolg who did not even try to struggle. His end had come, he knew it and any fight would be in vain.
Spluttering and slicing resounded across the battlefield when both blades cut through the pale skin and flesh, eventually meeting with a light clank and Bolg's head toppled on the icy grassland, his pale blue eyes staring up at the full moon above their heads. Fíli breathed deeply before he gave the upright torso a kick, pushing it over and the broken armour met the frozen grass with a loud clangour.
It was over.
Bolg of the North, Warlord of the Orcs of Gundabad was slain. When the remaining Orcs realised that their leader lay dead, they panicked. Screaming and frightened, they began to run for their lives. Many crashed into the Running and drowned in the stream, others ran right into the arms of the Dwarves waiting by the ruins of Dale or they were slain by the long blades of the Elves but none of them could still fight, blinded by fear.
Kíli drove his sword through the body of another guard of Bolg and only noticed the panic, when even those massive Orcs began to retreat carefully. He looked around in wonder, saw the many Orcs and Wargs dashing past him in a blind flight and then he saw his brother standing by Bolg's slain body. Blood clung to his fair face and the blond hair, dripping down the blades of his swords and tinting the ground black.
"FÍLI!"
The youngster looked up and recognised his younger brother smiling at him, beaming even like a child and they both knew that the battle was won and over. Relief gushed over Kíli, filling his heart and bringing a heat back to his frozen bones, that he believed he had lost forever. His innocence was gone, that he knew, but it was replaced with a never dying pride, that dwelled in all members of Durin's line.
Fíli returned the smile, small but honest, exhausted but proud. It was over. All of this was finally over. Kíli's smile froze on his face though, when he suddenly noticed his brother's eyes growing wide in shock and his heart skipped a beat. A jolt ran through Fíli's body and he sank to his knees. Kíli cried out in horror when he noticed two black arrows sticking out from his brother's back.
"No", he whispered, white as the falling snow around him and then his head blanked out. He remembered nothing anymore. Not how he rushed towards that one massive Orc that had snuck behind Fíli and shot him in the back, not how he beheaded that beast with one single strike of his blade and he only came back to his senses when he was kneeling by his brother's side, just in time to catch his falling body before he hit the ground.
"No. No come on now", he pulled Fíli close to his chest, brushing some blond strands of hair off his face. "You're staying with me, you hear me? You're staying with me, you promised me!"
Fíli's breath was ragged and shallow but he was breathing at least, looking up at his brother's face.
"You promised!" Kíli nearly yelled at him, tears streaming down his blood stained face. "You promised you wouldn't die on me! Ever! Keep your promise, damnit!"
A faint smile spread on Fíli's lips and though he felt weak, he merely opened the palm of his right hand, showing the deep scar that reminded them of the oath they had sworn to each other.
The laugh that came from Kíli's throat sounded hoarse and desperate and ended in a heart-breaking sob, as he pulled his brother even closer, burying his face in the blond mane. Still smiling, Fíli slowly closed his eyes.
He suddenly felt tired. Incredibly tired. A desire to sleep grew within him, making his limbs heavy, his head clouded and his heart slow. He didn't even feel the cold anymore. Instead nice warmth spread in his body, that wonderful feeling that befell those who worked hard and finally laid their worn out bodies to rest in the evening. Kíli nearly choked on his tears, holding his brother tight in his arms and he did not care for the battle anymore, or the kingdom or the pride of his kin. It seemed as if all of that had been a dream, glorious and splendid but now, the slowly dying body of his brother in his arms was painfully real and it was a reality that Kíli was not prepared for.
For hours, Bilbo had been clasped in the tight grip of panic and fear. He had done his best to tend to the wounded and supply the fighters with hot, strong drinks and the occasional bite but still he had felt utterly useless and weak. Many had died away beneath his hands and the small Hobbit had cried until no tears were left anymore. In his imagination, battles had always been magnificent, the heroes shining and bathing in glory and honour. That day he learned that tales rarely told the truth. They did not tell of the dying and slaughter, of the screams and cries, the wailing and howling, they did not tell of the streams of blood that gushed down the frozen battlefield or the deformed bodies of those who barely made it. They did not tell of the families ripped apart and the great losses that came with great victories. Sobbing, he gestured the many wounded to spread across the Halls of Erebor, welcoming them at the Gate and still handing out mugs of grog to those who needed them. He looked out to the bridge, waiting for a familiar face to appear but when he finally saw them, his heart stopped in his chest and a dreadful outcry left his lips.
They appeared in the thick fog, shadows first, becoming clearer and clearer the closer they came to the Gate. Glóin came in sight first, supporting Kíli, whose knees seemed to buckle with every step, his face pained and covered in black Orc blood. After him, Dáin came from the fog, carrying the motionless body of Fíli, the blond braids lazily dangling with every step the legendary warrior made. Last came Dwalin, covered head to toe in blood and gore and on his arms, just as limp as Fíli, lay Thorin, his armour battered and dented.