Disclaimer: None of Tolkien's characters nor the world of Middle Earth are mine and I do not aim to make any money from this story. I merely borrow the toys and play in the sandbox.
Rating: PG-13 (T)
A/N: All the fighting! :3
Also I am very sorry for the very long delay between chapters, I will try not to make you wait this long ever again. Many thanks to everyone who reviewed and favorited, without you I'm not sure I could have dragged myself back to the story.
-o0o-
Gravity
Chapter 5
The thundering waters of the Bruinen nearly drowned out the sound of the approaching orcs, but they kept approaching, eventually coming close enough that Elladan could hear them – could suddenly hear very little else. He gripped his sword tighter, his knuckles showing white against taut skin.
The orcs were coming.
Yet, the defensive lines that Glorfindel had chosen meant that he would not even see the foul creatures until just before they attacked his friends. The bend in the path ahead made that impossible.
It meant the orcs would not see them either, would be taken by surprise by the elves waiting for them on the path.
It was the only advantage they had.
With the rockslide at their backs blocking any possible retreat and, more importantly, with the need to protect his father and brother, the elves would not be able to give way, could not retreat and regroup. They had to bring the orcs' advance to a full stop here, there were no other options. He would not let the foul creatures lay their hands on his brother or father.
In front of him Elladan saw Glorfindel shift his weight to his supporting leg. He didn't tense, not truly, but his body spoke of the coming attack, fluid and poised, just like that of one of the wild cats of Harad before its pounce.
Elladan drew a last calming breath. This was it.
The sound of iron clad shoes became unbearably loud, drowning out the sound of the river, the sound of his own breathing and all rational thought. It bespoke the approach of their enemy, still hidden behind the bend in the road, yet coming ever closer. A few more tense seconds passed, then the first dark shapes appeared around the bend.
Three elven arrows immediately dropped them to the ground.
And for one long moment silence reigned as the orcs halted in their tracks.
It didn't last long.
Curses and shouts in the vile dark language of the orcs preceded the sudden much louder clamber of the heavy feet as the orcs renewed their attack. They may have been surprised but they showed no sign of fear or hesitation. Trusting in their superior numbers they charged around the bend in the road, straight at the first defensive line of elven warriors.
More arrows cut through the air and some of the orcs in the first line of the assault fell, only to be trampled beneath the boots of their companions.
It barely made a dent in their numbers.
"Swords!" Glorfindel commanded, his clear voice easily cutting through the senseless rumble of noise generated by their orc attackers. He had already unsheathed his slender mirthril blade, as deadly to his foes as it was beautiful, and with a final command on his lips he rushed forward to meet the approaching wave of their enemies.
"Charge!"
The other three elves of the first defence line were right behind him, Amrothion at their lead. Seemingly fearlessly, they met the superior numbers of the orcs on the battlefield.
A new sound rang out over the path, adding to the senseless cacophony of noise, as elven sword met orc scimitar and the battle begun in earnest. Amidst the parrying, the slashes and the thrusts, the elves did their best to stop the advance of the orc force. If they let but a few slip past them, they knew, they would be surrounded in moments, the battle lost and their charges in mortal peril.
Amrothion ducked an oncoming scimitar and quickly jumped back to avoid the swing of a second orc weapon. He used the space the movement had gained him to grab a hold of the dagger in his belt, firmly grasping it in his left hand. Against these numbers it felt good to have two weapons at his disposal.
With a new shout he charged at the orcs that had driven him back just moments ago and met their blades. A second's delay on his last step meant the first orc's scimitar swung harmlessly by in front of him, leaving a blind spot in its wake that Amrothion was quick to exploit. Blocking the second orc's crude weapon with his sword he lashed out with his left hand, deeply embedding the dagger in the soft skin of the first beast's side, just under its armpit. Warm black blood gushed forward, but Amrothion paid it no heed as he pulled his blade out of the struck orc and used it to block the new swing of an incoming scimitar. He flinched as he took the brunt of the blow on his weaker left hand - he had miscalculated the strength of this new orc. His wrist withstood the onslaught with effort and he blocked the scimitar high over his head, binding the creature's weapon there and leaving his sword free to skewer the orc.
Two down.
But all too many more to go.
He turned to face the next orc, hoping that the crowded area on the path and the mounting bodies of their fallen comrades would hinder the foul beasts enough that he would not have to face more than one this time.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of golden hair waving intricate patterns in the air as it followed in the wake of Glorfindel's dance of death. The Balrog Slayer was but a blur of movements and glistening mithril flashes as he carved graceful arcs against the dull grey sky with his blade. A number of orcs had already fallen to his sword but ever more were coming, climbing over the carcasses of their companions, using the unsure footing like a macabre version of higher ground.
In the increased onslaught even Glorfindel had to give way. Taking a few steps back he called to his warriors to retreat behind the second line of their defences then rushed forward and back into the fray. Tarion had been injured, a deep red stain rapidly spreading over his thigh as what appeared to be a stab wound bled freely there. The wound impaired his ability to run making him the instant focus of an attack by three orcs.
Leering cruelly at the already wounded elf, they crowded around him. Tarion dodged the first thrust of a scimitar and barely avoided the swipe of another but the momentum of his evasion brought him right where the third orc had wanted him. A cruel smile was on the beast's lips as it brought its raised sword down on the exposed back of the elf.
A sudden flash of gold entered the orc's line of sight and the clear ring of his sword's steel on mithril told him that his attack had been thwarted. Glorfindel parried his opponent's blade and sliding his own sword down along that of his enemy he used the fact that the orc weapon had no hand guard to a cruel advantage.
The orc howled in pain and rage as his sword dropped to the ground, the hilt still clasped in a now severed hand.
But the golden haired elf paid his opponent no further heed. Grabbing Tarion by the shoulder, he pushed the younger elf back, propelling him towards the second line of their defences and safety, if only momentary.
For a few precious seconds more he held the orcs at bay before he spun around to follow his men. They would make a new stand at their second line, a last stand.
Behind him the orcs howled in rage as they tried to chase after him. Their initial advance had been slowed and many of the dark creatures had lost their lives - but not enough, not nearly enough.
"Archers!" he bellowed, giving the elves in the second line, Amrothion and Baranir now among them, the sign to use the distance that still lay between them and the approaching orcs to their advantage. A few shots was all they would be able to make but every hit counted. They desperately needed to reduce the orcs' numbers if they were to have any chance at all.
Right now they did not have one that he could see.
-o0o-
Legolas held the bow Elladan had given him in a vice-like grip. His knuckles showed white against his taut skin but he hardly noticed the strain he was putting on the slender wooden weapon. Ever nearer the sound of the orcs came and even though he was far behind the two lines Glorfindel had assigned his warriors, it felt deafening. Even the roar of the Bruinen was no more than a trinkle compared to the sound of sixty pairs of heavy iron shod feet stamping over the stone strewn path.
As the sound increased so, too, did his apprehension. Suddenly he felt ill-prepared for battle, despite his years of weapon's training, despite knowing that he excelled with the bow.
It was a humbling realization.
And to think he had begged his father to allow him to officially join the patrols in Mirkwood hardly more than a fortnight ago. His father had put more faith in him than he perhaps should have when he relented and promised to grant Legolas his wish, if he learnt about the necessary healing skills a warrior should possess first.
And yet, here he was. He hadn't known enough about healing to aid Elrohir and he doubted he knew enough about battles to join the Imladris elves in this desperate fight.
How foolish he had been.
His grip on Elladan's bow tightened and he grit his teeth against the self-incriminating thoughts. The older twin had given him the bow to defend his brother and father if their defences should fail. Even though Legolas didn't trust his own abilities, Elladan had done so.
Still did.
A newfound resolve washed over him, taking doubts and hesitation with it. He had a task and he would see it done. Again his eyes strayed to Elrond, who was still in a deep trance, unaware, or so it seemed, of everything that was going on around him, focused solely on his younger son.
Legolas wasn't sure but he thought that some colour may have returned to Elrohir's cheeks and that the soft glow surrounding both peredhel elves was diminishing. Did this mean that Elrond would finish with his healing soon? Was Elrohir going to be saved only to die with his family and friends at the hands of these orcs?
No.
Legolas' eyes flashed like steel as he made that decision.
No! He would not fail in the duty Elladan had tasked him with. He would see that Elrohir and Elrond at least stayed protected, even if their defences should falter and the other Imladris elves should be overrun.
The sudden sound of steel on steel pulled Legolas from his reverie.
The battle had begun.
Without further hesitation Legolas stood to his feet. His grip on the elven bow was still firm but no longer desperately so and with a calm that surprised him, he watched the battle unfold.
"Retreat!" Legolas could hear Glorfindel's command, floating above the noise of battle, a last clear bright sound that was quickly devoured by the din of metal clashing against metal and the orcs' terrifying shrieks of rage and pain.
Fixing his eyes on the battle that raged before him, Legolas waited. The elves were falling back to their second line of defence, but still too many orcs gave chase and their chances to hold the line were slim. Legolas shuddered at the thought of what would happen to the elves of Rivendell, to Glorfindel and Elladan, who were face to face with the frightening foe. He cursed his elven eyesight for allowing him to see the manic gleam in the orcs' cruel eyes, their malicious spirit and the way one of the beasts licked the blood of its swords after scoring a hit on an elven defender, further increasing its frenzy.
He wanted to be sick. Yet he never wavered in his grip on Elladan's bow – the time for fear had passed.
Glorfindel was retreating himself now, after having sent one of his warriors stumbling back to the line behind. The orcs were following him and though he outpaced them easily with his long strides there would be but a moment for the elves in the second line to use their bows before they, too, would have to fight with their swords in much closer quarters.
Legolas' gaze still followed the events on the path, the shapes of the orcs, like a squirming mass of dark limbs and foul voices, when suddenly his eyes landed on something unexpected.
His mind raced as he grasped an arrow from Elladan's quiver and took careful aim - perhaps a moment is all it would take to give the elves of Rivendell a new advantage.
Legolas drew back the bow string until his fingers rested beneath his chin, and he could feel the fletching of the arrow brush his skin. Then, taking a last steadying breath, he released the arrow.
The arrow shot from the string.
It flew true.
With a precision borne of a yen of training Legolas' arrow hit exactly the spot that he had been aiming for. With barely a sound beyond the din of battle the metal tip of the projectile collided with a small stone in the side of the cliff – and bounced off.
Harmlessly, it ricocheted away from the stone and buried itself into the ground of the river path. Far away from the fighting.
Nothing happened.
Until suddenly, seemingly a life time later, the stone that Legolas had hit began to shift.
The momentum of the arrow had loosened its connection to the dirt and stones of the cliff face. It was a small thing - but one with terrible consequences. Slowly, ever so slowly, the stone broke free from the cliff face, leaving behind a hole that stretched into a tear, then blossomed into a flower of growing cracks.
Finally, with a deafening roar, the entire cliff broke apart.
Louder and more massive than what he had observed earlier in the day this new rock slide seemed to take the entire wall off the path and throw it over the skirmish below. Elves and orcs alike were lost in the rush of rising dust that billowed forth from the site of the disaster.
"No", Legolas gasped weakly, the bow cluttering to the ground from now listless fingers.
What had he done?
-o0o-
to be continued…
