Chapter 7 : The Duel and the Rescue
From his vantage point in the tree, Daeron watched as Thorin Oakenshield faced off against the pale orc, Azog the Defiler. The air crackled with tension as the two adversaries circled each other, their weapons poised for battle. Daeron turned his attention towards Gandalf hoping he would give some indication of a plan. Thorin alone couldn't hold back their foes, but he didn't like their odds. They were surrounded by goblins, wargs and several orcs and the ever increasing flames that threatened to either suffocate or burn them.
The clash of steel rang through the air as Thorin and Azog exchanged furious blows. Their swords danced, each strike an intricate display of skill and determination. Thorin fought valiantly, his every move fueled by his desire to reclaim Erebor, but Azog's relentless assault proved formidable. Gradually, Thorin's strength began to wane, his movements slowing ever so slightly. It was then that Azog seized the opportunity, delivering a powerful blow that sent Thorin sprawling to the ground. The pale orc smirked as he stood above Thorin.
"So ends your family line." he snarled, raising his weapon, to strike the final blow.
Desperation filled the air as the company watched, helpless to aid their leader. But in that moment, when all hope seemed lost, a small figure burst forth from below a fern tree. It was Bilbo Baggins, his eyes ablaze with courage and determination. Without hesitation, Bilbo charged towards Azog, wielding his sword with all his might. The unexpected sight of the hobbit rushing into the fray confused and momentarily shocked Azog, buying precious time for Daeron and the others to escape the encroaching flames that had engulfed the fern trees.
Daeron drew his sword and charged the nearby goblins, who had drawn back slightly, so as to not interfere with Azog and Thorin's duel. Suddenly the cliff edge erupted in shouts and cries as metal clashed against metal. The goblins taken aback by the sudden rush of the dwarves scrambled to regain any semblance of order. However despite the initial shock, the odds were against Daeron and the others - they were outnumbered, weary from their chaotic escape from the Misty Mountains and the flames continue to burn behind them, intensifying with every passing second. They pushed on, summoning every ounce of strength left, but it was a losing battle. Slowly but surely they were being pushed back towards the flames.
"We've got to push back!" Dwalin called, as they continued to back towards the flames.
Just as it seemed they would be overwhelmed, a mighty screech filled the air. Causing everyone to pause for a brief moment. The sense of victory and blood lust from the goblins vanished, replaced by fear as they shrieked and backed away and began running. Suddenly giant eagles swooped down, their razor sharp talons tearing through the goblin ranks. Daeron saw as some of the eagles caught the wargs and sent them sprawling as they flung them back with their large claws. Azog shouted angrily as he climbed back onto his white warg and issued a retreat. As the enemy forces retreated, Daeron found himself caught off guard as a strong grip wrapped around his waist and hoisted him upwards. A startled cry escaped his lips as he plummeted through the air, the ground below rushing up to meet him. But just as panic seized him, he landed with a thud on a broad, feathery back.
Dazed and disoriented, Daeron slowly regained his senses. His eyes widened in astonishment as he realized he was perched atop a majestic eagle, its golden feathers shimmering dimly in the pale moonlight. To his astonishment, it spoke.
"All is safe, ranger," the eagle's voice has a certain regalness to it, its tone calm and reassuring.
Daeron blinked in disbelief, hardly able to comprehend the extraordinary encounter. He had heard tales of the Great Eagles, but never had he imagined he would find himself in the company of one, let alone ride one.
"Thank you, sir," Daeron finally managed to stammer, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. "I am Daeron, at your service. Your timely intervention has saved us from certain doom."
The eagle inclined its regal head in acknowledgment. "I am Gwaihir, known as the Windlord," the majestic bird introduced himself. "I owe a debt to Mithrandir, and we saw your distress. Our hate for goblins and fell creatures is deep."
Daeron's confusion gave way to curiosity, and he leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with inquisitiveness. "You speak of Gandalf," he began, "but how is it that an eagle such as yourself possesses the ability to converse?"
"It is a gift granted to few creatures of Middle-earth," he explained. "Long ago, our kind was blessed by the Valar, granting us the power of speech when we choose to employ it." Gwaihir said, "As for Gandalf, he saved me from a poisoned arrow that wounded me gravely. Without his assistance I would've succumbed. For that I owe him a great debt."
Daeron listened intently, his heart filled with wonder at the knowledge being bestowed upon him. The world seemed to expand before his eyes, revealing a tapestry of beings and secrets he had only ever dreamed of.
Gwaihir continued, " We shall carry you and your companions to safety, to our eyrie in the mountains. There, you will find respite and counsel. But pray tell me what you and your companions were doing."
Daeron spoke to Gwaihir explaining how the dwarves arrived in Rivendell, about the secret entrance into Erebor, the council and their narrow escape from Goblin town and the encounter with Azog. Gwaihir listened intently, asking questions about Daeron and his adventures. As Daeron spoke, a weariness settled upon him, a reminder of the toll their arduous journey had taken. Slowly, his speech began to falter, and a drowsiness crept over him, prompting an involuntary yawn. It was as if the weight of their adventures pressed upon his eyelids, coaxing him towards much-needed rest.
"Rest, young Daeron," Gwaihir's voice broke through the haze of weariness, his tone gentle and reassuring. "We still have a ways to go before we reach our destination."
Daeron nodded, acknowledging the wisdom in Gwaihir's words. He leaned back against the eagle's sturdy form, his weariness giving way to a sense of security. The rhythmic motion of Gwaihir's wings and the soothing sound of the wind enveloped him, lulling him into a state of half-sleep.
As his consciousness ebbed and flowed, Daeron's gaze wandered to the landscape beneath him. The world stretched out in a breathtaking panorama—a patchwork of rolling hills, winding rivers, and dense forests. He marveled at the beauty of it all, the vastness of Middle-earth unfolding before his eyes like a tapestry woven by the Valar themselves. He watched as other eagles soared alongside them, their wings outstretched in perfect harmony. Among them, he spotted the familiar figures of Gandalf, Bilbo, and the remaining dwarves, their expressions a mixture of awe and wonder. Thorin lay motionless on top of an eagle, in the chaos that had ensured Daeron realized he didn't know what state Azog had left Thorin. He wanted to ask Gandalf if Thorin would make it but he felt himself slip into darkness.
The soothing rhythm of Gwaihir's flight and the breathtaking scenery lulled Daeron deeper into slumber. It was a peaceful sleep, filled with dreams of grand adventures and distant lands. All worry and stress about surviving parted his mind, and when he awoke, his eyelids fluttering open, he found himself in a place of warmth and comfort.
They had arrived at the eyrie of the eagles, nestled high among the craggy peaks of the Misty Mountains. Around him, some of the dwarves bustled about, preparing a hot meal over crackling fires. The aroma of roasted meat and hearty stew filled the air, tempting his senses and invigorating his weary body. Daeron felt his stomach growl loudly and he rose to his feet and joined the dwarves. Ori spotted him and handed him a bowl of stew which Daeron readily accepted.
"How's Thorin?" Daeron asked, blowing gently over the stew before taking a bite. His mouth was greeted with tender meat that gave way with little chew.
"He's getting there, Gandalf fixed him up with the help of the eagles." Gloin said, passing over some more roasted meat.
"Thank Durin that the eagle arrived when they did," Dori said, "Gandalf reckons that Thorin would've died if they didn't show up when they did."
Daeron nodded his head, slowly, he said a silent prayer to the Valor for their help as he continued eating. His eyes darted around the makeshift camp, the dwarves all sat huddled around a fire eating their expressions solemn, undoubtedly worried about their leader's health. Bilbo sat between Kili and Fili who were telling them stories of the Blue mountains and of their Uncle's antics. He smiled softly, glad that they could find some respite. Gandalf appeared with Thorin trailing behind, his expression distant mixed with an almost sad and longing look. Balin, who had settled himself beside Daeron lit his pipe.
Balin's eyes glinted with a mix of sadness and pride, "Poor lad, we thought we had slain that foul orc. But to see him there, fighting and still hunting Thorin -"
"Who is he?" Daeron interrupted.
Balin looked at Daeron and gave the ranger a sad smile, "It's a bitter tale. It begins with the Battle of Moria. It was a fierce and bitter struggle, one that tested the resolve and courage of our kin. It was a battle to reclaim our ancient homeland from the clutches of darkness, a battle fought in honor of our fallen king, Thror."
He took a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. "Thror, Thorin's grandfather and the King under the Mountain, sought to restore the glory of Khazad-dûm, after losing Erebor. He led our people into Moria, hoping to rekindle the forge fires and restore the ancient halls to their former splendor. But little did we know the lurking evil that awaited us."
Balin's voice grew somber as he recalled the events of that fateful day. "Azog the Defiler, an orc of immense power and cruelty, led an army of orcs and goblins against us. It was a fierce and brutal battle, with lives lost on both sides. Thror, our beloved king, fell before the might of Azog, struck down at the gates of Moria."
Daeron listened intently, his heart heavy with the weight of the dwarves' sacrifice. "And Thorin?" he inquired softly, sensing there was more to the tale.
A glimmer of admiration crossed Balin's eyes as he spoke of Thorin's valor. "It was during that very battle, amidst the chaos and despair, that Thorin Oakenshield emerged as a leader. He took up his father's sword, and confronted Azog in a duel that ought to be written in every dwarven book and sung in every tavern. Though greatly outnumbered, Thorin fought with the fury of a storm, his determination unwavering."
Balin's voice grew stronger, his words filled with conviction. "At the gates of Moria, Thorin managed to wound Azog, severing his arm, but the price was high. Many of our brethren fell that day, and the battle ended in our retreat from Moria. It was a bitter defeat, but amidst the loss, a king emerged. From that moment on, I knew I would follow Thorin anywhere. So to see that foul orc…" Balin shook his head and blew a few smoke rings. His eyes staring into the fire.
Daeron looked in Thorin's direction. Instead of seeing a proud dwarf, he saw someone who desperately wanted to reclaim his homeland and restore yet another kingdom of the dwarves.
"A moment Daeron," Gandalf called, beckoning him over.
As Gandalf and Daeron walked away from the camp, Gandalf placed an arm around Daeron's shoulders, guiding him toward a secluded spot where their conversation could remain private.
"What's wrong?" Daeron asked curiously, his voice laced with concern. As they walked, Daeron couldn't help but notice the comforting scent of stew in the air and quickly scooped some more into his bowl as they passed the large pot.
"That pale Orc, Azog the Defiler," Gandalf began, his tone grave. "Rumors suggest he hails from Gundabad. It appears Azog has caught wind of Thorin's quest and won't rest until he kills him. I fear there is something more sinister at play here."
Their path led them upwards, and as they ascended, the night sky opened up before them, adorned with countless stars. In the distance, Erebor stood majestic and regal, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight.
"How can I be of assistance?" Daeron inquired, his voice steady. "Gundabad may be teeming with orcs and wargs. Perhaps we could send a message to the rangers, seeking their aid in gathering intelligence about Azog's plans."
Gandalf nodded, acknowledging Daeron's suggestion. "Indeed, that is a wise plan. But there is more to consider," Gandalf continued, his eyes scanning their surroundings. "Gwaihir has informed me that the number of orcs roaming the lands has been increasing. They have become bolder and more daring. This will make our next leg of the journey quite challenging."
Gandalf retrieved his pipe and lit it, taking long puffs as he contemplated their situation.
"There is an old friend of mine who resides at the edge of Mirkwood. He possesses crucial knowledge of the area and can guide us safely through the forest. However, he is not particularly fond of dwarves or strangers. We shall address that when the time comes. But we must exercise caution, for the closer we get to Erebor, the more treacherous our path becomes. Thorin will need all the help he can get..."
Daeron recognized the distant look in Gandalf's eyes, similar to the one his father, Lord Elrond, sometimes wore when his thoughts drifted. Finding a large boulder to sit on, Daeron gazed at the moon, pulling out his own pipe and lighting it. His mind wandered momentarily to Rivendell, wondering about his father's activities and whether his brothers had returned. He also thought of Arwen, missing her comforting presence dearly. Though he cherished the adventures and banter with his mischievous brothers, Arwen's company had always brought him solace. Yet, his focus returned to the imminent quest at hand. He pondered why Gandalf had specifically sought his assistance, but he had learned from experience that Gandalf had his reasons and often saw no need to divulge them.
In the silence of their secluded spot, the cool night breeze enveloping them, Daeron and Gandalf could faintly hear the distant laughter emanating from the camp. Tonight, they were safe under the watchful gaze of Gwaihir and the other eagles, discouraging any potential attacks from the orcs. Eventually, weariness took hold of Daeron, and he lay down, his mind filled with thoughts of the challenges that awaited them on the morrow.
As Daeron drifted off to sleep, his final musings centered on the unknown perils that lay ahead and the unwavering determination that burned within him.