Chapter 19
Heading an army of men and elves, riding an oversized bear, was a halfling. Or at least, that was the ludicrous rumor that had reached Dain Ironfoot's ears over the past two days as their forces marched toward the foothills of Erebor.
Dain had dismissed the reports as nonsense, the sort of tall tales soldiers whispered to break the monotony of the march. But as the distant banners of the approaching army came into view, a strange unease began to settle in his gut. When the aforementioned halfling arrived on what was truly the largest bear he'd ever seen, he'd almost laughed. When the halfling dismounted flanked by the elven king Thranduil, the elven lord Elrond, a man, and a grey wizard, that unease turned into incredulous outrage. The small figure strode forward into no man's land, utterly undaunted, with Dwalin, his cousin's most loyal friend, at his side. Dain's stomach churned at the sight.
"Dwalin." His voice carried sharp authority as he turned to his old comrade. "Truly, you cannot be leading a rebellion against Thorin for the throne. This is madness." Dwalin's expression was unreadable, stoic as a stone, and he offered no reply. Instead, he stepped back, leaving the halfling to face Dain alone.
The smaller male stood with composed ease, his bright eyes meeting Dain's fiery glare without flinching. "Dain Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills," he said smoothly, with a tone that would have been friendly if not for the circumstances. "I trust your journey was pleasant?"
Dain sneered. "Pleasant? To be confronted by such a force, I doubt you care. Might I ask who I'll be gutting in the name of the Kingdom of Erebor?"
He smirked, a maddeningly smug expression that lit a fire under Dain's temper. "Well, when you put it that way, Azog the Defiler is pretty high on my list."
Dain barked a laugh, shaking his head. "You're mad! You'd best head home—this is no battlefield for runtlings."
Dwalin stiffened at the insult, his hand twitching toward his axe. But the halfling raised a hand, a silent gesture that froze the larger dwarf in place.
"You asked who you could gut for me," His voice was unnervingly steady, he looked to be judging Dain's worth and finding him lacking, "and I gave you a name."
Dain's eyes narrowed. "And what is your name, runt?"
"Bilbo Baggins," came the calm reply. "At your service."
Dain scoffed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Why, then, should I not end you now and start this battle proper? Dwalin might be a challenge, but you? You're barely out of leading strings."
Bilbo's grin widened, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Oh, did I forget to mention? I am the royal consort to the true King of Erebor and acting ruler under Durin's Law. The forces behind me are allies of Erebor."
"No." Dain's voice was low, a growl of disbelief. "No, this must be a joke. Where is Thorin?" He asked Dwalin who was now smirking at him as well; looking back at the halfling his question trailed off as his eyes caught something—two braids dangling free from the rest of the halfling's hair. Starting at the temple the intricate strands ended in ornate cuffs that Dain recognized immediately. His aunt's cuffs. Thorin's inheritance.
"You've got to be kidding me," Dain hissed, his face twisting with disgust. "He would choose a weakling like you? Someone who isn't even dwarrow? He must have lost all sense."
Bilbo's face remained impassive, but his tone carried a sharp edge. "While his mental state is currently up for debate, he chose me with a clear mind. I am here today in good faith to join our forces against the approaching orcs."
"Good faith?" Dain spat, his hand tightening on his sword. "You're a leech, a liar; you've likely poisoned Thorin's mind or seduced him with evil magics. I will not bow to one such as you."
The tension crackled like lightning as Dain unsheathed his blade. Both armies seemed to lean forward, the air thick with the anticipation of violence. One wrong move, and the halfling would be cut down where he stood. Bilbo didn't flinch. Instead, he rolled his eyes—rolled his eyes—and reached into the pocket of his tattered red coat. Dain's gaze hardened, expecting a weapon. What emerged instead was far more dangerous. The object glittered in the sunlight, catching every eye on the field.
The Arkenstone.
Dain's breath caught, his grip on his sword faltering.
"The mark of the true king," Bilbo said, his voice quiet but carrying an undeniable authority. He turned the stone over in his palm, its brilliance dazzling even the most skeptical onlookers. "The stone that unites all seven dwarven families under one throne. Thorin's throne." His gaze locked with Dain's, unyielding. "You will bow to me, Dain Ironfoot, for my husband is your undisputed king."
A growl of frustration escaped Dain, his fury barely contained. But he dropped to one knee, as did Dwalin and the entire Iron Hills force. The armies behind Bilbo stirred uneasily, their murmurs a mix of awe and wariness. The halfling slipped the Arkenstone back into his pocket, the weight of its power still hanging in the air.
"Rise," he commanded, his voice firm.
Dain obeyed, his expression a mix of disgust and irritation. "What would you command, then, Royal Consort?"
Bilbo had been pleased by Thranduil's presence when the army had begun to move two days ago, but soon found the king tiresome as he continued to tell Bilbo stories from his last thousand years of life. Often times switching into Sindarin just for his amusement, or that's what Bilbo assumed. Elrond had rolled his eyes so often he was surprised that they hadn't stuck that way, and Legolas had found every excuse to disappear into the throng of soldiers. By the time they'd reached Erebor, he welcomed Dain's haughty demeanor and insults with open arms.
In the end, he'd been thankful his hail Mary had worked, because he knew Dain had been ready to split him from navel to nose. He had also felt the tension in Dwalin when he'd revealed the stone and didn't look forward to that conversation later.
Glutton, you like the feeling of power in your hands. The ring whispered sweetly over and over, ever since he'd had every dwarf on the field bow to him; it's tiny claws scraping at his mind.
Now, Bilbo could cut the tension with a butter knife as he and Dain were joined by the council of idiots, with the addition of several of Dain's commanders that stared at him as if he had a second head. No one said a word as he explained that in a few short hours, orcs would converge on their forces, one attaching from the side, while the other was moving along the back for an ambush.
"And how did you come to have such knowledge."
"That would be with my help," Gandalf butted in with the lie. They had decided ahead of time that Dain didn't need to know Bilbo's history as it would just be a barrier that would lead to more doubt and resentment that they didn't have time for. It was reasonable that a wizard could tell the future, right?
"I've always found that wizard magics are nothing more than parlor tricks," Dain snubbed; he really wasn't endearing himself to the group, but Bilbo knew they needed the dwarf.
"Send word to you're men at the rea-" Horns bellowed in the distance with the baying of wargs. Anxiety hit Bilbo as everyone stiffened at the sound.
"You said a few hours!" Dain yelled, his disbelief forgotten as he turned towards the sound.
"Things change!" Bilbo looked to Dwalin who gave him a nod before shoving him onto Beorn's back. From here he could see over the heads of the elves to the thousands of orcs. Trolls in armor stepped forward between his own army and the opposing forces as orcish shouts came over the hill. It was a much different sight than last time; the united wall of elves and men between the Orcs who now surrounded them, flooding forth from Dale's ruins like a scourge. Looking up, Bilbo couldn't see any of his dwarves along the rampart, and knew there was a chance he wouldn't be seeing any of them again.
The clash of steel against steel rang out like a storm, mingling with the guttural shouts of orcs and the piercing battle cries of elves, men, and dwarves. Bilbo's own cry tore from his throat, raw and unrestrained, as he gripped Sting tightly. A thunderous roar joined the cacophony—a bear's thundering sound that sent shivers through friend and foe alike. Beorn surged forward, the elves moving out of his way so that he could carve a path through the throng of orcs. With devastating strength, his massive paws striking down enemies like brittle twigs.
Elves and men fought fiercely, their movements precise and deadly. Arrows rained down from the rear ranks, each volley felling a dozen orcs, their bodies crumpling beneath the relentless advance. Yet for every orc that fell, two more seemed to rise in its place, their numbers an unrelenting tide of darkness.
Bilbo swayed atop Beorn's broad back, his heart hammering in his chest as he drove Sting through the neck of an orc that lunged too close. The blade slid free with a sickening hiss, its elven-forged edge gleaming in the dim, smoke-filled light. Around him, chaos reigned. To his left, Dwalin fought like a demon unleashed, wielding a sword in one hand and an axe in the other. Each swing cleaved through armor and bone, leaving a trail of broken bodies in his wake. Blood streaked his face, but his eyes burned with determination.
Above, the elves rained death with unerring precision, their arrows striking true even as the battlefield churned with frantic movement. The humans, fewer in number but no less fierce, held the line with swords and shields, their cries of defiance echoing through the foothills.
Beorn let out another earth-shaking roar, charging into a fresh wave of enemies. Orcs scattered before the bear's onslaught, but their ranks quickly filled the gaps, surging forward with reckless abandon. Bilbo tightened his grip on Beorn's fur, his knuckles white as he tried to steady himself amidst the carnage.
And then he heard it—a voice rising above the din, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
A battle cry, raw and furious. Familiar.
Bilbo's heart skipped a beat, his blood turning to ice. He twisted in his seat, his wide eyes scanning the battlefield until he found the source of the cry.
The gates of Erebor which had been collapsed shut, now lay in shattered ruin. From the jagged maw of the mountain emerged Thorin, his figure dark and imposing as charged forward, Orcrist gleaming in his hand, his company close behind him. The sight of the dwarves—his family—rushing into the fray was both a relief and a nightmare realized.
"No," Bilbo whispered, his voice barely audible over the roar of battle. Tears pricked his eyes and dread clawed at his chest, as his One joined the fray, his voice rising like a beacon of hope—or a harbinger of doom. Bilbo's hands trembled, his resolve wavering for a fraction of a moment. His worst fears were playing out before him, and yet, a part of him couldn't help but feel awe. Thorin's courage, his indomitable will, was something that no one—man, elf, or dwarf—could ignore.
"Thorin," Bilbo murmured, his voice cracking with emotion. He clenched Sting tighter, wiping his face with his sleeve as sweat and blood ran into his eyes. There was no time for hesitation. If Thorin was going to fight, then so would he.
"Elladan, Elrohir, Tauriel!" Elrond shouted from somewhere to his left, giving him hope that his plan would keep Thorin and the princes safe, and allowing him to focus on the battle ahead. The orcs surged forward with renewed aggression, as if spurred on by Thorin's presence. The battlefield became a maelstrom of chaos, a deadly dance where each step could mean life or death. He'd occasionally catch a glimpse of his dwarves but remained focused on each enemy in front of him.
Several hours passed in what felt like minutes, his arm beginning to fail him as he swung haphazardly at the orcs before him. Beorn had begun to pull back sensing Bilbo's flagging energy. No matter how much he hated to admit it, he wasn't as strong as the warriors around him. While his allies encircled him, he breathed heavily with frustration.
Looking up to survey the progressing fight, the sight of orcs on the hill coming between Tauriel and Kili caught his eye. From where he sat he could see Tauriel scrambling to get back to her post, shouting for Kili as she continued to be pushed back by punishing blows. It was as if fate was trying to right it's self after all his efforts to keep them alive. The orcs continued to crowd in, splitting the pair far apart as the young dwarf faced three on one, sending a shard of ice through his chest.
"Beorn! The hill!" He shouted over the din of battle. Panic carving into his soul, they raced up towards the two, Beorn knocking orcs down like bowling pins. He could see where Fili fought back-to-back with Elladan. Not having yet noticed the trouble his brother was in, which Bilbo was thankfully for. At least he wouldn't carelessly attempt to reach him and endanger himself in the process.
Bilbo was just out of reach, Beorn's progress being halted by the enemy, when the swing of a hammer caught Kili's legs, knocking them out from under him. Bilbo jumped from the bear's back, rushing forward between much taller beings that were distracted by the beast tearing them limb from limb. Reaching Kili, he slid Sting across the back of an orc's knees causing him to collapse, before parrying a blow that would have otherwise crushed the dwarf's skull. Sliding Sting through the orc's ribcage, it collapsed on the ground at his feet as he checked to make sure Kili was still in one piece.
"Bilbo!" Kili yelled; relief apparent on his face as he attempted to catch his breath. Relief turned to fear in an instant, "look out!"
Bilbo turned as an orc was raising its sword above his head to strike. He didn't have a chance to lift his own before the zing, an arrow embedded itself in the monster's skull, the orc joining its friend on the ground. Turning, he spotted Legolas atop one of the walls of Dale, his aim impeccable as he volleyed arrows from his perch in rapid succession, clearing the hill. Beorn had reached them and was warding off orcs attempting to get to him and the prince while Tauriel had disappeared.
"Are you alright?" He reached down to hoist Kili to his feet.
"Aye, you don't know how glad I am to see you!"
"I'd be glad to see me too if I were you," He grinned up at the lad before looking out over the field. Above them, eagles were joining the battle, plowing through orcs, catching some to be dropped like bombs on their comrades. The great cries of the birds rallying Bilbo's forces.
"Honestly, we didn't think we'd see you again, or at least until-" He pushed his blade into an orc that had slipped past the bear. "-we traveled to the shire to fetch you."
"Fetch me?"
"We had it all planned out, getting uncle's head on straight, embarking on an epic journey to kidnapping you, the tear-filled reunion with the company as we brought our burglar back into the fold." Bilbo was laughing at that.
Turning from the dwarf, he spotted the pale orc among the crowd, slinking up the river towards the frozen ruins of Dale. Scanning the battle, panic nestled in his stomach when he couldn't find Thorin in the masses. He remembered vividly where he had found him the last time, blood pooling on the ice.
"Beorn, keep Kili alive please." He ordered before dashing into the fray. Even if the boy had wanted to go after him, Bilbo knew the bear wouldn't let him. Sprinting as fast as he could, no one seemed to notice him as he weaved in and out of the weakening enemies' ranks. He was about halfway before pain laced through his leg causing him to fumble and crash to the ground. A smaller orc spotted him, a wounded sparrow among cats. Rushing to finish Bilbo off, his body kept moving forward while his head stayed where it was, falling to the ground as Tauriel's blade found its mark.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, get back to Kili." He grunted as he sat up, examining the arrow. He recognized the blackened shaft as one of the enemies' arrows.
"You need a doctor." She parried off a blow, protecting him from the stragglers as the orcs were beginning to retreat.
"Follow your orders, Captain." Grunting in pain, he broke off the protruding stalk with promises to see to it later as he pulled himself to his feet. Tauriel's face was stoic as she nodded, heading back towards her Kili and Beorn without another word. Most enemies had already left this part of the field, and those still alive were focused on the redhaired elf; no orc noticed him, and he thanked the Valar for his luck.
It took some skill to climb up the hill unseen. Ice chilled his feet as he found the location he'd once sworn never to visit again. High above the rest of the battle, under the shadow of Dale where the river had frozen completely, stood Azog the Defiler.
Alone.
The pale orc turned with surprised recognition on his face; while not his main target, he knew Bilbo had protected Thorin on the mountain. He grinned at the hobbit in pure malic, stepping forward on the ice.
Bilbo understood, in this moment, the cost of everything he'd spent the last year working for, the cost so his dwarves could survive this battle. His life.
He grinned back at his enemy, readying Sting for his last fight. Three for one seems like a bargain, Bilbo thought, but I won't give in without a fight. Fear and adrenalin swimming through his veins in equal measure.
A massive stone on a chain was hoisted over Azog's head as he attempted to crush Bilbo. The hobbit felt like he was moving in slow motion as he dodged one way then another. The ice being crushed under the weight of the stone, causing his footing to wobble, and making it hard to get close enough for an attack. His head felt fuzzy, and his energy was fading. A few swipes of his sword resulted in small cuts to the monster's arms and legs. He remembered in the back of his mind, the blackened arrow. Glutton, this poison you can't eat. His inner voice or the rings, he couldn't tell the difference.
Azog's own attacks were on target, shredding his coat and shirt to reveal the mithril underneath, keeping him safe from the worst of the damage. This seemed to frustrate him, with his grin had shifting to a scowl as he hacked away at a hobbit that wouldn't die.
Something caught Azog's eye, drawing his attention away from the enemy in front of him. An opening! Bilbo rushed forward, dazed, sliding his blade into Azog's side. Fear and understanding flitted through his mind; Not a mortal wound, and he was much too close. As he attempted to pull Sting away, the great pale hand dropped the chain to grasp Bilbo's forearms, holding him in place.
"No!" Ice filled Bilbo's veins as he recognized the broken cry. He didn't look behind him. Instead struggling to free himself, staring into the orc's pale eyes which were focused on the dwarf king, as the blade slid across his throat.