The air was tense with relief as the combined armies of men and elves began to break camp, preparing to return to their homes. The men of Dale were eager to return to their families, buoyed by the assurance that Erebor was safe and the dragon was truly gone. The elves of Mirkwood, though less openly expressive, carried an air of grudging satisfaction, though Thranduil's face remained as unreadable as ever.
But just as the first banners were lowered and the campfires began to dwindle, a low rumble echoed across the plain. It was subtle at first, like distant thunder, but it grew louder and more insistent with each passing moment.
Bard turned sharply to the source of the sound, his eyes narrowing as he saw the horizon darken. A cloud of dust rose into the air, and within it, the shapes of an advancing army emerged—a sea of twisted figures clad in crude black armor, their guttural war cries chilling the blood.
"Orcs," Bard murmured, his voice filled with dread.
The army was vast, more numerous than anyone had anticipated. Leading the horde was a massive, pale figure astride a great white warg. Azog the Defiler, his monstrous mace glinting in the fading sunlight, raised his weapon high, and a roar of approval erupted from the Orc ranks.
Thranduil's lips pressed into a thin line as he stepped forward. "So this is why the mountain's riches remain untouched. The Orcs come to claim what Smaug left behind."
"They will not have it," Bard declared, gripping his bow tightly. He turned to his men, raising his voice to rally them. "Men of Dale! Stand firm! Protect your families, your homes, and your lives!"
The soldiers of Dale formed ranks, their faces pale but resolute. The elves of Mirkwood drew their gleaming swords, their movements precise and disciplined. Yet, as the Orc horde drew closer, the overwhelming size of the enemy became apparent. Fear crept into the hearts of even the bravest.
Amidst the growing unease, a bright flash of light erupted behind the gathered forces, and a familiar voice rang out.
"Take heart, friends! All is not lost!"
Gandalf the Grey strode into their midst, staff glowing with a soft, reassuring light. His presence alone seemed to bolster the spirits of the men and elves.
"Gandalf!" Bard exclaimed, relief washing over him.
The wizard nodded, his expression grim but determined. "Azog brings a great force, but we have faced worse odds before. Together, we shall hold them back!"
Before anyone could reply, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble violently. Cracks appeared in the earth, widening into massive chasms. A deafening roar shattered the air as monstrous creatures burst forth—Wereworms, their serpentine bodies coiling and writhing as they tore through the battlefield.
Chaos erupted.
The Orcs charged, their war cries mingling with the guttural roars of the Wereworms. The men of Dale fired volleys of arrows, but the sheer size of the monstrous worms rendered their efforts futile. The elves, swift and deadly, darted through the battlefield, cutting down Orcs with graceful precision, but their ranks began to falter under the relentless onslaught.
"Hold the line!" Bard shouted, though his voice was nearly drowned out by the cacophony of battle.
Gandalf stood amidst the chaos, his staff glowing brighter as he unleashed bursts of light and fire to repel the Orcs. Yet even he could see that their forces were being overwhelmed.
The Wereworms surged forward, their massive jaws snapping shut around groups of men and elves. Screams filled the air as the battlefield became a scene of carnage.
Thranduil, his twin swords flashing in the dim light, fought with a cold, deadly efficiency. He barked orders to his warriors, but his keen eyes betrayed the grim reality—they could not hold out much longer.
And then, in the distance, a horn sounded—a deep, resonant blast that echoed across the battlefield.
Bard turned toward the sound, hope sparking in his chest. Over the crest of a hill, a new force appeared: dwarves clad in shining armor, their banners bearing the sigil of the Iron Hills. At their head rode a stocky, bearded figure on a sturdy mountain goat, his red hair and beard a fiery contrast to his gleaming helm.
"Dain Ironfoot!" Gandalf exclaimed, his voice filled with relief.
The dwarves charged down the hill, their war cries fierce and unyielding. Goats, bred for the treacherous terrain of the Iron Hills, bounded effortlessly over the broken ground, their riders wielding war hammers and axes with deadly precision.
Dain raised his war hammer high, his voice booming across the battlefield. "To me, sons of Durin! Drive these foul creatures back to the darkness!"
The arrival of the dwarves turned the tide. Their disciplined ranks and fierce determination provided a much-needed bulwark against the Orcs. The men and elves, inspired by their allies, rallied and pressed forward with renewed vigor.
Bard fought alongside his men, his arrows finding their marks with unerring accuracy. Thranduil, despite his earlier reluctance to engage with the dwarves, fought side by side with Dain, their combined skill proving devastating to the enemy.
"Not bad for an elf," Dain grunted as he smashed an Orc's skull with his hammer.
Thranduil arched an eyebrow, slashing through another foe. "And you fight well for a dwarf."
Amidst the carnage, Gandalf stood as a beacon of light, his magic weaving through the battlefield. With a sweep of his staff, he drove back a swarm of Orcs, buying precious time for the allied forces to regroup.
The Wereworms, though fearsome, began to falter under the relentless assault of the dwarves. Dain's warriors targeted their vulnerable underbellies, their hammers and axes striking with precision honed by years of battle.
Bard raised his bow, his arms trembling with exhaustion. He turned to Dain, his voice filled with gratitude. "You came in our darkest hour, and for that, we owe you our lives."
Dain snorted, though there was a glimmer of warmth in his eyes. "We dwarves don't abandon our own, Bard of Dale. And besides, a fight like that? It'd be a shame to miss it."
Thranduil sheathed his swords, his expression inscrutable. "Perhaps there is more to be gained from working together than I had thought."
Gandalf smiled faintly, leaning on his staff. "Indeed. Today, you have shown that even the most unlikely of allies can achieve great things."
The battle raged on, the forces of men, elves, and dwarves locked in a desperate struggle against the Orcs and their monstrous allies. Despite the arrival of Dain Ironfoot and his fearless warriors, the enemy's numbers seemed endless, and the chaos of the battlefield threatened to consume even the bravest of fighters.
Within the halls of Erebor, Sirius Black stood near the grand gates, his wand in hand and his sharp eyes fixed on the battle unfolding outside. The dwarves of Thorin's company clustered nearby, reluctant to leave the mountain they had just reclaimed.
"Jimmy," Balin said, his tone heavy with caution, "it's madness out there. You've done enough. We've won back our home because of your help—there's no need to throw your life away now."
Sirius turned to the old dwarf, his gray eyes flashing with determination. "I didn't come here to hide in a mountain while others die to defend me. If you think I'll cower behind stone walls, you don't know me at all."
"Think about it!" Dwalin urged, gripping his axe tightly. "We've fought long and hard for Erebor. Let the others do their part now. Stay with us—it's the safest place to be."
Sirius let out a derisive laugh, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "Safe? You want to stay safe while others bleed to protect your home? Fine, be cowards if that's what you want. Stay here, polish your axes, and count your gold. But as far as I'm concerned, our agreement is over. I've helped you reclaim this mountain, and now I'll do as I please."
Without waiting for a response, Sirius strode toward the gates, his black cloak billowing behind him.
"Jimmy, wait!" Fili called after him, but Sirius didn't pause.
As he stepped onto the battlefield, the sight was both exhilarating and horrifying. The ground was slick with blood, the cries of the wounded mingling with the clash of steel and the guttural roars of Orcs. A towering giant swung a massive club, scattering men and elves like leaves, while the Wereworms continued to carve through the earth, their monstrous forms a terror to behold.
The men and elves fighting nearby paused, their eyes wide with shock as they saw the black-cloaked creature tear through the enemy ranks. The furious creature darted across the battlefield, moving with a speed and agility that defied belief. It was Sirius who fought like a demon unleashed. Though he was half the size of an Orc, he moved with terrifying precision, his sword slicing through armor and flesh.
An elf soldier gaped as Sirius leapt onto the back of a towering Orc, sinking his sword into its neck and bringing the creature crashing to the ground. "By the stars, what is that thing?"
"A demon?" a man of Dale muttered, his voice trembling.
"No," another soldier said, his tone filled with awe. "It's a hero."
Sirius hissed, his glowing eyes scanning for his next target. He dodged a swing from a war club and sprang onto the chest of another Orc, shredding it with relentless fury.
The tide of the battle began to shift once more, but a sudden roar drew Sirius's attention.
From the gates of Erebor, Thorin Oakenshield and his company emerged, their weapons gleaming and their faces set with grim determination. The sight of their leader sent a ripple of hope through the allied forces.
"Thorin!" Dain called, his voice rising above the clamor.
But Thorin's eyes were fixed on a single figure in the distance. Azog the Defiler, astride his white warg, bellowed orders to his forces, his pale face twisted into a cruel grin.
"Azog!" Thorin roared, his voice filled with fury. He raised his sword high, its edge glinting in the firelight. "This ends today!"
The company of dwarves charged forward, their battle cries echoing across the plain. Kili and Fili fought side by side, their movements perfectly synchronized, while Dwalin's heavy axe carved a path through the enemy ranks. Balin and Oin provided support, their weapons striking true as they pushed closer to their leader.
Sirius watched as Thorin tore through the battlefield, his determination unmatched. For a moment, he hesitated, considering whether to join the dwarf prince in his quest for vengeance. But as he saw the fire in Thorin's eyes, he knew that this was a fight that only Thorin could finish.
Sirius Black stood amidst the chaos of the battlefield, his black cloak torn and his face smeared with dirt and blood. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, the blade slick with the dark blood of Orcs. He was exhausted; every muscle in his body screamed for rest, but he pushed forward.
The smell of death and fire hung heavy in the air. The sounds of steel clashing, cries of the wounded, and Orcish roars filled his ears, yet he refused to give in. Around him, the tide of the battle was shifting—thanks to the combined efforts of men, elves, and dwarves—but the fight was far from over.
A towering Orc charged at Sirius, its axe swinging in a deadly arc. Sirius sidestepped at the last moment, bringing his blade down in a swift, brutal motion. The Orc fell with a guttural cry, but another replaced it almost instantly.
"You've got to be joking," Sirius muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
Nearby, Gandalf stood as a beacon of power and determination, his staff glowing with a radiant light. With a single sweep of his staff, a wave of blinding energy erupted, sending Orcs flying in all directions. Flames crackled at his command, and the earth itself seemed to rise to his call, forming barriers that slowed the enemy's advance.
"Show-off," Sirius grumbled under his breath as he ducked another swing. He had his wand tucked away, unwilling to use magic unless absolutely necessary. There was something satisfying—primal—about facing the enemy with nothing but steel and grit.
He caught sight of Thorin Oakenshield in the distance, his figure unmistakable as he cleaved through the battlefield. Thorin's eyes burned with fury, his gaze fixed on one target: Azog the Defiler. The pale Orc sat atop his monstrous white warg, barking orders to his troops with a malicious grin.
"Thorin!" Sirius shouted, cutting down another Orc as he tried to follow Thorin's path. But the dwarf king didn't hear him—or if he did, he didn't care. His rage was all-consuming.
"Stay alive, you stubborn fool," Sirius muttered, turning his focus back to the Orcs swarming him.
The fighting was relentless. Sirius's arms ached from swinging his sword, and his legs felt like they could give out at any moment. But he pressed on, a feral determination driving him.
A sudden roar tore through the battlefield, drawing everyone's attention. Thorin had reached Azog. The Defiler dismounted from his warg with a thud, his massive frame towering over the dwarf king.
"You should have stayed in the mountain, Oakenshield," Azog sneered, his guttural voice carrying across the battlefield. "This will be your tomb."
Thorin raised his sword, its edge gleaming in the dim light. "You've haunted my people for too long, Azog. Today, I finish what I have started."
The two clashed with a thunderous impact, their fight a brutal dance of strength and skill. Azog's blows were heavy, each strike meant to break Thorin's defenses, but the dwarf king was fast and precise, his years of training evident in every movement.
Sirius, still battling the horde, couldn't tear his eyes away from the duel. Thorin was fighting not just for Erebor, but for his people, his pride, and his legacy.
"Come on, Oakenshield," Sirius muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the din of battle.
The duel reached its peak as Azog landed a heavy blow, sending Thorin sprawling to the ground. The pale Orc raised his mace for the killing strike, a cruel grin spreading across his face.
But Thorin wasn't finished. With a roar, he rolled to the side, dodging the blow, and drove his sword upward with all his strength. The blade pierced Azog's chest, the point emerging from his back.
Azog's eyes widened in shock as blood bubbled from his lips. Thorin yanked the blade free, and the pale Orc collapsed to his knees before falling face-first onto the blood-soaked earth.
A moment of silence followed, as if the entire battlefield held its breath. Then, a cry rang out:
"Azog is dead!"
The Orcs faltered, their leaderless ranks breaking as panic set in. The forces of men, elves, and dwarves surged forward, driving the enemy into full retreat. The ground shook as the monstrous Wereworms burrowed back into the earth, disappearing into the depths.
Sirius slumped against a boulder, his sword dangling from his hand. He was too tired to cheer, but relief flooded through him as the tide of battle finally turned. Around him, the victorious cries of his allies filled the air.
"We did it!" Bard shouted, raising his bow triumphantly.
Legolas, his twin blades slick with blood, nodded in agreement. "The enemy flees. Victory is ours."
The dwarves roared their approval, their voices echoing across the battlefield. Thorin's company gathered around their king, who stood tall despite his wounds.
Sirius pushed himself to his feet, staggering slightly as he approached Thorin. "You look awful," he said, a tired grin tugging at his lips.
"And you look worse," Thorin shot back, though there was a glint of humor in his eyes.
Gandalf approached, his staff still glowing faintly. "A hard-fought battle, but a necessary one. Let this victory be a reminder of what can be accomplished when we stand together."
The men, elves, and dwarves raised their weapons in unison, their cheers ringing out as the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon.
Author's Note:
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