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Chapter 85 - The Battle of the Four Armies - II

The sky darkened with leathery wings as Bolg thundered down from the west, astride a monstrous warg, his howling host of twelve thousand Gundabad orcs cresting the ridges behind Ravenhill like a living black tide. Their arrival sent tremors through the valley. The clang of armor, the guttural roars of thousands, and the thundering of wargs melded into a single, dreadful chorus of war.

Legolas and Tauriel moved first—swift as shadows on the ground. At their command, three thousand elves broke ranks and turned westward, spears raised high, sunlight flashing on polished steel. Beside them, Fili and Kili rallied their kin, their war cries echoing off the stone. Dwarves and elves moved in unison, two tides converging to meet the black storm sweeping down from the west.

Above the valley, the sky became a nightmare. The bats of Gundabad—massive, shrieking beasts with wingspans wider than siege engines—descended like shadows come alive. They swooped and clawed, snatching soldiers off the ground, carrying them high only to hurl them screaming to their deaths. Arrows arced skyward but found too few targets. The swarm's chaotic flight made them nearly impossible to hit.

Ben raised his eyes from the chaos below. His heart sank at the sight of elves and dwarves being plucked from the field, their screams lost in the din. The storm of wings blotted out the sunlight, a living darkness closing in over the valley.

"Enough," he muttered.

He thrust his hand forward and sent one last lightning bolt crashing into a charging troll, the creature convulsing before collapsing with a thunderous boom. Then, standing tall atop the fifty-foot spire of stone, Ben closed his eyes and drew in a deep, deliberate breath.

The air around him shimmered. Dust and embers rose in a spiraling dance, swirling faster and faster around his body. He brought his hands together, and between his palms a tiny vortex formed—a twisting column of air no wider than his wrist. Then came the spark: a flicker of crimson flame, small and hungry.

Ben fed it his will.

The wind screamed. The flame caught, spreading in threads through the spiraling current, growing hotter, redder, brighter. In seconds the miniature whirlwind had become a blazing tornado caged in his hands, the heat so intense the air around him warped like molten glass.

Ben looked down at the orcs with a smirk. "Let's turn up the heat."

With a thrust of his hands, he sent the mini tornado hurtling into the heart of the orc army.

It struck the ground with a deafening roar. In seconds, a blazing whirlwind roared to life—an infernal vortex of air and fire spiraling skyward. The morning light caught the flames and made them shine white-gold, dazzling in their brilliance. The very air shimmered with heat.

The orcs screamed as the tornado grew, pulling them from the ground and consuming them in fire. Their armor ran like molten wax. The ground cracked and blackened beneath the raging inferno. The tornado fed on everything—wood, steel, flesh—and in moments it had become a towering cyclone of pure flame, a living pillar of daylight destruction that lit up the valley like a second sun.

The dwarves and elves halted mid-fight, staring in awe at the cataclysm Ben had unleashed. Archers lowered their bows. Warriors forgot their blades. Even the orcs froze, caught between terror and disbelief.

The firestorm raged uncontrolled, sweeping through Azog's ranks. Wherever it moved, orcs were dragged in, burned, and cast out as blackened ash. Bats screeched and tried to flee the sky, but the tornado's pull caught them as well. Hundreds vanished into the blazing spiral, their wings igniting midair until the heavens themselves seemed aflame.

Azog could only watch, frozen, his pale skin reflecting the infernal glare. His army—twenty thousand strong—was reduced to chaos, then to ash. His lips peeled back in rage and fear.

"WIZARD!" he roared, voice echoing across the valley.

On the spire, Ben stood with both arms raised. The wind whipped at his coat as he poured every drop of focus into maintaining the tornado's balance. Sweat streamed down his face. His body trembled from the effort. But he held firm.

Then, silence.

The tornado began to shrink, its edges blurring as it lost cohesion. Slowly, the flames faded, leaving behind a wasteland of charred earth and smoldering armor. Thousands of orcs lay dead—most reduced to little more than soot. Only a few battered remnants of Azog's host remained.

Ben exhaled. His arms dropped to his sides. The magic unraveled with a final pulse of heat, and exhaustion hit him like a hammer. He staggered, dropping to one knee atop the spire.

"Not bad," he murmured looking over the valley, his lips curling into a faint, weary smile. "I think I'm gonna call this one… Firestorm."

The last embers of the tornado flickered out, carried away on the wind.

Below, the surviving dwarves and elves broke into cheers that shook the mountain. Thorin stood among them, his armor scorched and bloodied, gazing up at Ben with something that bordered on reverence. Then his eyes shifted towards the far eastern ridge—towards the pale figure of Azog, standing defiant among a handful of lieutenants and warg riders.

Thorin's expression hardened.

"Time to end this."

He climbed onto a battle ram, Thror's Justice gleaming in the morning light. The ram pawed the ground, snorting steam. Behind him, the warriors of Erebor followed suit, mounting their steeds and forming a wedge formation.

Dain raised his warhammer high. "Infantry, reinforce the west! Cavalry, to the King!"

He spurred his boar forward, the ground shaking as dozens of battle rams followed.

Across the valley, Thranduil spurred his elk into motion, his voice clear and commanding. "To the west! The Gundabad host must not pass!"

The air thrummed with renewed purpose. The elves and dwarves turned as one, marching west to meet Bolg's army.

---

From the west of Ravenhill, Bolg rode forward on his massive warg, a towering brute of muscle and iron, his spiked mace hanging ready in one hand. Behind him, the distant hills rippled black with movement—twelve thousand Gundabad orcs marching in tight ranks, their war cries echoing through the valley like thunder.

Bolg reined in his warg at the foot of the ruined hill and surveyed the battlefield below. The valley of Erebor was a storm of steel and screams—dwarves and elves locked in brutal combat with Azog's army. A cruel grin spread across Bolg's scarred face. The elves and dwarves had split their forces, sending part of their army westward towards him. A few thousand at most. He looked upon them with contempt. They were ants before a flood.

Raising his mace high, Bolg barked a guttural command in the Black Speech. His cry was answered from above as the dark sky filled with wings. The Gundabad bats swooped down into the valley with shrieks that chilled the blood, diving through the morning light. They plucked dwarves and elves from the field, carried them high into the air, and dropped them to their deaths. Bolg grinned cruelly as he watched the chaos unfold.

On the other side of the field, the elves led by Legolas and Tauriel advanced in graceful formation, their banners flashing silver and green. Alongside them marched the dwarves of Erebor, led by Fili and Kili, their armour gleaming beneath the pale sunlight. The two forces moved as one, elves and dwarves united by purpose if not by blood.

Bolg watched their approach, unbothered. "Barely a mouthful," he muttered in contempt, and raised his mace. With a deep, guttural roar, he gave the order to charge.

The Gundabad horde thundered forward, a black tide surging down the slopes. The ground trembled under their march.

"Archers!" Legolas commanded sharply, raising his arm. A volley of silver-tipped arrows arced high into the air and rained down upon the orcs, cutting down dozens in an instant. Yet still they came, snarling and screaming, weapons raised.

The orcs crashed into the dwarven line, and the clash of battle erupted in full fury. Axes and swords bit deep into flesh. Arrows hissed past. The cries of the dying filled the morning air.

Fili's Wind-slash sword carved through the orcs like a tempest. Each swing sent cutting waves of air through the enemy ranks. Beside him, Kili loosed arrows of light from his Sunflare bow, each shot streaking like a comet before striking its mark. The brothers fought back-to-back amid the carnage, a blur of motion and steel.

Bolg spotted Fili among the chaos, cutting down his warriors with deadly precision. Fury twisted his face. With a roar, he spurred his warg forward, charging toward the prince of Erebor.

But before he could reach Fili, a glowing arrow shot across the field—a streak of golden fire. It struck the warg clean through the skull. The beast tumbled violently, throwing Bolg to the ground. The orc captain rose, shaking off the dust, and saw Kili lowering his bow, calm and defiant.

"You'll die first," Bolg snarled, tightening his grip on his mace.

"Try me," Kili said coolly, drawing his sword.

The two clashed, steel ringing against steel. Bolg's mace swung down like a hammer, each blow shattering stone and denting the ground. Kili met him strike for strike, deflecting, ducking, slashing in return. Sparks flew as blade met metal. Kili's sword slashed Bolg's side, but found only the metal plates fused into the orc's flesh.

With a roar, Bolg brought his mace down in a crushing arc. Kili raised his left arm, and the vambrace Ben had once given him flared to life, projecting a shimmering blue shield that caught the blow. The impact sent Kili flying backward, but he rolled and rose again, his chest heaving.

Then the world trembled.

A deep, thunderous roar rolled through the valley. Both combatants turned to look toward Erebor. There, in the center of the battlefield, a massive tornado of fire raged, spinning higher and higher into the morning sky. The flames consumed everything in their path—thousands of orcs, fleeing war beasts, even the bats screaming above. The valley burned beneath a storm of fire and wind.

Bolg froze, disbelief in his eyes. His gaze followed the line of fire to the stone spire—and there stood the human wizard, Benjamin Carter, arms outstretched, wreathed in flame and light.

The Firestorm roared across the field, leaving charred earth and smouldering corpses in its wake. When it finally began to die, only a few dozen orcs remained alive. The rest had been obliterated.

Bolg's shock turned to rage. Snarling, he swung his mace with brutal force. Kili raised his shield again, but the impact hurled him backward, slamming him against the rocks. Half-conscious, Kili could only watch as Bolg turned toward the east. Across the battlefield, Thorin and his company of dwarves were charging toward Azog, who stood with barely a hundred elite orcs and warg riders left.

Seeing this, Bolg bellowed a command for his surviving warriors to break through and reinforce Azog. He turned to move, but found his path blocked.

An elven woman stood before him, blades gleaming.

Tauriel's eyes burned with defiance. "You are not going anywhere, orc."

Bolg's snarl deepened, and he charged.

Their fight was fast and vicious. Tauriel danced around his heavy swings, her knives flashing like silver lightning. She cut deep into his flesh, but Bolg seemed to feel no pain. He caught both her arms, twisted hard, and she screamed as one of her blades fell from her grasp.

Bolg slammed his forehead into hers, dazing her, then lifted her bodily by the throat. She kicked him in the knee, forcing him down. She tried to strike again, but Bolg caught her and hurled her violently to the ground. Tauriel gasped for air, pain shooting through her body.

Bolg raised his mace high for the killing blow—

And was suddenly kicked sideways by a blur of motion.

He crashed into a stone wall with a roar of rage. Dust and debris filled the air.

Legolas landed lightly between Bolg and Tauriel, sword in hand, eyes blazing. "You will harm her no more," he said coldly.

With a guttural snarl, Bolg charged again.

Their duel was a storm of speed and strength. Bolg swung his mace with crushing power; Legolas dodged and countered with impossible grace, each movement fluid and precise. He leapt onto broken stone, flipped over Bolg's head, and slashed his sword across the orc's back. Sparks flew. Bolg howled and struck wildly, smashing through walls and pillars in his fury.

They fought up the ruins, blade and mace clashing amid falling stones. At last, Bolg brought his mace down in a killing blow, but Legolas rolled beneath it, came up behind him, and with a swift strike severed Bolg's right arm.

Bolg screamed, clutching the bleeding stump. In blind fury, he charged one last time. Legolas spun, his sword gleaming in the morning light, and slashed across Bolg's neck.

The orc stumbled a few steps, eyes wide with shock, before his severed head rolled away and his massive body collapsed to the ground.

Legolas turned and rushed to Tauriel's side, kneeling beside her. She opened her eyes weakly, blood on her lip but a faint smile on her face.

"You saved me," she whispered.

Legolas smiled faintly, brushing her hair back. "I feared I lost you."

Her hand found his. "You didn't," she said softly.

For a moment, the chaos of battle seemed to fade. They looked at each other amid the ruin, surrounded by silence.

Then a shadow passed over them. The air filled with the sound of beating wings—vast, powerful, echoing across the battlefield.

Legolas and Tauriel looked up to see the sky filled with the giant eagles descending from the north, sunlight gleaming off their wings.

---

The valley of Erebor lay choked in smoke and ash. Blackened corpses of orcs and wargs littered the battlefield like shadows of defeat. Amidst the haze stood Azog the Defiler upon his monstrous white warg. His cold blue eyes swept across the carnage, narrowing in hatred as they found the lone figure of the wizard who stood atop the distant stone spire. The man had wrought this ruin — burned twenty thousand of his legions into cinders. Azog's jaw tightened. He vowed then and there that he would not rest until the young human screamed beneath his blade.

But first, there was Thorin Oakenshield.

Across the scorched plain, the Dwarf-king rode forth astride a war goat, his armor gleaming gold and black beneath the rising sun. At his side thundered Dain Ironfoot upon his boar, and behind them rode five dozen dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills, their eyes blazing with resolve. The sight stirred even the battle-hardened Azog to a grim smile. His warg riders and elite orcs outnumbered them two to one — more than enough to crush these remnants of dwarven pride.

He turned once to glance at the tunnels behind him — the same from which his doomed army had poured — and for a fleeting moment considered retreat. But the thought died as swiftly as it came. There would be no running. If he failed today, Sauron's wrath would be far worse than death. No, he would kill Oakenshield here, and when the dwarf king fell, so too would the hearts of all his kin.

Clutching his mace in one hand and flexing the bladed stump of his other, Azog urged his white warg forward. With a snarling cry, his riders followed. The ground trembled beneath the stampede.

Thorin spurred his war goat onward, eyes locked on Azog. The chaos around him—dying orcs, battling dwarves, the clash of steel and screams—faded into silence. There was only the pale orc ahead. Only vengeance.

Azog raised his mace, bellowing a war cry that echoed across the valley. Thorin leaned low, tightening his grip on Thror's Justice, his shield ready.

The two met with the force of a thunderclap.

Azog's mace came crashing down toward Thorin's chest—but the Shield of Thrain flared with runes of blue light, absorbing the full impact. The enchanted metal rippled with contained energy, transferring the force through the weave of space magic into Thorin's sword. Thror's Justice glowed faintly, humming with pent-up power. As the warg galloped past, Thorin turned and struck its flank. The blade bit deep, slicing through hide and flesh.

The warg shrieked, rearing wildly and throwing its master from the saddle. Thorin wheeled his mount around, dismounted, and faced the beast as it charged him. With a sidestep and a flash of steel, Thror's Justice cut through its neck. The warg collapsed, twitching, its death throes echoing across the hills.

Azog rose from the ground, face twisted with fury. They began to circle each other, looking for any sign of weakness. Around them, dwarves and orcs clashed in bloody melee, but neither combatant cared.

"You should have stayed dead," Thorin growled, his voice like rolling thunder.

"Today," Azog spat, raising his weapons, "I finish what I began, Oakenshield."

They charged. Steel met steel, the sound ringing through the charged air. Azog's mace crashed against Thorin's shield; Thorin's sword clanged off the orc's arm-blade. Sparks danced with every blow. The pale orc was powerful, but Thorin—blessed by the heart of Erebor itself—matched him with strength and speed that no dwarf had wielded since the First Age. His reflexes were honed by fury and resolve, his endurance bolstered by the enchanted armor hidden beneath his plate.

Azog swung his mace in a brutal arc, striking Thorin's shoulder and denting his armor. Thorin stumbled, but the Graphene-Tritanium Composite underarmor absorbed the impact, leaving him bruised but unbroken. Azog roared and swung again, but Thorin caught the orc's wrist, twisted hard, and slammed the pommel of his sword into Azog's face. Bone cracked. Azog staggered backward, blood splattering the ground.

They broke apart, circling once more. Around them, the tide of battle was shifting. Dain Ironfoot's mighty warhammer crushed skulls and shattered armor. Balin and Oin unleashed blades of wind with every swing. Dwalin's gravity hammer sent orcs flying through the air, and Bombur's flame axe carved molten trails through the snow. The orcs were falling fast.

Then, from the northern sky, came a high-pitched cry.

Every warrior—orc, elf, and dwarf alike—looked up to see the eagles descending. Their vast wings blotted out the sun, their talons tearing through the Gundabad ranks near Ravenhill. A roar of triumph rose from the dwarves and elves below as the tide turned utterly against the forces of darkness.

Azog turned back to Thorin, his fury now pure madness. He charged, feinting left before striking right, his mace moving like a storm. Thorin caught the blow with his shield but was driven backward. Azog pressed forward, blow after blow, each one a howl of hatred.

Thorin's defense was flawless. He countered, parried, turned Azog's strikes aside, then drove his sword upward in a flash of light. The enchanted blade sliced through the orc's shoulder plate, biting deep into flesh.

Azog roared, his eyes blazing. With a desperate lunge, he rammed his bladed arm straight into Thorin's gut—only for the blade to screech harmlessly against the unseen weave of enchanted armor beneath.

Thorin looked into Azog's eyes—and smiled.

Before the orc could pull back, Thorin stepped forward, driving Thror's Justice clean through his enemy's chest. The blade erupted from Azog's back in a shower of black blood. The Pale Orc gasped, his eyes wide with disbelief. He tried to speak—but no sound came.

Thorin twisted the sword free and kicked him backward. Azog the Defiler fell, lifeless, into the ground.

For a heartbeat, the battlefield fell silent.

Then a cheer rose — a thunderous, rolling chant that spread through the dwarven ranks. Dain strode forward, laughter booming in his chest. He clapped Thorin on the back. "Well done, cousin!" he bellowed. Turning to the army, he raised Thorin's hand high. "All hail Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain!"

"Hail Thorin Oakenshield!" the dwarves echoed, voices shaking the mountains.

As the chant rolled across the field and the eagles circled above, the sun finally broke through the clouds, bathing the valley in golden light. The War for the Lonely Mountain was over.

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