Everything was unfolding just like in the original history. The elves, led by Thranduil, were gearing up to clash with the dwarves from Iron Hills...
Boom! The ground shook at the foot of a distant mountain as several snarling jaws burst out of the earth.
"They've forgotten about the giant earth serpents," Azog snarled.
A horde of orcs poured out from underground, charging at full speed. Shields raised in one hand, weapons gripped tight in the other, they roared as they surged toward the elves, dwarves, and humans.
"The devils are coming!" Ironfoot Dain shouted, yanking his boar's reins to turn him around.
"Fight! Fight! Sons of Durin!" Dain bellowed.
The dwarves, who'd been ready to make a last stand with the elves, suddenly twisted on their heels and sprinted forward on their stubby legs. With the clanging of shields, a wide shield wall slammed into the orcs' path. Roland had miscalculated here—the dwarves numbered a solid 1,500, with over 500 pros among them. Proper elite dwarves, no doubt.
Why weren't the elves fighting? Bilbo looked up at the indifferent elves, then at Gandalf.
"Thranduil! You can't do this!" Gandalf shouted at Thranduil.
Thranduil hesitated, glancing back at the lined-up dwarves...
...
"Speed up! We gotta get to the battlefield!" Roland said seriously. He needed to assess the situation before deciding whether to jump into this death pit. He wasn't exactly the most capable lord, but he had a conscience. No point throwing his men away on a hopeless fight.
"We need to flank the left side of the battlefield!" Roland directed. They couldn't just pop up behind the orc horde — if the orcs counterattacked, Roland figured he'd have to bail. Right now, he was walking a tightrope over a bottomless pit. One wrong step and it'd be a disaster. Just because he had the system didn't mean he could waste resources. No solid logistics or reinforcements meant he was a rootless weed—any defeat would be catastrophic.
Why the left side? Like he said, backstabbing with his current strength was basically a suicide mission. The right flank was Azog's crow ridge command post and could get hit anytime by orc reinforcements from the Gamba fortress. If they ran into that, they'd be crushed by at least 20,000 orcs—dragon riders wouldn't save you from that kind of sandwich. Plus, those orcs had pros of their own—tough fighters and curse-wielding shamans. Big problems for Roland.
"Ah-hoo hoo!" The orcs roared, crashing into the dwarves' shield wall.
Suddenly, the orcs in the front row squinted against the sun—but that wasn't sunlight... it was the gleam of elven rangers' blades.
Ranger ranks were clear: Apprentice Ranger, Ranger, Mid-level Ranger, High Ranger, Eagle Eye Ranger, and the top title—the Stalker.
Gotta give credit to Thranduil—he sent out nearly a thousand elite ranger elves this time. Their curved blades sliced through the air, war energy humming off the edges, cutting orc armor, muscle, veins, and bone like a hot knife through butter...
The orcs were stunned by the sudden attack, wildly swinging to block as thorny whips suddenly sprouted in the void.
Crack! Crack! Crack! The sharp snaps echoed as the orcs around were whipped bloody, some even had their heads cracked open by the vines. This was a few high-level rangers using their skill—Whip of the Jungle: summon a thicket of vines to lash the enemy continuously.
"Kill! For the glory of Durin!" The dwarves, backed up, stopped hiding behind their shields, dropping them and charging straight into the orcs.
"Heavy Slash!" The dwarves' warrior pros unleashed their skills. Sharp battle axes wrapped in war energy sliced downward, cleaving through a swarm of orcs.
"Fire!" The elven archers lined up behind the shield wall notched their bows. Three thousand of them let loose volleys of skill-enhanced arrows.
"Roar!"
"Howl!"
"Haah!"
The barrage successfully broke the orc ranks, cutting off their reinforcements. The dense rain of arrows left gaping holes in the enemy lines.
...
"Whoa, this is really turning into a total mess, huh?" Roland and the gang were slouched on the mountaintop, pointing at the fiery battlefield below.
"Boss, we seriously jumping in like this?" Reno asked grimly. Felt like Roland was leading everyone straight to hell.
"Don't forget, we still gotta get paid. Our start-up funds are all tied up in this mountain..." Roland glanced at the still-closed Iron Hill gate, his mind on the mountain of treasure piled inside.
"Let's just watch for now." Roland didn't rush to decide, instead observing the battlefield carefully.
"At least 4,000 elves! Dwarves probably around 1,000. Long Lake town's soldiers, 200, plus maybe 500 recruits!" Roland muttered. That was way more than in history. Thanks to Roland, Long Lake folks escaped Smaug's roasting, so their soldier count shot up too.
"But the orcs are at least 15,000..." Caslow calculated weakly.
"Sigh, and that's not counting the orc reinforcements from Gamba fortress..." Roland sighed. If it weren't for that damn small cash-for-wealth point deal, he really wouldn't want to get into this mess. He'd long passed the hot-blooded crossing phase when he could just flex and crush foes. This was the real deal—every decision could cost his people, or even his own life. This ain't a game.
...
"They can't fight on two fronts! Attack Riverdale!" Azog spotted the allied forces' weak spot instantly from Crow Ridge and played his trump card.
Humans would send reinforcements to Riverdale to protect the old and weak, dwarves would hold their ground to defend Iron Hill at all costs, but the elves couldn't split their forces. They'd have to choose. Obviously, the elves wouldn't fight alongside the dwarves. With that, Azog easily divided the battlefield.
"Retreat! Riverdale!" Bard screamed, watching the orcs turn toward Riverdale, eyes blazing.
"Fall back to Riverdale!" Seeing the allied forces being squeezed, Thranduil ordered a retreat. Elves and humans pulled back under the cover of alternating volleys of elven arrows...
Only the dwarves fought stubbornly at Iron Hill's gate, their space shrinking inch by inch.
"Thorin! Where is he? We need him!" Dain searched desperately for his cousin on the battlefield.
A heavy blade stabbed into Dain's boar's chest, tossing Ironfoot Dain harshly to the ground.
Scrambling up, Dain grabbed the spear that stabbed him and drove it back into the orc sneaking from behind, then swung his war hammer smashing several orc heads next to him.
A massive troll swung its axe in a wide arc—one dwarven berserker dodged too late and was cleaved in two.
Screeching metal echoed as an orc's weapons pierced the gaps in a dwarf's armor. The dwarf flailed weakly and collapsed...
"Thorin! Thorin—" Dain screamed wildly, watching his kin fall one by one. Sadly, Thorin was already cursed by the dragon's golden hoard...
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