"Slash!" The sharp battle axe came crashing down, and the elven ranger who had been desperately resisting was instantly decapitated.
"Move through here quickly!" Bolg's eyes gleamed with ferocity, a bloodthirsty glow flashing within them.
This was already the fourth elven outpost he had wiped out.
A total of 48 elves had fallen at the hands of Bolg's strike team, and behind them, the Orc army continued to march forward in a never-ending stream.
"Why are we sneaking around like this, Lord? Why don't we just ignore these damned elves and charge straight to the Lonely Mountain, tear the dwarves apart, and drink their blood?" One of the Orc berserkers grumbled in the freezing snow.
"Shut up! We need to make the dwarves drop their guard! When we strike, we will crush them in one fell swoop!" Bolg snarled at his subordinate.
It was deep winter, and the elves had mostly withdrawn into the heart of their kingdom. Aside from these outposts, there were almost no patrols along the borders.
All Bolg's force needed to do was clear these bothersome sentinels and avoid the patrols near the Woodland Realm, then they could circle around to the base of the Lonely Mountain.
"Move faster!" Bolg growled under his breath.
He had no desire to face the elven rangers who moved through the forests like fish in water.
The reason they were able to easily slaughter these elves now was due to their overwhelming numbers and rank suppression.
If it came to a direct fight, even a small group of similarly-ranked elven rangers could whittle down an orc force several times their size through hit-and-run tactics.
...
"Any movement from the Orc army in the north?" Thorin asked, not looking up from the map.
"No, Your Majesty, they're still in place," Balin replied, holding a cup of ale in his hands. The oppressive atmosphere was so thick even drinking wasn't bringing him any joy.
"Your Majesty! The Orcs are marching south!" Glóin rushed in, breathless.
"Finally! They're moving, are they?" A cold light flashed in Thorin's eyes.
"Any word from the elves?" Thorin asked, still a bit uneasy.
"The elves haven't sent any messages," Balin shrugged.
"No news is the best news," Thorin muttered, thinking for a moment.
"How far away is the army from Iron Hills?" Thorin wanted to know how soon reinforcements could arrive.
"At the latest, tomorrow!" Fili replied confidently.
"That's enough time! Since it's only this one Orc force, we'll wipe them out!" Thorin slammed his fist onto the table. The resolute and decisive Dwarf King had returned.
"Fili, go invite King Bard of Dale to join us for a council," Thorin ordered.
In Erebor, they could muster 2,000 Dwarven warriors. The army from Iron Hills would add another 1,500. Altogether, they could gather over 3,000 Dwarves.
The forces from Dale could contribute another 500 men, bringing their numbers to more than 4,000 soldiers.
"Four thousand against ten thousand! The advantage is ours!" Thorin clenched his fist with determination. (If Rynar were here to see this, he would probably spit out his drink—this classic scene was unfolding right here in Middle-earth!)
"What about the elves?" Fili suddenly remembered. Shouldn't they inform the elves as well?
"Let them mind their own business!" Thorin scoffed. His grudge against the elves made him unwilling to cooperate with them.
"Oh, right. Send a message to King Rynar and his people by the Long Lake. Let them know what's going on—they'll need to be ready too, especially the Dragon Knights." Thorin added as an afterthought. After all, they would need Rynar's dragon riders when the time came.
...
"The Orcs are gathering and heading north?" Elenthor stared at Elandor in shock.
It wasn't the fact that the Orcs were heading north that surprised Elenthor, but that they had so brazenly gathered, not even caring if the Dragon Knights saw them.
After all, Rynar's dragon riders were no secret anymore.
"Your Majesty, I almost couldn't resist sending down a couple of draconic spells on them..." Elandor said regretfully, clearly disappointed he hadn't had the chance to slaughter some Orcs.
"Don't worry, your time will come. Soon enough, the Orcs will give you more than enough to swing at until your arms are tired," Elenthor sighed and shook his head.
"But I did see a few dragon-hunting ballistae in their army," Elandor suddenly added after some thought.
"What? Were you spotted?" Elenthor's composure faltered, worried that Elandor had been seen by the Orcs.
"Relax, relax. Those things can only hit regular dragons—they can't pierce the hide of a celestial one!" Elandor yawned, confused as to why Elenthor, the Elven King, was so alarmed by a few small ballistae.
"Next time, try not to stop halfway when you talk..." Elenthor sighed, his face darkened with frustration.
"You should let King Rynar know about this, though. We don't want his dragon riders getting caught off guard by the Orcs."
Elenthor added, though true dragon riders wouldn't fear the smaller ballistae, but for regular dragon riders, those things could be deadly!
"Got it! I'll head over now." Elandor didn't waste time, quickly heading out.
"Hey, Elandor! King Elenthor! Greetings!" Before Elandor could leave the doorway, Rynar and Aranthor walked in, blocking his exit.
"The Orcs in the north are moving south!" Rynar said before they even had a chance to speak.
"Huh? Why aren't you guys more surprised? The Orcs attacking in winter is quite unusual!" Aranthor, who followed behind Rynar, asked curiously, noticing their lack of reaction.
"We were just about to come find you. The Orcs from the south have already gathered and are moving north," Elenthor rubbed his temples in exasperation.
If the southern Orcs were on the move, how could the northern ones not react?
"No wonder. A pincer attack from both sides, huh. Impressive!" Rynar commented.
He was more curious about how the Orcs had managed to communicate across the entire Mirkwood forest. Probably magic?
Already prepared for such scenarios, Rynar seemed rather unconcerned.
"By the way, Azog's army has some small dragon-hunting ballistae. You might want to warn Knight Caslow," Elandor reminded him.
If the Orcs managed to get a lucky shot, it could spell disaster for the dragon riders, who were the main force in this battle.
The bulk of the killing was expected to be done by the war mages and dragon knights using large-scale destruction, while everyone else was just meant to hold the line against the Orcs.
"Tsk tsk, seems like they've developed some trauma from the last battle, huh? Got it. Thanks for the heads-up, Elandor," Rynar nodded, acknowledging the reminder.
Looks like Azog had learned his lesson from the previous battle at the Lonely Mountain, where he had been taught a harsh lesson by the dragon riders' draconic magic.
This time, he had come well-prepared.
"Sigh, I just hope Azog doesn't cry when he sees the real dragon riders this time," Rynar sighed sympathetically, feeling a bit of pity for the Orc king who had no idea what he was in for.
Hopefully, there were no dragon riders in Orc heaven...
"I bet his expression will be priceless!" Aranthor chuckled, winking.
"He'll probably be moved to tears by our kindness," Elenthor snickered too.
The three rulers, who held most of the northern military power, laughed together, already imagining Azog's fate.
Elandor, watching them, couldn't help but feel a chill for the poor Orc king, who would die not knowing how thoroughly he had been outwitted.
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