Elven Camp, Nightfall
When Kaen and Dáin arrived with the three thousand strong host of Ironfoot warriors, it was Thranduil himself who came out to greet them.
The meeting of the Elven-king and the Dwarf-lord was far from the fiery clash one might have imagined. Nor was it adorned with false pleasantries. There was no warmth, nor open contempt—only a curt nod, a silent acknowledgment between kings.
The scars between their peoples ran deep. Though Thorin and Thranduil had made peace, the rift between elf and dwarf would not be mended in a day. The fact that no swords were drawn was itself a testament to great restraint.
….
That night, beneath the cold stars and amidst the glow of firelight, four kings gathered in a war council: Kaen of Eowenría, Bard of Dale, Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, and Dáin Ironfoot of the Iron Hills.
It was the first such gathering since the War of the Last Alliance, three thousand years past—the first time the rulers of Men, Elves, and Dwarves sat at the same table in Middle-earth.
Spread before them was a detailed map of Erebor and its surrounding lands.
Kaen, leaning over the map, pointed to the northwest.
"Our scouts report a vast host of Orcs advancing from Mount Gundabad," he said grimly. "They hail from the dark capital of the North. The numbers… are no less than one hundred and twenty thousand. Their commander is Bolg, son of Azog the Defiler."
A heavy silence fell over the council.
Though Orcs were often ragged and poorly trained, sheer numbers had a weight of their own. Ten thousand blades, even dull ones, could wear down the finest steel.
Kaen's army of 8,500—drawn from Eowenría, Rivendell, and Lothlórien—had not yet arrived. As it stood, the coalition at the foot of Erebor numbered:
—3,000 Elven warriors
—1,000 men of Dale
—3,000 Ironfoot dwarves
A total of seven thousand soldiers stood to face a force ten times their size.
Even the greatest champions could be worn down when outnumbered so utterly.
Kaen's tone darkened.
"Azog himself has not been seen. That can only mean a second army approaches—likely from Dol Guldur. We estimate Ten thousand strong: trolls, Wargs, and the Red-Eye Orcs—the dark elite."
At this, even the proudest lords paled.
The Red-Eyed Orcs were Sauron's handpicked scourge, and with trolls and Wargs at their side, they could carve through seasoned warriors like fire through dry grass.
In truth, in the original story too, the Free Peoples were never in advantage during the Battle of Five Armies. Their victory came only when Thorin overcame the dragon-sickness and fell in glorious battle against Azog, robbing the enemy of their commander.
Thranduil spoke first, his voice cool as ever.
"If that second army arrives… we shall be at a grave disadvantage."
Bard nodded, brow furrowed.
"At least until Kaen's host arrives, we must hold our ground. We cannot let ourselves be surrounded."
Dáin grumbled, his voice laced with regret.
"I should have brought more than three thousand. If I had thirty thousand at my back, those stinking filth would never dare approach."
It was no idle boast.
The Iron Hills were rich in high-quality ore, and their warriors clad in full plate and wielding dwarven war-machines were a force to reckon with. Had thirty thousand of them come, the Orcs might well have turned and fled.
Kaen shook his head. "With what we have, we cannot launch an assault. Not yet. We must hold the line until my army arrives."
And so began the planning of Erebor's defense.
…
Erebor's main gate faced directly south. From beneath it flowed the River Running, winding its way across the plain.
It was clear that the Orcs would have to strike either from the southwest or the southeast if they intended to reach the gate.
Thus, three main fronts were drawn:
—The Southwest Front, a wide and open plain, would be held by Thranduil and 1,500 Elven warriors.
—The Southern Front, anchored at Dale and along the riverbanks, would be led by Bard and his 1,000 men, aided by Legolas with 1,000 Elves.
—The Southeast Front, narrower and more perilous—likely to bear the brunt of the enemy's dark champions—would be held by Dáin and his 3,000 Ironfoot warriors, with Gandalf and Saruman lending their sorcery.
The remaining 500 Elves would form a reserve force, led by Tauriel and placed under Kaen's command. They would observe the field and reinforce where needed.
Though Kaen yearned to stand in the thick of the fight, distrust between Elves and Dwarves and Bard's still-growing authority left only one candidate to anchor the alliance.
Only Kaen could be trusted by all.
As for the the western spur of the Lonely Mountain—its control had to be forfeited. Their numbers were stretched too thin to contest it.
Until Kaen's army arrived, defense—not victory—was the goal.
The four kings agreed, and under cover of night, the hosts divided and marched to prepare their defenses.
…
Deep in the night…
Kaen, flanked by his eighty royal guards, made camp beneath Erebor's gate. Tauriel's 500 Elves arrived with him. Kíli and Bilbo came as well.
From the high walls above, Dwarves leaned over, shouting greetings.
"Oi! Kíli! Bilbo! What are you doing down there?" cried Bofur. "Bringing Elves that close? Careful, or Thorin'll have you shot!"
Balin called out, "King Kaen, I see you moving troops. Has war come already?"
"It has," Kaen answered solemnly. "Mount Gundabad has sent 120,000 Orcs. Dol Guldur sends another 10,000 dark elites. They will be here by tomorrow."
"By Durin's beard!" someone exclaimed.
"Seven thousand against that? That's madness!"
"I can't stay up here! I must fight beside my kin from the Iron Hills!"
"Let Thorin call me traitor—I will fight!"
The Dwarves clamored, voices rising.
But a voice silenced them all.
"None shall leave without my command."
Thorin stood upon the gate, cold and grim. His gaze found Kaen's across the distance.
He sneered as his eyes fell upon the Elven banners.
"You brought Elves so close to our gate? Are you hoping they'll stab us in our sleep?"
Kaen said nothing. Instead, he turned to Kíli and nodded.
Kíli stepped forward and opened his hand.
In his palm lay the Arkenstone.
Its light—pure and radiant—cut through the darkness like a star reborn.
Thorin's breath caught. His gaze locked upon the jewel, and his face darkened.
Kaen held the Arkenstone aloft for a moment, then without a word… tossed it toward the gate.
Thorin, startled, reached out and caught it.
He stared at it, stunned, as though unable to believe what he held.
But then—from the western ridgeline—came a long, savage howl.
Kaen turned his head. His eyes narrowed.
The cry of a Warg.
Azog the Defiler had claimed the western spur.
Kaen looked back to Thorin and spoke, his voice sharp as steel.
"Do you hear it? That is your nemesis, Thorin. The pale Orc, Azog—he has come to fulfill his ancient oath. To wipe the bloodline of Durin from the earth."
"You now have the Arkenstone. The treasure you coveted above all else is in your hands."
"But to me… you have never been poorer. Because you can do nothing."
"Stay in your halls, King Under the Mountain. Watch as your kin die for your throne. Watch your cousin fall. Watch your people bleed for your crown of emptiness."
"Just as the Elves once stood… and watched the fall of Erebor."