At the southeastern front, Dáin watched as the dark tide of Orcs surged from the three tunnel mouths—raging, bellowing, forming a black flood that came crashing toward the Ironfoot line.
Without hesitation, he bellowed, "Prepare the spinning ballistae!"
At once, thirty dwarven torsion-ballistae rotated into position.
These were no ordinary engines of war. The bolts they loosed bore metal spearheads shaped like broad blades, and in their centers were spinning vanes, designed to whirl violently in flight. Upon impact, the bolts would explode into a storm of jagged force, cutting down swathes of enemies. Their rapid spin could even deflect enemy arrows in midair.
Because of their stature, dwarves had little use for longbows. Instead, they relied on shortbows for skirmishes, and in large-scale battles, upon crossbows and heavy bolt-throwers. These possessed tremendous destructive power—though with one fatal flaw: a slow rate of fire.
They could not provide continuous pressure like Elven or Mannish archery. And today, that flaw was about to be tested.
With Dáin's command, the ballistae loosed their fury. Thirty spinning bolts shrieked into the black swarm, their impact devastating. Orcs were flung into the air in pieces—limbs tumbling, torsos torn apart. Even the thick hides of trolls could not withstand the onslaught.
But the Red-Eyed Orcs knew no fear. With a frenzy born of madness, they threw themselves at the dwarven lines. The second volley of spinning bolts was not yet ready, and already the enemy was upon them again.
The dwarves stood firm. Their front-line shieldwall—honed and battle-tested—held its ground against the charging tide. Between locked shields, gleaming spears jabbed forward, pierced flesh, and withdrew. Again. And again. Like a wall of armored porcupines, they cut down hundreds in moments.
When trolls neared the line again, the ballistae fired once more, clearing the space in front of the wall—but not all were stopped.
A few war-beasts—hulking troll-like monstrosities standing five to six meters tall, clad in black iron—had slipped past the carnage. Their charge shook the earth.
Dáin gritted his teeth, preparing to issue orders—
When suddenly, a voice rang out above them. The voice of the White Wizard.
"Foul creatures of shadow—your rampage ends here!"
With a sweep of his staff, Saruman summoned an invisible force that slammed into the war-beasts. Frozen mid-charge, they howled as if caught in unseen chains. Before they could break free, another volley of spinning bolts whistled through the air—piercing their armor and felling them where they stood.
Gandalf stepped up beside Dáin. "Dáin! This will not do. Your bolts will run out before this tide ends, and Saruman and I cannot exhaust our magic in the first hour of war."
"We must devise another strategy," he warned. "Or when the Orcs reach your line en masse, they will overwhelm you."
Dáin cursed under his breath, contemplating the counsel. He was about to order his goat-riders and chariots to break formation and strike from the flank—
But then, a horn blast echoed.
The Red-Eyed Orc horde, thirty-thousand strong, split into two columns. One half turned—toward Dale.
It did not ease the pressure on the southeast. Even halved, their number still outstripped the Ironfoot defenders five to one. A clash was inevitable.
…
Upon the walls of Dale, Bard watched as fifteen thousand Red-Eyed Orcs thundered toward his position.
"Prepare for battle!" he shouted.
As the horde neared, Legolas raised his hand—and the Elven archers loosed their arrows in unison. The skies darkened as shafts flew, cutting down Orcs by the hundreds.
Among the enemy were trolls, bearing massive boulders—intending to hurl them against the walls. But Legolas's command was swift.
"Use the armor-piercing bolt-throwers—take them down!"
The siege engines roared to life. The trolls fell.
Denied their brute assault, the Orcs resorted to siege ladders, launching the most savage kind of warfare—a climb over corpses.
….
Back near Erebor's gate, the dwarves atop the walls could see the chaos unfolding across both fronts. They stood in despair, hands clenched into fists.
They longed to charge out, to join their kin from the Iron Hills in this desperate struggle—but without Thorin's command, none dared disobey.
Such was dwarven loyalty. Such was their nature—unyielding, proud, bound by oaths even when their hearts tore with grief.
Kaen, having observed all this in silence, weighed the tides of battle. At last, he reached out with his mind, sending a message directly to Dáin.
Then he turned to Kíli and Bilbo.
"Thorin will soon conquer the dragon within. When that hour comes, he shall fight beside Dáin and reclaim his honor."
"But now," he said, voice rising, "I must lead a sortie—strike at the enemy's flank!"
….
Before the assembled soldiers—eighty Royal Guards, and five hundred Elven warriors—Kaen drew his blade.
A radiant light burst forth from him. Silver and gold wreathed his frame, divine and blazing.
"I know your hearts burn for battle, as does mine!" he called. "So come! Follow me! We strike at the Orcish flank. Let us smite the darkness!"
"Smite the darkness!" Tauriel cried.
"Smite the darkness!" the Elves echoed, their voices like the wind through a forest ablaze.
Together, they surged forward into the fray.
…
Southeastern front.
Dáin, Gandalf, and Saruman simultaneously received Kaen's mental command:
"Pull the Ironfoot line back three hundred paces. Let the Orcs come in."
They turned, eyes widening.
From the southwest ridge, Kaen and Tauriel now led their force of Royal Guards and Elves down the slope—rushing to intercept.
In a heartbeat, the three leaders understood his intent.
The Red-Eyed Orc horde, though split between Dale and the southeast, still shared a common rear—commanded from the Western Ridge by Azog the Defiler. He could adapt, redirect forces, reinforce whichever front wavered.
And so, his army remained agile, unbreakable—like a serpent with two fangs, but one brain.
Kaen meant to sever the body.
By dividing the battlefield and attacking from the rear, Kaen would force the Orcs to fight on two true fronts, crippling Azog's coordination, stretching his forces thin.
….
"Oh, Durin's beard!" Dáin exclaimed. "He's mad. Mad and magnificent. I like that shining man!"
He turned, slamming his axe against his shield. "Infantry and siege weapons—fall back three hundred paces! Goat-riders and chariots—charge the enemy's rear! Aid our allies and split this cursed battlefield!"
Five hundred Ironfoot goat-riders and fifty dwarven war-chariots thundered from the line, curving around like a scythe. Their speed defied their size; their charge, unstoppable. The ground trembled as they smashed into the enemy's rear ranks.
Kaen and Tauriel, with their gleaming host behind them, followed swiftly.
….
And Kaen shone brighter.
With sword raised high, he roared:
"For courage and for glory!"
"For Eowenría!" bellowed his Royal Guard.
The Elves, though puzzled by the name, joined the cry—believing it to be a war title for their human king.
"For Eowenría!"
Thus, the host of Kaen crashed into the Orcs like the hammer of the Valar.
The darkness bled.
And the tide began to turn.