[300 powerstones bonus chapter]
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As the army of Orcs from Mount Gundabad revealed its full might, a chill swept across the battlefield like the breath of death itself.
There were too many.
Far, far too many.
They stretched across the land like an endless tide of darkness—so thick and vast that they seemed to choke the very sky. Above them, a swarm of vampiric bats blackened the heavens, wings fluttering like the whispers of doom.
The air was thick with black vapors, roiling like the breath of some vast, clawed beast. A monstrous presence loomed with every step they took, as if the very land itself recoiled from their advance.
And at the forefront—nine spectral figures emerged from the gloom, each cloaked in shadow, each exuding an oppressive aura that turned blood to ice.
The Nazgûl.
Eight of them were mighty beyond reckoning, but one among them eclipsed even his brethren.
The Witch-king of Angmar.
They came not as wandering wraiths, but as generals of war—leading one hundred and twenty thousand Orcs in the name of the Shadow.
Thranduil's face turned from solemn to pale, then to something nearly grim.
Upon the walls of Dale, men and Elves gazed westward—and terror gripped their hearts. Despair clawed at their spirits.
Bard and Legolas drew sharp breaths.
From the southeastern front, Gandalf and Saruman galloped in haste, arriving just in time to behold the tide of death descending upon them. Their faces were drawn, shocked—knowing well what such power meant.
For it was not merely Azog's spawn and the Red-Eyed horde that approached.
It was the Nine, led by the Witch-king himself.
Gundabad, long ago a Forge-hold in the Angmar kingdom, had remained a bastion of darkness even after that kingdom's fall. And now, the Witch-king's presence was a proclamation: Angmar had risen again.
A low, rasping laugh echoed across the land.
The Witch-king lifted his gaze toward the east and sneered.
"Kaen Eowenríel," he croaked in his deathless tongue. "By the will of my master... thou shalt perish this day. Your blood shall feed the roots of the mountains."
….
On the high ground that bisected the Red-Eyed Orc army, Kaen opened his eyes with a jolt.
He had felt it—that gaze. That suffocating pressure. His spirit had brushed against the Witch-king's.
So. They had truly set their sights on him.
The three Nazgûl that had ambushed him in Lake-town had been warning enough. But this—this was madness.
Nine Nazgûl and an entire legion of Orcs, descending together to rewrite the fate of the North.
So this was the price of altering destiny.
But Kaen's eyes did not waver.
So be it.
Let the dark come. He would meet it with the light.
He closed his eyes again, reaching outward with his spirit, and sent a message—to the kings, to the wizards, to the leaders of this fractured alliance.
"The Nine have arrived. We cannot ignore their presence."
"Our enemy now holds overwhelming superiority. We can no longer afford scattered resistance or isolated fronts. It is time to unite our strength."
"I ask King Thranduil to withdraw his Elven warriors from the southwestern front. I ask King Dáin to pull back the Ironfoot legions from the southeast. Let our forces join before the Gates of Erebor and form a final line of defense."
"I shall take fifty Royal Guards and the remaining Elven warriors with me to Dale. There, I will stand beside Bard, and together, we will hold the city against the storm."
"Hold fast. Our reinforcements are coming. Until the horn of counterattack sounds, we must endure."
….
At the southwestern front, Thranduil stood ready to unleash death upon the approaching horde. But Kaen's message echoed through his mind. He turned to Gandalf and Saruman, eyes narrowed.
"Well?" he asked. "What do you make of it?"
Gandalf stroked his beard grimly. "Withdraw. Your Fifteen Hundred cannot stand against one hundred and twenty thousand Orcs—let alone the Nine."
Saruman nodded solemnly. "Kaen is right. If we stand divided, we'll be picked off, one by one. Better to consolidate."
Thranduil paused for a breath—then gave a single, decisive nod.
"Sound the horns. All forces withdraw—we march for Erebor."
The call to retreat echoed across the ranks, and the Elves began to move swiftly toward the Lonely Mountain.
….
On the southeastern front, the Ironfoot Dwarves had paid for every inch of ground with blood. Five hundred had fallen. But they had slain many times that number—Orcs, trolls, and war-beasts alike lay piled in grim monuments to dwarven stubbornness.
Dáin was soaked in gore, his great hammer crushed and bent from the slaughter. Still he roared, still he fought.
But then came Kaen's voice, steady and resolute.
Without hesitation, Dáin ordered the final volley of rotating ballistae to fire. The projectiles scythed through the Orc ranks, breaking their momentum.
And then he turned.
"Fall back! Fall back!" he bellowed. "Sons of Durin! Let us meet those pointy-eared princes at the gates—and make our last stand side by side!"
The dwarves roared in grim agreement, retreating in orderly ranks toward Erebor.
The Orcs surged forward, but Kaen watched with calm. Everything was moving as planned.
He turned to Tauriel, the Royal Guards, and the Elven soldiers beside him.
"It is time. We go to Dale."
"By your will, my lord," Tauriel replied.
They crossed the frozen River Running like phantoms in the mist, and moved along the city's flank, cutting down Orcs in their path.
—
Upon the walls of Dale, fewer than half of the two thousand defenders remained. Bard saw Kaen's banner approaching from the west and called out:
"Archers! Cover King Kaen's advance! Hold your fire for my command—open the gates when the moment is right!"
Legolas unleashed arrow after arrow, his bow singing. The Orcs hesitated beneath the rain of death.
Kaen did not pause.
"Strike! Tear down their ladders!" he roared.
He led the charge—his Royal Guards,Tauriel and her Elves behind him—into the heart of the Orc siege.
Ladders fell. Orcs tumbled. The path to the gate cleared.
"Open the gates!" Bard called.
The doors groaned open, and Kaen and his warriors poured into the city.
War-beasts and trolls tried to follow—but heavy ballistae on the towers sang once more, and the great monsters fell before they could pass through.
The gates shut again—sealed tight.
"King Kaen!"
"Your Grace!"
"Tauriel!"
Bard and Legolas hurried to meet them. Kaen nodded, grim but composed.
"This is no time for greetings," he said. "No time for rest. Our nerves must remain taut, our minds sharp."
"Man your stations. The true storm is yet to come."
….
To the west, the Witch-king watched Thranduil's army withdraw.
He sneered behind his mask of shadows.
To five of his fellow Nazgûl, he gave command:
"Take seventy thousand Orcs. Pursue the Elves. Signal the Pale Orc—his army is to flank and encircle. None are to escape."
"And I..." he whispered, "shall lead the remaining fifty thousand."
"I go to Dale."
"I will break its gates in the name of my master... and take Kaen Eowenríel alive."