Descending the mountainside, the company finally managed to calm themselves. A collective sigh escaped their chests as they began to take roll, making sure no one had been left behind.
The Eldens were present, though some looked more battered than others. Leda, her hand bleeding, stood firm as support for Miquella, who closed his eyes for a moment to steady his weakened body.
The dwarves fared no better: bruised, wounded, incapable of returning to battle anytime soon. Yet all remained alive, though Bombur collapsed to the ground and no longer had the strength to rise.
Even Gandalf felt more exhausted than he had in centuries, more wounded than ever before. It was the first time he had suffered such humiliation in combat: struck down in a single blow, unable to defend himself, forced to push through the pain to reach and deliver the final attack.
"Kilian, Filian… Ori, Dori, Nori… Bifur, Bofur, Bombur… Balin, Dwalin… Óin, Glóin… Thorin… Ansbach, Hornesent… Thiollier, Freya… Dane, Moore… Leda and Miquella…" Gandalf murmured as he went through the names, until a sudden realization struck him. "Where is Bilbo?!"
Worried glances met one another. They searched among themselves first, then back along the path, as if expecting him to appear belatedly, as if he had simply fallen behind in the escape… but luck was not on their side.
"Where's the hobbit?" a dwarf growled in dismay. The brief spark of joy they had regained after leaving the mountain was instantly extinguished.
"When was the last time you saw him?" Gandalf asked, his voice taut with bitterness.
"I…" Miquella gasped, leaning against Leda's chest, his bad eye still shut. "When… we first fell from the platform… I saw… I saw him fall into the void."
"Damn it!" Thorin roared, striking the tree that supported him with fury.
Silence fell like a heavy shroud. They all saw Bilbo as a true companion; none had expected to lose him like this, midway through their journey. Grief mixed with muffled curses, with the impossible wish to return to the mountain and search for him, though they knew it would be useless. Any desperate attempt would only lead them to certain death… and the only thing they would find, if anything, would be the shattered body of a hobbit.
"Hey, why the long faces?" suddenly interrupted a voice that tried to sound cheerful.
All turned at once. There he was, standing before them: none other than Bilbo Baggins, with a weary smile as though making a triumphant entrance. He looked as battered as the rest—clothes torn and dirty, a wound still bleeding on his forehead… but alive.
"Bilbo!" the dwarves cried, rushing at him in a burst of jubilation. The poor hobbit was nearly knocked over by the fervor of their welcome.
The company's spirits soared anew. Even Thorin let out a sigh of relief, grateful not to have lost a single one of his companions on that disastrous journey.
"How did you manage it?" Dori asked, still incredulous.
"Well… let's just say I'm a very good burglar… and rather slippery," Bilbo replied between gasps, laughing as if he himself could hardly believe he had made it out alive. He kept one hand on his pocket, unconsciously hiding something far too important.
Miquella watched him closely. Knowing the original tale, he did not miss the hobbit's subtle gesture. He suspected Bilbo had found the Ring, and that it had been the key to his survival. Yet he said nothing: he lacked the strength to speak, and knew he could confirm his doubts later.
"I'm glad you're here…" Gandalf said, patting his shoulder with genuine relief.
The reunion was moving, brief, and warm. But peace shattered instantly when a sharp howl echoed in the distance. The company looked up and, on the mountain heights, distinguished the silhouette of a legion of orcs and wargs, watching them hungrily like predators who had found their prey.
"Run!" Gandalf ordered without hesitation. Danger had caught up with them again, misfortune clinging to them as faithfully as flies to honey. They were in no condition to fight: facing that horde now would be suicide.
Without delay, they all broke into a run. They knew the odds were against them: the wargs were faster, they were exhausted and wounded… but there was no other choice. If they fought in that state, casualties were certain; if they fled, at least they clung to the hope of finding favorable ground—or with luck, a miracle.
The company hurried down the slope toward the cliffs. Miquella, mounted on Torrent and surrounded by his warriors, channeled what little power he had left to cast healing spells on himself and some companions, trying to restore just enough strength to withstand what was coming.
But the situation was worse than they feared: the orcs were already there, stationed outside the mountain, waiting for them. They shared the same goal as the goblins, competing for the prey… and now they cheered with shouts and laughter at the sight of the company fleeing the mountain, weakened, ready to be hunted.
The wargs without riders struck first, lunging at dwarves and Eldens in a ferocious pincer attack. The ambush was brutal, but thanks to Miquella—who, despite his limited magic, had managed to restore some wounds and ease his companions' exhaustion—the company was not taken by surprise.
The dwarves refused to be cowed by the colossal beasts. With axes and hammers, they repelled the wolves while pressing forward. Those bearing the troll rune stood out, delivering charges that sent wargs flying through the air; yet the cost of such strength was steep: Miquella's spells struggled to heal them, and each blow left them on the brink of collapse.
The true danger came afterward. Orc riders burst in on their mounts, while archers fired from behind, forcing the company to zigzag and take cover behind the mountain's sparse, slender trees. A straight advance became impossible: every arrow hissed death through the air, every step a gamble.
Soon they found themselves cornered: the cliff's abyss ahead; riders pressing from behind and the flanks. The Eldens formed a circle around their lord, wielding their weapons fiercely to contain the assault, while the dwarves realized the road had ended: fight or die.
But when they looked back, despair filled every face. There were too many. An endless tide. For every enemy they struck down, another filled his place. And, more unsettling still, they never attacked all at once: the orcs came in small groups, wearing them down little by little, as if toying with them, savoring their prey's desperation.
Gandalf, weary and wounded, had little strength left for spells. He needed an idea, anything… until his eyes fell on something trivial: a pinecone lying on the ground. He picked it up, and with the faintest effort of his magic he activated Narya, his Ring of Fire. The cone burst into flames with a blazing glow. Gandalf hurled it at a warg charging a dwarf and, on impact, it exploded like a fiery grenade. The beast rolled aflame, howling in agony, its attack thwarted.
Seeing it work, Gandalf realized he had found a simple, efficient resource. He swiftly gathered more cones, igniting and hurling them like burning projectiles. Bilbo, noticing what he was doing, rushed to help, fetching more from the ground. When they ran out, the hobbit climbed a nearby tree, plucking more with unexpected determination.
The company fought valiantly, but the situation was untenable. Each fallen enemy was replaced at once, while the true horde waited in the distance, watching, enjoying the show. It was a cruel game: wearing them down until only despair remained.
And high above, like a sinister shadow, a pale, burly orc on a white warg watched with delight. In a deep, cruel voice he barked orders, demanding his warriors keep up the pressure, to continue squeezing every drop of resistance from their prey. His eyes gleamed with malice: he did not want a swift victory, but a slow, humiliating one.
The wounds piled up, too many even for Miquella's power. Each attempt at casting wracked him with headaches, his magic unable to keep pace with the battle. He barely remained on his feet.
Gandalf, exhausted, looked up and saw Bilbo perched in a tree, gathering pinecones. A desperate idea—perhaps futile—formed in his mind, but it was all he had.
"Everyone, to the trees!" he commanded firmly, already climbing himself, preparing more flaming pinecones.
The dwarves, despite their fatigue, obeyed at once, shielding one another as they retreated upward. The two dwarf maidens were first to reach the branches, loosing their last arrows to cover the withdrawal. The Eldens followed: Leda carried Miquella in her arms up into a sturdy oak, while the rest aided each other in climbing. The problem came with Moore, too bulky and weighed down by heavy armor: every branch groaned under him, threatening to snap.
The orcs and wargs roared with rage at their refuge in the heights. They struck the trunks with axes and spears, trying to topple them. And the situation worsened: night had fallen, and the flames Gandalf had kindled spread quickly, catching the dry grass and creeping toward the very trees where the company now clung. Orcish laughter rang out cruelly: they wanted to see them burn like trapped rats.
Then, through smoke and fire, the enemy leader appeared.
"It cannot be…" Thorin muttered in disbelief.
The pale orc advanced on his white warg, a sneer of disdain twisting his face.
"We meet again, Thorin son of Thráin…" he spat with arrogance, eyes burning with rancor.
"Azog…" Thorin said, his heart clenching in his chest.
"Kill them all! But leave him to me." The orc raised his claw and bellowed in the Black Tongue.
Archers drew their bows, and a rain of arrows fell upon the company. Unable to move much in the branches, the dwarves and Eldens became easy targets. Gandalf tried to conjure a shield, to repel the projectiles as he had before, but he had nearly no strength left. Several arrows struck the weary fighters; some nearly toppled from the trees. Leda clutched Miquella tighter, using her own body as a shield to protect him.
"My lord… use Torrent and flee over the cliff," she urged with determination, ready to leap into battle, to sacrifice herself to buy her beloved time.
"No, Leda…" the demigod gasped, shaking his head. He knew he could not abandon them. He knew the Great Eagles could yet save them—they only had to hold out… or so he wanted to believe.
Thorin, on another branch, saw his brothers wounded and the future crumbling before his eyes. He clenched his fists solemnly. After a moment's silence, he made his decision.
He slid down to the ground, unsheathed Orcrist, and seized a half-burnt log to use as an improvised shield.
"Leave this to me. Find a way out! That's an order," he said firmly, hoping at least some could escape while he finished the task left undone… to end the life of Azog the Defiler.
None dared stop him. All watched with aching hearts as the dwarf ran toward his fate. Thorin advanced through smoke and flame, sword in hand, facing his mortal foe.
Azog greeted him with a guttural laugh, raising his weapon as his white warg snarled and pawed the ground, eager for blood.
The clash was inevitable: two old enemies, face to face.