Chapter 63: The Gathering Storm

The sharp crack of a battle axe echoed through the snowy woods as it cleaved through the body of an elf ranger, who had been desperately trying to hold the line. The elf's lifeless body crumpled to the ground, the cold winter air mingling with the warmth of his blood.

"Move quickly!" Polge, a brutal half-orc commander, barked at his men. His eyes gleamed with a fierce and bloodthirsty light. This was the fourth elf outpost they had obliterated, leaving a trail of devastation behind them. So far, Polge's commandos had claimed the lives of 48 elves, and the main half-orc army was advancing steadily behind them.

"My lord, why are we sneaking around like this?" a half-orc berserker grumbled, his voice rough against the biting cold. "Why not just storm the Lonely Mountain and tear those dwarves to pieces? How sweet it would be to drink their blood!"

"Shut up!" Polge snarled, his voice low but dripping with menace. "We need the dwarves to lower their guard. When they think they're safe, that's when we'll crush them!"

Winter's cold grip had driven most elves back into their kingdom, leaving only a few outposts manned. Polge's strategy was simple but effective: eliminate these isolated outposts and slip past the elven patrols, avoiding the woodland kingdom's main forces on their way to the Lonely Mountain.

"Move faster!" Polge urged, casting a wary glance at the surrounding trees. He knew too well that the elf rangers, though outnumbered, could easily decimate his forces if they managed to draw them into the dense forest. His current success was due more to overwhelming numbers than to any tactical brilliance.

---

"Have there been any changes in the orc army to the north?" Thorin Oakenshield asked, his gaze fixed on the map spread across the table before him.

"No, they're still holding their position, Your Highness," Bard replied, sipping his drink, though the tense atmosphere had dulled his appetite for it.

Suddenly, a scout burst into the room, breathless and wide-eyed. "Your Highness! The orcs are moving south!"

"Finally, they're on the move," Thorin muttered, his eyes narrowing.

"Have we received any word from the elves?" Thorin asked, a hint of concern creeping into his voice.

"No news from them," Bard, Lord of Lake-town, responded with a shrug.

Thorin frowned but quickly masked his worry. "No news is better than bad news," he said, trying to reassure himself.

"How long until the Iron Hills army arrives?" Thorin pressed, his thoughts turning to the reinforcements they desperately needed.

"They'll be here by tomorrow at the latest!" Fili responded with a confident tone.

"It might be too late by then. But if it's just orcs, we can handle them ourselves," Thorin declared, pounding the table with a renewed sense of purpose. The dwarven king in him, resolute and unyielding, had returned.

"Fili, send word to Bard. We need to gather the leaders to discuss our strategy," Thorin commanded.

With the dwarves of Erebor and Iron Hills combined, Thorin could muster nearly 3,000 warriors. The men of Lake-town could contribute another 500, bringing their total force to over 4,000 soldiers.

"Four thousand against ten thousand," Thorin muttered, clenching his fists. "We can take them!"

Fili paused, a sudden thought crossing his mind. "What about the elves? Shouldn't we inform them?"

Thorin's face hardened. "Let them fend for themselves," he replied, his longstanding prejudice against elves seeping through. But then, as an afterthought, he added, "Notify King Roland and his Dragon Knights. We'll need their support."

---

Meanwhile, in the elven camp, King Novia listened with surprise as Peter Gros, one of his scouts, relayed the orc movement.

"They're not even trying to hide their numbers," Novia remarked, astonished. "And they're not worried about being spotted by our Dragon Knights? Strange..."

"Your Highness, I was this close to unleashing some dragon magic on them," Peter Gros said, a note of regret in his voice.

"Patience, Peter," Novia replied with a sigh. "The time for action will come. Soon, you'll have your chance to cut down more orcs than you can count."

Peter grinned, but then his expression turned serious. "I did see some dragon-hunting crossbows among the orcs."

"What?" Novia's eyes widened in alarm. "Were you spotted?"

Peter shook his head. "No, I kept my distance. But those crossbows could be a real threat to our flying beasts."

"Even so, they're not powerful enough to pierce the scales of a true dragon," Peter reassured, though Novia remained troubled by the news.

"Next time, don't leave out important details," Novia scolded lightly, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "Go inform King Roland immediately. His Dragon Knight must be prepared for those crossbows."

Before Peter could leave, the door to the tent swung open, revealing Roland.

"The orcs from the north are heading south!" Roland announced before Novia could say a word.

Novia sighed heavily. "We were just about to find you. The southern orcs have already begun moving north."

"So, it's a coordinated assault," Roland mused, a note of admiration in his voice. "But how are they communicating across the entire Dark Forest? Magic, perhaps?"

"More importantly," Peter Gros interjected, "those dragon-hunting crossbows in Azog's army are no joke. We need to be cautious."

Roland nodded, appreciating the warning. "We'll be ready. Thanks for the heads-up, Peter."

"I just hope Azog doesn't break down in tears when he sees a real Dragon Knight," Roland chuckled, a hint of dark humor in his voice.

The group exchanged knowing looks, their resolve hardening. The coming battle would be fierce, but they were ready. Azog, on the other hand, had no idea what awaited him.

As the leaders of men, dwarves, and elves prepared for the storm gathering on the horizon, the fate of Middle-earth hung in the balance.

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