The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 33 (Patreon)

The tree groaned under the weight of the entire company, leaning dangerously over the edge of the cliff as its roots strained to hold firm. The dwarves clung to the branches, eyes wide with fear and resignation, each one coming to terms with what they believed would be their final moments. Below, the wargs snarled and clawed at the base, while the orcs gathered, their hungry eyes fixed on the dwarves as they prepared to close in.

Just then, Gandalf reached up into the branches, gathering several pine cones. He held them close, murmuring under his breath as he channeled his magic. The pine cones began to glow, flames sparking and growing until each one blazed like a small torch. With swift movements, Gandalf hurled the first flaming pine cone down toward the wargs. It landed with a burst of flames, catching the dry brush at the base of the tree and creating a small explosion of fire.

Gandalf’s eyes sparked with determination. He reached for more pine cones, handing them to each member of the company. “Quickly, throw them at the beasts!” he urged. “Create a wall of fire—keep them back!”

One by one, the dwarves took the flaming pine cones, and with newfound hope and purpose, they hurled them down at their attackers. The wargs yelped and scrambled back, the fire blazing across their path. Soon, a flickering wall of flames separated the dwarves from their enemies, forcing the orcs and wargs to retreat, snarling and cursing as they struggled to find a way through.

Sirius watched, impressed, as the fire continued to spread. He caught Gandalf’s eye, nodding in respect. “I’ll give you this, Gandalf. Never thought pine cones would be our saving grace.”

Gandalf chuckled, his expression fierce. “A little fire can go a long way, especially against those who fear it.”

The fire spread quickly, forming a barrier that kept the orcs and wargs at bay. But as the flames danced higher, the tree’s creaking intensified, groaning under the strain of both the heat and the weight. The dwarves held their breath, glancing nervously at one another as they realized the tree was now dangerously close to collapse.

Azog snarled from beyond the flames, his pale face illuminated by the firelight as he glared up at them. “You can’t hide forever!” he shouted, rage dripping from every word. “When that fire dies, I’ll be waiting!”

The company held their ground, clinging tightly to the tree and praying the flames would hold the orcs off long enough. The cliffside blazed with light, casting shadows across the night as the fire raged, a fierce testament to their will to survive.

But in the back of his mind, Sirius knew they couldn’t rely on the flames forever. As he glanced at Gandalf, he saw the wizard’s gaze fix on the distant horizon like he was waiting for something.

The tree teetered dangerously, its roots no longer able to hold firm against the fierce flames that licked at its bark. The dwarves clung on for dear life, their hearts racing as they felt the ground beneath them tilt sharply. With a bone-rattling creak, the tree leaned almost parallel to the cliff's edge, revealing the sheer drop below—a void of darkness so deep that they could not see the bottom.

“Hold on! Hold on!” Thorin shouted, his voice barely audible over the crackling fire and the howls of the wargs. The company gripped the branches tightly, knuckles white with fear.

Suddenly, with a loud crack, a branch snapped under the weight of one of the dwarves. Kili lost his grip and plummeted, but before he could hit the ground, Fili lunged and caught his brother by the arm, nearly toppling over himself in the process.

“Careful!” Dwalin shouted, panic rising in his voice as he dangled perilously from Fili’s grasp. “I can’t hold on forever!”

Just then, with a whoosh, another dwarf lost his grip and fell. But Gandalf was ready. He raised his staff, and with a swift incantation, a shimmering barrier of energy shot forth, catching the falling dwarf mid-air and gently lifting him back up.

“Thank you, Gandalf!” the dwarf gasped, visibly shaken but grateful. The wizard nodded, focusing intently as the flames continued to spread, encroaching dangerously close to their perch.

But even as they scrambled to maintain their balance, the heat from the fire intensified. The trees around them, dry and brittle, caught flame quickly. The acrid smell of burning wood filled the air, and Sirius felt the heat biting into his skin, sweat trickling down his brow.

“We have to move!” Thorin yelled, his eyes scanning the area for any possible escape route. “If we stay here, we’ll be cooked alive!”

Thorin Oakenshield felt a fierce resolve surge within him as he looked at his companions, their faces drawn and weary. The time for retreat was over. He had led them through countless trials, and now, faced with the Pale Orc, Azog, he could not falter. He could not show weakness.

With a fierce determination in his eyes, Thorin drew the Goblin Cleaver, its blade glinting ominously in the dim light. "Stay safe!" he shouted to the dwarves, his voice ringing out with authority. "I will face him!"

His words were met with a mixture of concern and admiration from his companions. Dwalin and Balin exchanged anxious glances, but they knew Thorin’s stubbornness too well to argue. They had witnessed his courage time and again, and now, they could do nothing but watch as he prepared to confront the looming threat.

With every step he took, the tree felt unsteady beneath him. Thorin could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him, his muscles burning from the relentless fighting they had endured. Yet, he pushed those feelings aside, channeling the fierce pride of his ancestors as he advanced toward Azog, who sat tall on his warg, an imposing figure cloaked in darkness.

Azog’s eyes glinted with malevolence as he spotted Thorin charging forward. “Foolish dwarf,” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “You think you can challenge me? You are but a shadow of your forebears.”

With every ounce of energy he could muster, Thorin sprinted toward the Pale Orc, the Goblin Cleaver raised high above his head. He felt a rush of adrenaline course through him, urging him forward. In that fleeting moment, he envisioned victory—how it would feel to strike down the enemy that threatened his people.

But before he could close the distance, a sudden movement from Azog’s warg threw him off balance. The beast surged forward, its powerful jaws snapping just inches from Thorin’s arm. In the chaos, a rogue orc leapt down from the shadows, catching Thorin by surprise. With a swift, brutal strike, he knocked the sword from Thorin’s grip, sending it clattering to the ground.

Dazed, Thorin stumbled, trying to regain his footing. But Azog was already upon him, the massive warg looming over him like a dark cloud. The Pale Orc dismounted, his form imposing and fierce, casting a long shadow over Thorin as he advanced.

“You think you can lead your kind to glory?” Azog growled, lifting his weapon. “You are nothing!”

Thorin struggled to rise, but fatigue weighed heavily on him. The relentless running, the constant battles, and the fear of losing his kin had drained him, leaving him vulnerable. He braced himself for the fight, but before he could react, Azog lunged forward, striking him with a powerful blow.

The force of the hit sent Thorin sprawling to the ground. Stars exploded in his vision, and pain surged through his body. He gasped for breath, fighting against the instinct to succumb to darkness. Azog stood over him, an embodiment of dread and power, his weapon raised for another strike.

“Pathetic dwarf,” Azog spat, his voice a low growl. “You are not worthy of being a Dwarf King.”

Thorin’s heart raced as he struggled to push himself up, but every effort felt like wading through molasses. The roar of the battle around him faded into a distant murmur as he focused on the towering figure before him. Despite the adrenaline coursing through him, the fatigue was relentless, clouding his mind.

“Get up!” a voice echoed in his mind, the voices of his ancestors urging him on. “Fight! Fight for your kin!”

But the weight of his exhaustion was too much. Just as Thorin summoned the last reserves of his strength, Azog swung his weapon, a big mace, striking Thorin with a swift motion that sent him crashing back to the ground, unable to defend himself.

He lay there, disoriented, the world spinning around him. The cold earth felt unforgiving beneath him, and the sounds of the battle were dimmed to a distant roar. He could see the faces of his kin in the distance, their expressions twisted with fear and concern as they fought off the advancing wargs and orcs.

Azog’s voice thundered through the chaos, ordering one of his orcs to bring him the head of Thorin Oakenshield. The pale orc’s intent was clear—he sought to crush the spirit of the dwarves by eliminating their leader, a move meant to instill fear in the hearts of those who stood against him.

As Azog’s minion approached Thorin with a cruel grin, a sudden movement caught Sirius’s eye. In that moment of despair, he felt an undeniable urge to act. Despite his smaller stature, the strength and power that coursed through him were unyielding. He had never been one to back down from a fight, and this was no exception.

With determination sparking in his chest, Sirius drew his elvish-made sword, its blade shimmering with a faint light. The craftsmanship of the weapon made it feel like an extension of his very being, perfectly balanced and ready for action. He steadied himself, assessing the situation with a keen eye, and then sprang into action.

Sirius lunged forward, surprising the orc with his agility. He delivered a swift kick that sent the orc crashing to the ground, disarming him in the process. Before the creature could recover, Sirius moved with a speed that belied his size, bringing the blade down in a clean, decisive arc. The orc’s head rolled away from its body, a testament to Sirius’s fierce resolve.

With a surge of adrenaline, he turned his attention to the other orcs and wargs, who were now caught off guard by his sudden appearance. The sight of a hobbit wielding an elvish sword and cutting down their comrades filled them with confusion and rage.

“You want to fight? Then let’s dance!” Sirius shouted, his voice ringing out with newfound confidence. His movements were fluid and precise, every strike a testament to his training and innate abilities.

He launched himself at the nearest warg, dodging its snapping jaws and driving the sword deep into its side. The beast howled in agony, collapsing to the ground as Sirius rolled away, ready for the next opponent.

The other orcs hesitated, unsure of how to deal with this unexpected threat. They had been trained to instill fear, yet here was a hobbit defying all expectations, cutting through their ranks with a ferocity that left them shaken.

Sirius didn’t stop to dwell on their confusion. He was in the zone now, the world around him fading as he focused solely on the battle at hand. He danced between the wargs, dodging their lunges and countering with quick, decisive strikes. Each enemy he felled seemed to bolster his strength, pushing him forward into the fray.

As Sirius continued to clash with the orcs, a powerful screech suddenly pierced the air, drowning out the sounds of battle. It was a cry unlike any he had ever heard, reminiscent of an eagle's call but magnified, filled with raw power and authority. The dwarves around him faltered for a moment, their attention drawn upwards.

Sirius glanced up just in time to see a massive figure soaring through the sky. Its wings spanned wide, casting an imposing shadow over the battlefield. The eagle, larger than any creature he had ever imagined, descended with grace and speed, its sharp eyes scanning the ground below. The sight both awed and unsettled him.

“Is that friend or foe?” he muttered under his breath, gripping his sword tighter. The last thing they needed was another threat, especially with Azog and his orcs still in there.

As the great bird approached, its feathers glinted in the moonlight, revealing a rich tapestry of browns and golds. The creature was magnificent, its talons sharp and fierce, and Sirius couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope at the sight.