Chapter Three

Within the Fire

Blákári had no idea how he got where he was. All he knew was that everywhere around him elves and orcs fought amidst the dark trees and smoke — choking, burning, suffocating smoke — often as phantoms engaged in some lethal dance, their forms outlined for a moment by the glow of the flames and then swallowed by a billowing cloud of grey. Arrows swished through the air, some brushing so close to his face that they stirred the cloth he had tied over his nose and mouth to make it easier to breathe. Blades clanked against metal or bit into flesh, and he was surprised that both sounds seemed loud amid the crackling of fire. Most disconcerting was the sound of screams that came from both sides as red and black blood flowed.

He had not remained passive in this fight with darkness. From the moment he had found himself in the battle, Blakari had thrown himself into it, his doubts and fears forgotten in the reality of war. His body instinctively moved as it had been trained to fight and his axe was now covered in orc and warg gore.

With no pressing threats, Blákári swiped a hand over his face to remove the steady trickle of sweat from his exertions as well as the heat of the fire that loomed as another enemy in the midst of the fighting. The heat was growing as the fire continued to spread. With winter only beginning to recede, the woods had been dry and caught flame easily, sparks being carried on a foul breeze from the south to kindle in dry leaves and brush.

Blákári took a moment to get his bearings, taking note that his most recent fights had taken him some distance from Maithon and Tathar's group and into a group of elves he did not recognize. The orcs pressed against the elven warriors, attempting to push them back into a fire that raged along the left flank. The orcs were not very smart,Blákári realized, seeing that instead of pressing the elves, what the vile beasts had done was given the elves protection from the rear. They could fight with no thought of enemies coming up from behind them, and as a result, the orcs were dropping like bat dung in a cavern, leaving dark piles of corpses littering the ground.

Glancing back towards Tathar's group, Blákári decided to try to make his way back towards Maithon, but a band of orcs broke through one of the lines and swept between him and his goal, cutting him off and driving him closer to the fire. His hands gripped the haft of his axe as he prepared for the next onslaught, an odd sense of glee rippling through him. Battle lust, perhaps; Blákári was not certain, but he took it in stride, meeting the yellow gaze of an orc who saw him.

The orc responded as many had during the battle, showing first surprise to see a dwarf amidst an elven army, then hatred — the orcs had never forgotten the dwarves and their wars — and then something akin to amusement, if orcs could be amused. They seemed to target him as an easy kill amid so many death wielding elves, yet so far, not one who had confronted him had lived.

Not that such a death toll had all been his doing,  he thought with some irritation. As often as not, elven arrows had dropped an orc charging him, and he had seen Maithon's grin as well as the mouthed kill counts — twenty-seven being the last. How had the elf managed to kill so many so quickly? Or had more time passed than he realized? It was hard to tell the passage of time with the billowing smoke, flickering fire and the constant barrage of foes.  It felt no more than an hour and yet at the same time felt as if he had always been fighting.

The orc charged with a screech, its scimitar raised, its yellow eyes gleaming in the fire. Blákári waited for it, wondering if this one would drop with an elven arrow through its throat or if he would get to dispatch the beast himself. No arrow came, and with a slight smile twitching his lips, Blákári blocked the strike with his axe and pivoted, bringing the haft up and delivering a swift, bruising blow that drove the orc back. It tripped over a tree root, and Blákári made an easy kill, his blade falling heavily to severe the beast's head from its shoulders.

As he kicked the foul thing away from his boot, movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned towards it, blinking the sting of the smoke from his eyes, then again as he questioned what he saw. Dark shapes crept in the fire, stooped and close to the ground. He could not make out what they were, but it seemed as if dark cloaks of some form were thrown over some of their foes and thus rendered safe from the flames. What sort of sorcery was this?

The implication hit him like a blast of heat from a forge and he glanced at the elves fighting with no thought to their backs. "Behind you!" he called. "The enemy is within the fire!" His bellow rang out as he darted through the fighting to where the dark shapes were emerging behind the company of elves who thought their backs were protected. They had not heeded the dwarf's call, either not hearing him with the roar of the fire so close, or, more likely, too arrogant to pay heed to the call of a dwarf.

The form of an elf locked in combat with a rather large orc burst before him, slowing his steps. Blákári recognized Tathar's father, Ferlim, as the elf, then one of the dark shapes were through the fire, throwing off whatever it was that allowed them to move within the flames. Orcs!

One of the fell creatures targeted Ferlim, whose back was to the flames. "Behind you!" Blákári called again, but Ferlim could not turn. His blade and that of the orc he fought had locked against one another. Blákári saw the moment Ferlim sensed the orc behind him and the alarm that sparked in that ancient gaze.

Blakari hesitated for just a moment. What to do? He could not reach the orc in time and Ferlim would be dead before he could release his sword and turn to defend himself! His dagger was in his hand before he quite thought to reach for it, and with all his might he hefted the blade. Time seemed to slow down as the steel rotated end over end in its flight, the fire flickering against the polished blade. Noise faded and Blákári thought he could hear the whir of the dagger through the air.

As it slammed into the orc, the sounds of battle returned, time sped back up and Blákári heaved a sigh of relief. Ferlim managed at that moment to free his sword and impale the orc before him. As it fell, the elf spun, his eyes widening as the orc behind him dropped with a dwarven dagger buried in its throat. Blákári grinned. The look on Ferlim's face had been worth an ale cask filled with gold!

Then the elf's eyes widened as he saw what Blákári had already seen. "The orcs move within the fire!" Ferlim called. "Beware! The back is not protected!"

Blákári charged towards the flames as another orc made it through and shrugged off his smoking cloak. A strange, awful smell assaulted Blákári's nostrils as he neared it, but he continued on, engaging the enemy and dropping his foe. When he next looked up, he saw the elves of this company had changed their battle tactics, setting a few archers to drop the orcs moving within the fire, the arrows kindling in their flight but dealing out death just the same. Blákári's eyes briefly met those of Ferlim, and to his surprise, the elf inclined his head sharply, a grudging look of respect on his fair face.

But what about the other companies? How many of those cloaks did the enemy have? Were others even now in danger? Blákári used his smaller size to his advantage and managed to dart through the battle back towards where he had last seen Tathar's company fighting.

—

The fighting was intense. Never in all his years had Tathar fought in such a battle. He felt as though he had been moving for years, and yet it must only be a few hours. In the smoky gloom, it was hard to tell the passage of time and if the sun had appeared, there was no discerning it under the dark trees.

The enemy had not withdrawn, but had pressed more and more upon them, pushing them back towards the blazing inferno of the screaming trees. Raising his blade and blocking the scimitar of his latest foe, he planted his left fist directly in the orc's face. In the second that the orc's head jerked back, Tathar found himself listening for something and then realized he missed the sound of Legolas's laugh when he pulled moves like that.

And do you fight such battles, my friend? What horrors even now do you face? Would that you were here at my back!

Ripping his blade from the orc's chest, Tathar moved on to challenge a pair who charged him simultaneously. He pulled a long dagger from its sheath on his belt and fought with both weapons, his dagger finding one orc's neck and spraying its companion with a spatter of black blood. With a squeal, the remaining orc attacked in fury, lunging in with no caution. Tathar mentally sighed. These beasts never learned. They were bold and arrogant, attacking in anger and throwing caution to the wind. Such battle strategy was why so many littered the forest floor with their corpses

But orcs were not the only ones to fall Tathar saw as he dodged the renewed onslaught and stabbed backwards, his sword piercing the orc's back. As it fell, he scanned the ground, seeing enough of his people dead or seriously wounded to cause his heart to twist in his chest. How many would die here today? How many friends would he mourn?

He swallowed hard and moved back into the fight. So far they held their ground, the fire giving them a benefit the orcs seemed not to have considered. With no thought to their backs, they had an advantage. He had just dispatched another orc, when a great bellow sounded over the roar of the fire, the clash of weapons, the moans of the dying and the shrieks of many orcs.

"Behind you!" It was Blákári.

Tathar jolted in surprise, having forgotten all about their dwarf messenger as he fought beside his fellows. He glanced towards where the shout had come and saw Blákári pounding towards him. Tathar marveled at how much ground the dwarf covered so quickly, jumping over a fallen orc and racing on, darting around fighters, and even using his bulk to shoulder orcs out of his way as he hastened towards Tathar.

"Orcs! In the fire!" Blákári called again, waving an arm towards the burning trees.

Tathar frowned, not understanding why that would be a bad thing. Orcs in the fire meant less enemies they had to kill. Stupid beasts! He looked towards the flames expecting to see screaming orcs burning for having stumbled into the flames. Only orcs would be stupid… His thoughts ceased as he saw that to which Blákári referred. From the glowing trees, dark shapes emerged, smoking but not aflame. His eyes widened as a cloak of some kind was thrown off, revealing an orc with sword at the ready.

"Take heed!" he called. "Behind you! The orcs are behind our lines!"

—

Blákári wondered how the battle might have gone if the elves had not had a dwarf in their midst, as it was very unlikely the elves would have seen the orcs moving among the flames in their dark, smoking cloaks. His warning had been heeded, and word had spread among the ranks. The battle tactics changed as more orcs appeared from the flames, and the elves struggled to maintain their ground, setting archers to bring down the cloaked orcs before they could attack.

Blákári threw himself into the fight with renewed vigor, planting himself near Tathar's archers and covering their backs as they shot arrow after arrow into the flames. He grinned at Maithon's shocked expression when Blákári charged and took down an orc headed for the elf, but before he could call a count, he found himself swinging at another foe. Not that he could remember his count. There were simply too many of the foul beasts and too much distraction to worry about remembering numbers in the chaos of battle.

In the end, he found it did not matter how the battle might have gone without him. When all was said and done, all he could remember was the camaraderie he had felt while fighting alongside elves — elves! of all people — and his grief at the terrible loss of life.

—

All around Thranduil, clanging swords and the swoosh of arrows filled the air. This day was unlike any other, this battle unlike any fought in his wood. Many would die as Anor rose over the wood, but Thranduil determined they would not die for naught.

They were outnumbered. The orcs were bold and pushed forward, coming at them from all sides. Smoke billowed. Fire crackled. His trees screamed.

But they would win the day, no matter the cost. He would not allow the Shadow to defeat him. Not again!

He raised his sword and struck true. To win, they would have to take him, and he would not give them that. With a mighty battle cry, he charged back into the fray, his sword swinging as he wielded it in a deadly dance.

No more retreat. No more falling back. Today they would take back the ground. Today they would defeat the enemy!

Thick smoke clogged his nostrils, choking him as it enveloped the wood. The smell of blood drove him on. His people lay dying. His trees seeped bubbling sap. The heat blistered his skin. The smell of singed hair and burning flesh was nauseating.

He drove his sword into another orc and withdrew it as black blood spattered, sizzling as it hit his hot armor. In the surreal surroundings of smoky shadows, he continued to fight, calling out to those still standing to follow him.

And slowly, bit by bit, the orcs fell back, trampling over charred ground and over fallen bodies. Seeing the first sign of retreat, Thranduil lunged forward himself in pursuit, his sword humming and a battle chant spilling forth from his lips and was taken up by the warriors fighting beside him, slowly spreading among the army.

The sound rose, growing in volume, as they advanced and the orcs began to flee. But the enemy would not regroup, would not seek refuge to fight another day. The song rose louder as the warriors pursued the fleeing orcs through the trees. Victory would be theirs — was theirs!

Thranduil reached a rise of ground and paused to watch as the enemy was routed, groups of orcs pursued and exterminated by warriors whose song had turned to one of victory. Darkness would not win. The light would return.

As if hearing his thoughts, a beam of sunlight broke through the smoke and burned forest. Its light rested upon him and he raised his sword with a loud cry. "VICTORY! The wood is OURS!"

To Be Continued…