At Legolas's command, twenty silver arrows streaked out like falling stars, each one finding a throat or a heart.
At that same instant, Legolas loosed his own arrow.
The arrowhead scraped across the stone, striking sparks. The oil-soaked cloth flared instantly into a roaring blaze.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"
Cries in the Haradrim tongue rose in frantic waves.
Guards rushed toward the fire, shouting orders, trying to smother the flames.
None of them noticed the three thousand Elves bursting out of the shrubs.
Elven scimitars traced pale arcs in the moonlight, like the scythes of the Reaper, harvesting panicked lives before they could properly begin to fight.
Legolas leapt from the tree, hit the ground in a roll, and came up just as a spear hissed past where his chest had been.
By the time he straightened, his blade had already slit the throats of two guards.
He sprinted for the nearest catapult.
The crew there fumbled to load another stone, but he was already among them.
Legolas danced through them like a shadow, movements as graceful as a performer on a moonlit stage, his sword whirling, every spin and step severing another enemy's life.
"Damn Elf, die!"
A harsh voice snarled behind him.
A shadow sprang high, a Haradrim champion, braids whipping, greatsword raised to cleave down at Legolas' back.
A frontal strike he could have avoided.
But this ambush came out of nowhere.
Legolas' pupils shrank. He twisted, but he knew he was a heartbeat too slow.
In that instant, a golden arrow flashed across the battlefield.
It punched through the attacker's skull with a wet crack, red and black spraying the ground.
Legolas spun around.
At the edge of the forest, countless golden lights were speeding toward the camp, surging closer like a river of molten stars.
At their head rode a figure in silver armor, swift and deadly as a storm goddess.
Her hair, golden as autumn leaves, flew behind her like a banner.
Each sweep of her twin swords carved bloody arcs through the air, the sound more terrifying than the bellow of war elephants.
"Tauriel!"
Legolas shouted, joy breaking through his battle-focus.
The newcomer was his foster sister, the girl who'd grown up by his side; once captain of the Woodland Realm's guard, first of the Caladhîn Elves, now Queen of Eowenría.
Tauriel's ten thousand Caladhîn warriors crashed into the Haradrim camp like a bursting dam.
Their bows spat golden arrows that ripped through canvas, leather, and bone.
Every shaft carried a purifying power that burned the darkness out of the flesh it pierced, leaving Haradrim bodies smoking where they dropped.
"My dear brother, you look terrible," Tauriel said when she reached him, eyes flashing with mixed worry and teasing.
"Yes," Legolas admitted, a wry smile tugging at his lips, "especially standing next to you."
It had been many years since he'd seen any family apart from his father. For a heartbeat, the battlefield, the blood, the screams all seemed to blur at the edges.
But Tauriel only swung her blades, flinging fresh blood from them, and nodded toward the chaos.
"I'd love to catch up," she said, "but this is not the time."
"Right now, we deal with the enemy in front of us."
"Agreed."
At the mention of the enemy, the warmth in Legolas' eyes hardened into ice.
They spoke no more.
The prince and the queen lifted their swords and plunged back into the storm of battle.
The charge of the Caladhîn Elves was like the stroke of a giant knife, cutting clean through the Haradrim lines.
Those savage warriors who had seemed so terrifying before—
In front of the well-armed, perfectly coordinated soldiers of Caerilassil, they crumpled like straw dummies.
"Their main force is to the east!" Legolas pointed toward a distant cluster of tents where black skull banners snapped in the wind. "If we kill their leader, this rabble will break."
Tauriel nodded.
Her twin swords crossed, carving an enormous glowing X through a charging war-elephant. The beast crashed to the ground, sending its riders flying.
"Then we strike at the heart," she said. "With me!"
The two of them led the Elven warriors in a direct thrust toward the central command tent.
Gold and silver light tangled together, surging through the night like an unstoppable flood.
The Haradrim chieftain had been trying to pull his forces together, barking orders….
But when he saw the Elven vanguard barreling straight toward him, his face turned grey.
Panic flickered in his eyes.
He hastily ordered the horns to sound retreat, then spurred his men to pull back as fast as they could.
Legolas immediately raised a hand.
The Elven line slowed, and Tauriel shot him a puzzled look.
"Why stop?" her eyes asked.
He answered in a low voice:
"They still vastly outnumber us. We only gained the upper hand because we struck from the shadows.
"Right now, they've chosen to withdraw instead of fighting us to the death."
"If we chase too deep, they'll recover their wits and turn to fight on ground of their choosing. Then we'll be the ones at a disadvantage."
He sheathed his blade with a soft metallic whisper.
"Our priority," he said, "is to re-establish contact with King Elurin.
"Then we gather all our strength together.
"And then…"
His eyes turned toward the dark line of trees where the Haradrim vanished.
"…we launch the final, crushing assault."