The orc numbers dwindled little by little as the company pressed onward, but it was clear that this could not continue for much longer. Torrent, like the rest of the Eldens, had not regained his full strength upon arriving in this world and, even as a spirit steed, he was beginning to show signs of strain. Every yard gained exacted a toll, and that toll was more wounds—for both him and Miquella.
The demigod felt the sting of arrows grazing his flesh and the danger of warg jaws snapping at him with the ferocity of a starving man devouring a pie. Exhaustion was catching up to him; he was no warrior, and not even in the body of an adult. His spells began to shift from offensive to defensive until, drained, he cast one more… not at his pursuers, but forward, into the sky.
It was a simple spell, neither powerful nor lethal, glowing above to draw the attention of the orcs that had been hounding him. No explosions, no poison, no ice creeping across the ground—just that single flash, the last the boy conjured before galloping straight ahead, away from the horde.
Torrent reached a terrain of great rocks, the wargs snapping at his heels. Despite his weariness, he was no ordinary steed: with the ease others would walk, he leapt from stone to stone, leaving behind the less agile wolves.
Some orcs, driven by reckless momentum, tried to imitate the maneuver, but their mounts lacked Torrent's skill—or that of mountain goats. One by one, the wargs lost balance, slipping from the rocks and plunging into the void. Their riders cursed the boy, some with broken bones, but they had no time to recover: an arrow pierced the skull of one wolf, collapsing it over its orc, and before the creature could react, a dwarf's axe split its neck.
From the shadows of that stony labyrinth emerged dwarves, Eldens, a hobbit, and a wizard—ambushing the stragglers who had entered the terrain. Axes and swords sank into the unsuspecting foes; the wargs, unable to maneuver, became helpless targets. With swift strikes and retreats behind the rocks, the company avoided the arrows loosed by distant orc archers.
The battle unfolded just as Miquella had planned. The remaining orcs were now a manageable foe, and the wargs gave a final guttural howl before charging with fury at their prey. Crude orc blades clashed against dwarven axes, old sworn enemies meeting once again as they had so many times in history.
The Eldens, though lacking that ancient enmity, fought mercilessly against any who dared harm their lord. To them, the mere existence of such creatures was foul. Leda, eyes bloodshot, swung her sword without pause, severing enemies. She had seen her lord pass by, his once immaculate white robe now stained red, and in her awoke a long-repressed lust for slaughter. Ignoring her own safety, she leapt forward to eradicate the vile race.
Gandalf, though not on the front lines, guarded the rear and protected Bilbo. The worst outcome would be to be surrounded by wargs, yet even so the wizard inflicted many of the day's casualties—albeit indirectly. The seal that had once bound the Ainur was weaker now than in ages past, and his magic, once curtailed to the point of forcing him to wield a sword, showed glimpses of its true strength. A few motions of his staff unleashed waves of force that flung several orcs at once; bursts of light seared those who dared draw too close; and compressed strikes of lightning pierced like spears of pure wrath.
Even so, the number of orcs was terrifying—far greater than in a certain well-known tale. This was an army worthy of dread. The company fought fiercely, not yet at a disadvantage… but victory would not come without a heavy toll of wounds and exhaustion. Worst of all were the archers, whose distant volleys curtailed every move and kept the threat ever-present.
The fight would continue until the nearby orcs were slain and the company found a way to deal with the archers. But that would not be easy: they were mounted, and reaching their positions on foot was nearly impossible before they withdrew again.
Then a horn sounded—deep, close—drawing the eyes of orcs, dwarves, and Eldens alike… all save Leda, who kept tearing through enemies as if nothing could halt her.
The sound had come from very near, and before anyone could locate its source, a fresh rain of arrows fell upon the field. This time, however, the company was not the target: several orcs dropped dead under the surprise assault.
From the nearby woods emerged a cavalry, gleaming in exquisite metal armor, bearing sky-blue banners that fluttered in the wind. They charged straight at the orc archers, ambushing them and cutting off any escape. Forced to abandon their attack on the company, the enemies now had to face a far more formidable foe: the expert riders of Rivendell, who had appeared like phantoms, lances already aimed at their hearts.
Without the constant threat of arrows from afar, and recognizing the newcomers as allies (for some at least), the company unleashed their full strength. Fatigue seemed to vanish and the fight surged with renewed intensity.
"ATTACK!" roared Thorin, raising Orcrist. "Let no elf claim he slew more orcs than a dwarf!" And without waiting for cover, he charged ahead.
The dwarves followed with less caution than before, even hurling themselves in groups upon wargs to bring them down. Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur in particular fought with confidence: the runes that bolstered their strength kept them in better condition… though that same confidence cost them more than one wound through carelessness.
Even Bilbo, who had already tasted the bitter flavor of battle, picked up a fallen blade and finished off downed orcs and wargs. With Gandalf shielding his back, the hobbit found courage, staining his hands with enemy blood without ending up wounded—or dead.
The riders of Rivendell swiftly annihilated the archers and, without pause, galloped toward the company, bows and lances ready to dispatch the few orcs remaining. This irked several dwarves, who watched their last foes—and the tallies on their "kill count"—fall to an elf's hand.
Not long after, the last orc fell. The field lay in tense silence, broken only by the steady clatter of elven hooves on stone and earth. The elves were thorough, ensuring each felled foe was truly dead, finishing off bodies on the ground. The dwarves, meanwhile, regrouped into a tight formation, watching with distrust that race toward whom they had borne deep rancor for generations.
From among the elven riders who held their lances high—as though the battle were not yet over—and whose stance the dwarves could easily misinterpret as threat, rode forth a different figure: their leader.
"Lord Elrond," said Gandalf, recognizing the commander of the host and stepping forward with a smile at seeing an old friend.
"Mithrandir," replied Elrond, also approaching with a warm smile. "It seems we find ourselves in rather a complicated situation," he added in Sindarin, eyeing the band of dwarves and the contingent of bloodstained men. Yet in those men he sensed something different, something setting them apart from any he had met before.
"Yes… complicated indeed…" answered the wizard in the same tongue, glancing at his group, unsure where to even begin explaining.
"There will be time to talk while we dine, my friend. Let us return, that your wounds may be tended," proposed Elrond warmly, signaling his riders.
One elf blew a horn, and at once the formation shifted: one rider remained behind while another set out to scout for any surviving orcs, as Elrond had ordered.
"What did the elf say? Are they leaving?" asked one of the dwarves. None wished for another fight at that moment; they were exhausted, wounded, and though stubborn, not fools. The elves' withdrawal would be a relief.
"They have invited us to Rivendell to tend our wounds, to eat, and to rest," Gandalf explained to those who did not understand Elvish.
The wizard looked to Thorin, who held a silent exchange of stares with Elrond. From his mount, the lord of Imladris inclined his head slightly.
"Greetings, Thorin son of Thráin. Imladris welcomes you," he said now in the Common Tongue, showing respect for the dwarven prince.
Thorin only stepped forward. He was in no position to refuse; his company needed rest, and though he detested the thought of sheltering among elves, he knew it was that or risk the campaign ending here.
Gandalf sighed in relief, thinking matters were finally settling… but not all shared his peace of mind.
"We cannot go. We must find our lord," Leda quickly refused, impatient to begin the search for the missing leader.
"Do you speak of a young rider with golden hair?" asked Elrond, fixing his gaze on those men who so intrigued him.
"Have you seen him?" pressed Leda, with no respect in her tone, only urgency.
"One of my scouts crossed paths with him on the road. He seemed wounded, and the scout directed him toward Rivendell before returning to formation. It is possible we may meet him along the way… or perhaps he already awaits us there," Elrond confirmed, sensing the woman's anxiety and unwavering loyalty, echoed by the others at her side, toward that strange figure he had yet to meet.
"Let's go!" ordered Leda. The Eldens regrouped and moved toward Elrond, almost pushing him to begin the march at once.
Elrond simply mounted and set off. The host advanced slowly, hindered by the lack of mounts for the Company. Though the elves rode at a reduced pace to let the others follow, the rhythm was still draining, especially for the wounded. But the Eldens had no time to waste, so whenever a dwarf lagged, one of them with enough strength simply hoisted him like a sack and carried him along without slowing down. The dwarves, of course, did not appreciate this, but the Eldens heeded no protest; their only concern was Miquella.
So determined were they that Leda nearly struck down an elf to take his horse, but she knew it would be foolish. She had heard that finding Rivendell was no easy feat, and she could not afford to attack the only ones who could guide them, however strong her desire.
Fortunately, Imladris was not far. The dwarves, moved by the Eldens' devotion to their lord—so like their own to Thorin—made one final effort that allowed Elrond to quicken the pace.
The road was arduous for the weary and wounded, but at last the city of Rivendell unfolded before them: Imladris, one of the few undying realms in Middle-earth.
The Eldens did not pause to admire its beauty; their eyes sought only one man. They had found no trace of him along the way, so their last hope was that he was already there… and almost he was.
As they neared the gates, they saw Miquella and Torrent approaching. His steps were slow and staggering, like a child about to collapse from sleep. It was the only reason the guards had not struck him down outright after ignoring their challenge.
The Company could not help but rush toward Miquella upon seeing him in that state. Even from a distance they had spotted the arrows lodged in both Torrent and the demigod. Not only the Eldens, but the dwarves and Bilbo too were deeply worried for their wounded companion… though they did find it strange that no bloodstains had been seen along the road. That was because Miquella's divine blood faded when far from him, erasing the trail and leaving visible only what clung to his body.