The first to lower his weapon was the Elven prince, Legolas. He stopped the Elves beside him as well; their arrows no longer aimed at the dwarves.
"We've shed enough blood."
Facing him, Dáin Ironfoot likewise lowered his warhammer. His soldiers no longer gave their rolling-stone battle-cries.
Thranduil lifted his gaze to Azura's Star in the sky, orange magic-light reflected in his eyes. "Ah… my jewel. There it is."
The Ringwraith battling him was even more agitated, stretching both arms toward that distant star, the sharp gauntlets of his armor pointing at the dazzling radiance—so eager he could've torn it down with his bare hands.
On the wooden tower, the pale, scrawny Ring Master trembled all over. He peeled his lips back, and on his finger the golden One Ring ran like molten lava, seeping into his veins. Wherever that baleful light passed, skin ashed into stone; flesh twitched and swelled; bone multiplied at speed—clusters of bony spikes bulged up, ripping through the hide. First the palm, then the forearm, then from shoulder-blades spreading across chest, belly, skull, and limbs.
The wooden tower swayed slightly under the pressure of the Dark Lord's suddenly expanding physique.
His gaze never left the wizard in the sky for even a breath—never left Azura's Star.
"Mine… mine… that's mine!"
Azog and Thorin only looked up once at Azura's Star, then continued to strike at each other with merciless fury.
The warg riders' clash with the Men did not stop either; they fought a bloody battle in the southeast corner of the valley.
Dumbledore held Azura's Star high and flew south.
The Dark Lord and the Ringwraiths led the cackling Orc host in pursuit of the wizard.
Thranduil ordered his troops to chase, but they hesitated. He commanded them again and again, forcing the Elven soldiers who had stopped to face south. At that moment, the Elven prince hurried up from behind.
"Stop. Please—stop," Legolas called to his king.
"Legolas, you will come with me and seize that jewel." Thranduil's gaze felt strange to his own people.
"Never. I'm staying here to help the dwarves and Men defeat the Orcs."
"You would help the enemy?"
"No. They aren't the enemy. Orcs are."
It was said the Orcs were created by the dark Enemy, Morgoth. They were not born evil in every breath, but they were easily used by darkness. In times when the Dark Lord fell, they scattered in tribes and fought among themselves—yet once a single leader rose, they gathered under that banner and set the world ablaze.
Azog's tribe being so vast was already unnatural. And the appearance of Ringwraiths and that Ring Master made it clearer still: the darkness that had been lurking was stirring again.
The hatred between Elves and dwarves had once begun over the Silmarils—and they had later united to oppose Morgoth. Now they had come into conflict again over Azura's Star. Could they become comrades-in-arms once more?
"The dwarves killed our kin," Thranduil insisted on hatred. He desperately wanted to reclaim his army's resolve so he could immediately march south after the jewel.
"No. Greed and desire killed our kin." Legolas stared at his father. "Your greed killed our kin."
The sun burned like blood.
The dwarves had already sounded their horns. They formed up and marched east to support their allies.
Thorin's battle with Azog had reached its endgame. This dwarf of the Lonely Mountain, heir of Durin, bore the name Oakenshield because in the Battle of Azanulbizar long ago he had seized a broken branch of oak as a shield, blocked Azog's blow, and in the same motion hacked off one of Azog's arms.
They were old enemies.
A fight to the death was the only ending.
Around Thorin lay the bodies of his companions. His nephews Fíli and Kíli; diligent Bifur and Bofur; farther off, loyal Dwalin; and silent, shy Óin—dead, all of them, fallen in the dawn just before victory.
In a place like this, no one lives.
A heavy strike from Azog smashed Thorin onto the ground. The Orc chieftain's hide was still black as soot, and his cruel posture was no different from that year—pain that carved itself into Thorin's bones.
"Your grandfather Thrór died just like this," Azog sneered. He was the purest thing in this war: he was here to repay the severed arm, not to fuss over some damn jewel. What was that rubbish—could you eat it?
Before his warhammer could crash down, an Elven arrow flew over the boiling, noisy ranks and punched into Azog's throat, bursting out the back of his neck.
The hammer fell near Thorin's hand. The Orc chieftain collapsed, slamming down onto the dwarf.
Thorin survived by a hair, gasping. He heard the Elven horns sounding.
He hacked off Azog's head and raised it high. The moment the Orcs saw their leader's head, their will snapped—they threw down gear and weapons and fled in all directions.
The valley rang with the jubilant roar of three armies.
The Elven prince and Dáin Ironfoot came side by side to Thorin.
Dáin embraced his cousin tightly.
The two of them glanced at the Elf. Legolas, face heavy with worry, looked south. "We all saw the man on that tower, didn't we?"
"Yes. He's no good man. But he hasn't made us his enemy," Dáin answered, cool and flat.
Thorin shouted, "I know that wizard. He's my friend. I'm going to help him."
Legolas said the Elves were willing to help as well.
But Thorin abruptly turned hostile, demanding the Arkenstone. Dáin was displeased too. He questioned the Elf: "You already got the jewel you wanted—so why did you kill our envoy? With such a vile act, how can we trust you?"
Legolas explained, "The jewel we demanded was not the Arkenstone. It was the one in the wizard's hand."
The three stared at one another.
"So… this was all a misunderstanding?"
They looked around at the corpses of their own kin. A chill seeped into their bones—and at the same time, an overwhelming absurdity rose in them so strongly they nearly wanted to laugh.
"A truly mad stone," Dáin muttered.
Azura's Star drifted down toward the banks of the Running River. Dumbledore looked back at the Orc host pursuing him. As a wizard, he had never faced a Muggle army head-on. He murmured to himself, "I thought I'd lived long enough to see everything."
These Orcs, tainted by the Ring's power, were stronger than their kin—and cleverer. They felt no fear and would fight to the last man. Their ear-splitting laughter rolled like thunder; they were a walking source of noise. An ordinary army, facing such madness, would lose heart.
But the wizard did not falter. He swung the Elder Wand and began to chant a long incantation.
Being old has its advantages—like knowing ancient magic that has been lost.
In the thirteenth century BCE, a wizard named Moses had once used magic to part the Red Sea. Muggles believed that power had been granted by a god. Dumbledore happened to know it wasn't granted by a god—it was learned from old books.
The Running River trembled under the ancient Hebrew spell. Water gathered into a colossal wave and surged up onto the bank behind him. Dumbledore stood there, and the river naturally split into two streams, flowing past him and crashing toward the Orc host.
More terrifying than any marching army is a natural disaster.
The great wave swallowed these Orcs steeped in evil. They were dragged under; their armor twisted like rags, their limbs scattered like cotton fluff, and in an instant their lives were torn away.
On the wooden tower, the Ring Master slowly raised a hand. The Ring shone. The roaring river abruptly sank away. Under that baleful light, a demonic wind rose; surface vegetation withered at a touch of air, and the soil degraded into sand. Yellow grit swept to the riverbank, forcing Dumbledore to retreat again and again—while behind him, the Running River quietly dried up.
How could a mere wizard stand against the One Ring?
Nine Ringwraiths surged forth amid the sandstorm, encircling Dumbledore completely.
The drained breath of that baleful wind made Dumbledore's arms and legs go weak; his head swam, his aged body shaking in pain.
A cold, pitiless wraith raised a sorcerous blade and slashed for the arm holding Azura's Star.
The old educator barely dodged, trying to Apparate away—but he no longer had the strength.
The blade sliced his robes and pierced his arm.
Dumbledore gave a muffled grunt.
Then the jewel in his hand burst with bright, scorching radiance, forcing the Ringwraiths back.
The Dark Lord's power wrapped itself around this human.
His silver hair and long white beard trembled in the wind like the mane of a furious lion.
Dumbledore lifted his head.
His sea-blue eyes had become orange-red slit pupils.
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