[General POV]
-Minutes Earlier-
"This place is too quiet..." murmured Bofur, his footsteps echoing through the ruined structure. In the distance, the pitiful groans of the trolls blended with the sound of his own breathing. A bad feeling crept over him.
'An ambush, perhaps?' he thought, scanning the desolate ruin.
Balin, walking a few steps ahead, nodded solemnly. "They're probably setting up an ambush," he said, his brow furrowed, worry evident in his voice. "Stay alert."
Thorin's battle-worn face remained expressionless. No one knew Azog's strategies better than he did.
'It's an ambush… but I can't turn back. Not anymore,' he told himself, feeling the weight of his resolve settle in his chest. His hands tightened around the hilt of his sword, readying himself.
The gurgling sound of the lake flowing beneath the ice kept the three dwarves on high alert, their steps echoing in the sepulchral silence. Their ragged breaths formed small clouds of mist, emphasizing the extreme cold that loomed over this part of the mountain.
A stone rolled to Thorin's feet, and as if it were a warning signal, his body reacted instinctively. He spun sharply to the right, just in time to dodge an arrow that whizzed past his cheek, leaving a thin line of blood in its wake.
"Thorin!" Balin exclaimed in concern.
With a wave of his hand, Thorin stopped them.
"Prepare yourselves," he ordered calmly.
The moment the words left his lips, a dozen orcs pounced on the trio like savage beasts.
Bofur reacted first. With a swift swing of his axe, he severed an orc's hands. The creature's agonized scream rang through the air, deafening those nearby. Seizing the distraction, Balin swung his weapon, slicing clean through the foot of the nearest orc. The beast, now unbalanced, collapsed to the ground, dragging several of its dimwitted companions down with it.
With a precise strike to the solar plexus, Thorin dispatched an orc, its black blood splattering his face, deepening the lines of frustration etched into his weathered features. For a moment, his vision blurred from the hot liquid, but through the crimson haze, he caught sight of a figure at the end of the corridor.
A provocative grin spread across the goblin-orc's face. That was all Thorin needed. His temper erupted like a volcano, spewing flames of hatred.
With a skilled and ruthless motion, he raised his sword and, in a single slash, cleaved an orc's face, clearing the path ahead.
With a feral growl, Thorin charged toward Azog, leaving Balin and Bofur behind as they continued to fend off the remaining orcs. It wasn't that they couldn't handle them, only that it would take a few minutes… minutes that could prove crucial in battle.
---
The Frozen Battlefield, the cold struck Thorin's face, forcing him to shield himself with his arm. The air turned turbulent, as if some unseen force were trying to keep him from reaching his destination. Gritting his teeth, he pushed forward, but the fierce wind made each step feel heavy and sluggish.
With great effort, Thorin reached the frozen lake's plain in mere minutes. There, in the middle of the ice, stood the creature he despised most—the one who haunted his nightmares… the butcher of his people at Azanulbizar.
"At last, I have you before me, you filthy beast…" he muttered through clenched teeth, his fists tightening around the hilt of his sword.
As if answering his challenge, the wind died down, granting him a brief moment of respite.
Azog sensed his presence and slowly turned. The golden morning light illuminated his pale skin, accentuating the deformity of his face. A mocking smirk twisted his lips, and his bladed prosthetic arms gleamed in the icy dawn, making his monstrous figure all the more grotesque.
"So, you've finally come, Thorin Oakenshield," he growled with a cruel grin. "Now, I will kill you and claim your head, just as I did your grandfather's."
The provocation took immediate effect. Thorin roared, a mix of fury and indignation burning within him. The frozen surface hastened his charge, bringing him before Azog in mere seconds.
With fury, Thorin swung his sword, weighed down by the burden of his adventure. Like thunder, the steel clashed with Azog's blade, making the air tremble with a symphony of metal against metal.
Azog's brutal strength hurled Thorin backward. He slipped across the icy surface, losing his balance for an instant. Azog did not hesitate to seize the opportunity.
With a fierce slash, Azog unleashed his weapon against him. But Thorin, sensing the danger, rolled at the last second, barely dodging the blow. The enemy's blade embedded itself in the ice like a thorn in the skin of the mountain. Azog's face twisted in frustration. With a yank, he freed the blade, taking a step back from the momentum.
He had no time to react. A fist filled his vision before he could move. The blow, fueled by all Thorin's hatred, sent him crashing onto his back.
Grunting in pain, Azog raised his blades just in time, stopping Thorin's downward sword strike above his head. The clash of steel against metal echoed in the frozen air.
With a roar, Azog exerted his strength, freeing himself from Thorin's sword. He rolled backward and jumped to his feet, his beastly eyes locking onto the small figure of his enemy. It was one of his smallest prey... but also one of the few who had managed to instill fear in him.
With his face contorted in hatred, Azog let out a powerful war cry.
He lunged like a hungry animal, his blades slicing through the air in deadly arcs. He tried to destroy Thorin, but the dwarf, agile and precise, dodged and deflected every blow, staying out of the reach of the sharp blades.
The advantage was clear for Thorin, but the ferocity and mutated strength of the goblin-orc began to take its toll. His movements grew slower, his arms felt like rocks, and Azog's blades showed no mercy. He couldn't find an opening in the relentless attack.
Finally, after a fierce exchange, Azog managed to disarm him. With a cruel smile, he drove one of his blades into Thorin's shoulder.
A roar of pain escaped the dwarf's lips as the searing metal pierced his flesh. His strength left him, and with nothing left to do, he collapsed onto his back, at Azog's mercy.
Azog did not hesitate. With a swift blow, he drove his foot into Thorin's chest, pinning him down like a helpless prey.
"Do you see?" his voice dripped with mockery, though his labored breathing betrayed the toll of the battle "You're no match for me, Thorin Oakenshield... You're just like your grandfather. Weak."
His face, mere inches from Thorin's, allowed the dwarf to smell the rancid breath. Thorin's erratic breathing quickened at those words. His eyes, burning with fury, locked onto Azog's. The pain gnawed at his concentration, each beat of his wound a hammer of agony. Yet, despite it all, he showed no fear. He stood firm, defying the orc's mocking gaze.
"Yes... maybe I am weak, like my grandfather," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper—"But this time is different... My grandfather was alone. I am not."
Thorin's mocking smile pierced Azog's eyes with a bad premonition, a silent warning that lit up his instincts with unease. Pulling his blade from Thorin's shoulder, Azog spun around as quickly as he could.
He came face to face with an axe descending toward him. With all the speed his body could muster, he swung his blades to block the strike. The impact was brutal. The clash of steel against steel made him fall to one knee.
He had no time to react. Before he could muster the strength to free himself from the axe, a small leg slammed into his stomach with the force of a mountain goat's charge.
Don't think it was a weak blow. Mountain goats were well-known among the dwarves. A single strike from one could deform metal as if it were paper. For generations, these creatures had served as mounts, and their powerful charges were lethal enough to kill a man.
The pain in his stomach was deafening. With no hands to clutch the wounded area, Azog could only grunt and endure the agony of several broken ribs. Each breath was a searing reminder of the force of the impact.
And yet, he smiled. A hungry, cruel grin spread across his face as he recognized the dwarf who had attacked him.
"Oh! I remember you..." he gasped between clenched teeth, his voice rasping from the effort "You're that dwarf who almost died under my sword. If it weren't for that stupid king getting in the way... you would've been killed by me."
Balin's eyes narrowed. He hadn't followed Thorin just because he saw a leader in him, he had done so because he felt a debt to the line of Durin.
"Once, I failed my king, Thrór," he murmured, tightening his grip on his axe "I won't fail his grandson, even if it means dying."
***
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