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Chapter 103 The Battle of the Five Armies (Part 2)

In the dilapidated central square of Dale, chaos and ruin lay everywhere—its former prosperity had long vanished without a trace.

Yet amid this desolation, ranks of Elven warriors clad in golden armor stood in neat phalanxes, like an unyielding wall of steel.

Each warrior stood tall and straight, their expressions solemn. The longbows in their hands spoke of the army's formidable strength and majesty; the ornaments on their helmets glinted coldly in the sunlight, exuding both elegance and authority.

Bard picked his way carefully through the Elven phalanxes, as if fearing to rouse these slumbering golden-armored warriors from their vigil.

His steps were light and cautious, and under the gaze of the Elven soldiers, he moved with obvious unease.

At last, he reached the open space at the center. There, a massive tent stood—towering like a grand palace in the middle of the square. All around it, more tents were being swiftly erected; busy figures darted to and fro, creating a scene of bustling activity.

Guided by an Elven guard, Bard walked slowly into the great tent.

The moment he stepped inside, he was stunned by what he saw.

The tent's interior was spacious and bright, adorned exquisitely. A thick carpet covered the ground, and magnificent tapestries hung from the walls. Seated at the very center of the tent was Thranduil, King of the Woodland Elves.

Beside him, Owen and Gandalf sat on either side. The three gathered around a fine table, which was laid with Elven delicacies and wine, their aroma tempting and rich.

Bard took a deep breath to steady himself, then bowed respectfully to Thranduil, the Elven King seated in the middle. "Your Majesty Thranduil, I never expected you would come in person!" There was a mix of surprise and delight in his voice.

Thranduil smiled faintly, setting down his wine cup. "I heard you were in need of aid, so I came to see for myself," he said. His voice was deep and resonant, as if filled with boundless power.

Bard shot Thranduil a grateful look, then recounted the full story of what had befallen Lake-town. Thranduil listened quietly, nodding from time to time to show his understanding.

"I have already heard of Lake-town's fate from the Wizard and the valiant Half-God Lord," Thranduil said, his expression softening with gravity—he truly sympathized with the town's suffering.

"Still, there is cause for joy across all Middle-earth: Smaug the Dragon has fallen to the Half-God Lord's arrow!"

With that, Thranduil lifted his wine cup, took a small sip, and gestured to a guard standing inside the tent. The guard immediately understood, striding out briskly.

"And there is yet more to celebrate this day!" No sooner had Thranduil spoken than the creak of cart wheels and the clip-clop of horse hooves echoed from outside the tent.

Before long, cheers erupted beyond the tent flaps—growing louder and louder, like a surging tide.

Bard's curiosity was piqued. He hurried outside, only to see the residents of Lake-town standing in the square, waving their arms excitedly and cheering loudly. It turned out Thranduil had brought not only his Elven army, but also vast supplies and aid. For the people of Lake-town, battered by war, this support was nothing less than a lifeline in their darkest hour.

In an instant, joy spread through every corner of Dale. Hope and relief lit up the faces of its people.

"You have saved us—saved all the people of Lake-town. I cannot express how grateful I am!" Bard rushed back into the tent. The moment he saw Thranduil, he bowed deeply to convey his thanks.

Thranduil sat upright in the center of the tent, his posture as straight as a pine tree. His face was calm and stern, and his deep eyes fixed on Bard. At Bard's bow, he merely nodded slightly—no more, no less.

"You need not thank me," Thranduil said, his voice still deep and resonant, but now tinged with a hint of coldness. "I did not come solely to offer you relief."

Bard looked up, confusion clouding his face as he tried to grasp Thranduil's meaning. But when he followed Thranduil's gaze, understanding dawned. Thranduil's eyes were fixed on the Lonely Mountain—the peak that hid untold wealth within its depths.

"I have come to reclaim what is mine," Thranduil declared, his voice echoing through the tent with an unshakable authority. His tone was calm, yet the resolve in it could not be ignored.

Bard's expression changed slightly. He thought of Gandalf and Owen's visit to the Lonely Mountain the previous night—they had hoped to persuade Thorin to give up his grip on the mountain, but clearly, their efforts had been in vain.

"We share a common goal, Your Majesty the Woodland King," Bard said, regaining his composure, though his face remained grim. "We are allies now, and my people have a right to the wealth of the Lonely Mountain too!"

There was a note of grievance in his voice. Thorin never could have entered the mountain without the help of Lake-town's people. Even if there had been misunderstandings along the way, a promise had been made. Now, Lake-town's residents had lost everything in the disaster—they desperately needed the mountain's treasure to rebuild their homes.

"Thranduil, I beg you to delay your move against the Lonely Mountain," Gandalf urged, seeing that the two were on the brink of conflict. "The White Gems are safely inside—they will not vanish overnight!"

"Thranduil, the orc army from Moria is marching on the Lonely Mountain! Sauron has awakened, and the Nazgûl have returned," Gandalf pressed, his voice urgent.

"Their ultimate goal is to rebuild the Kingdom of Angmar—to hang the threat of the Necromancer over every living being in Middle-earth once more! We cannot turn on each other now. We must unite to hold the line against the orcs at the foot of the mountain!"

Gandalf's words caused Thranduil's expression to shift. He knew the Grey Wizard would not lie about such a matter, yet he was unwilling to back down. It was not just about the necklace that had belonged to his beloved—there was also Thorin's insolence in the Woodland Realm, and the shameful deeds of Thorin's grandfather.

"Respected Half-God Lord, what is your opinion?" Thranduil turned to Owen, who sat sipping wine. The Elven King sought the advice of this warrior.

"Your heroic deeds have been told throughout Middle-earth by the folk of Rivendell! You are only the second known warrior to stand against Sauron in direct combat. I would be honored to hear your guidance," Thranduil said, humbling himself—a tradition among Elves, who showed the highest respect to those of great strength.

"King Thranduil, if we speak logically, I agree with Gandalf," Owen said, holding nothing back. "Put aside your differences, unite as one, and stand together against the orc army."

"But emotionally? I would gladly support you in waging war against that repulsive dwarf! Of course, it would be even better if you could breach the Lonely Mountain and reclaim your Woodland Elves' treasure before his reinforcements or the orc army arrive!"

"Oh, Owen—must you keep stirring up trouble?" Gandalf looked at the somewhat impulsive, free-spirited Half-God in utter exasperation. In that moment, the wizard felt utterly drained.

Damn it all! Let everything burn! I'm a Maia, after all—I can always return to Valinor.

Owen paid no heed to Gandalf's exasperated expression. He continued to sip the Elven wine, looking perfectly content.

"Thank you for your understanding, Lord Owen," Thranduil said, rising to bow slightly to Owen. "I have made my decision. We march on the Lonely Mountain at once—I will claim back the Woodland Elves' treasure from the King of the Mountain!"

"The people of Lake-town will march with you!" Bard declared immediately. In matters like this, standing together was always best.