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Chapter 106 The Battle of the Five Armies (Part 5)

"Ho there, Thorin!" A rough shout rang out as a fully armed dwarf, riding a massive wild boar, descended slowly from the high ground. He wore heavy armor, and in his hand he held aloft a gigantic warhammer—its surface glinting coldly in the sun, as if flaunting its might to all who saw it.

"I, Dáin Ironfoot, am here!" The cry echoed through the valley like thunder. At the sound, the Lonely Mountain dwarves—already stirred—grew even more fervent. Waving their weapons, they cheered and answered the boar-riding dwarf's call.

Bilbo stood beside Gandalf, watching the scene with curiosity. He turned to the wizard and asked, "Who is he?"

Gandalf's expression was grave as he looked at Dáin descending the. "That is Dáin Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills—and Thorin's cousin," he replied slowly.

Bilbo's eyes widened; he was clearly fascinated by this new figure. "Do they look alike, the two cousins?" he pressed.

Gandalf shook his head. "Compared to Dáin, I've always thought Thorin was the more reasonable one." There was a hint of helplessness in his tone, and his eyes held a touch of gravity.

Gandalf had already noticed the unspoken enmity in Dáin's gaze when he looked at the Elves.

He silently prayed that the Lord of the Iron Hills would not rush to war with the Elves. After all, the situation was already complicated enough—if Dáin acted on impulse, the consequences would be unthinkable.

"Good morning! How fares everyone?" Dáin rode his iron-clad wild boar toward the Elven and human ranks, coming to a stop on a protruding boulder.

"I have a small proposal—might I take a moment of your time to share it?" Dáin's eyes sparkled with undisguised fanaticism as he looked out at the dense armies before him.

"Would you all... kindly get out of here?" A roar burst from Dáin's not-so-tall frame. The thunderous sound made the Lake-town fishermen step back in alarm; some of the more timid ones even fumbled with their weapons.

At the sight of the retreating fishermen, Dáin let out a satisfied laugh, his expression utterly arrogant. On the high ground, the Ironfoot soldiers joined their lord, pounding their spears against their shields in a rhythmic "boom-boom-boom"—intimidating the Elven-human alliance below.

"Do not retreat! Everyone, hold your ground!" Bard rode his horse to the front of the Lake-town fishermen, urging them to maintain their formation.

The Elven army—already standing at the ready—drew their weapons in unison. The Elven warriors at the front unsheathed their long sabers; the exquisitely crafted blades glinted coldly in the sun.

"Greetings, King Dáin!" Just as tension reached its peak, Gandalf stepped out of the ranks and addressed Dáin.

"It's you, Gandalf the Grey!" Dáin's face softened as he looked at Gandalf, losing some of its arrogance—but only for a moment, before madness crept back in.

"Tell this ragtag army to leave, or I'll paint this land with their blood."

"There's no need for war between Dwarves, Men, and Elves, Dáin!" Gandalf strode toward Dáin. "A well-armed orc army is marching on the Lonely Mountain. This is no time to stir up internal strife. Put aside your grievances—defending against the forces of darkness must come first."

"I will not lower my guard before Elves, Gandalf!" Dáin snapped.

"Least of all before this treacherous woodland sprite!" His gaze shifted to Thranduil, and his face was twisted with unhidden mockery.

Thranduil remained unperturbed by the insult. He merely looked at the half-mad Dáin with a calm smile.

"This treacherous wretch only wants my people to suffer," Dáin snarled. "If he dares stand between me and my kin, I'll smash his skull open—and see if he's still smiling then."

With those words, Dáin spun his boar around, ready to leave.

"Dáin, wait!" Gandalf hurried to stop him, but Dáin paid him no heed.

Yet just as Dáin was about to depart, he suddenly halted—or rather, the boar beneath him did.

"Leaving before our talk is done—isn't that a touch impolite?" Owen's voice came softly from Dáin's side.

Before anyone could react—perhaps the moment Dáin had turned his boar—Owen had appeared beside him. With one hand, he pressed down on the boar, which was about to charge forward, holding the massive beast firmly in place.

Dáin's pupils contracted sharply. He had no idea someone had approached him without a sound. Acting on instinct, he swung his massive warhammer toward Owen's head.

But before the heavy hammer could gain momentum, Owen grabbed it mid-swing—yanking it out of Dáin's grasp in one fluid motion.

"Nice hammer you've got here," Owen said, weighing the weapon in his hand. He chuckled softly, then grabbed Dáin—still clad in his heavy armor—and jumped down from the high ground.

"Coward! You dare attack from behind... you filthy cur!" On the Lonely Mountain, Thorin roared in fury as he watched his cousin being captured so easily by Owen.

The sudden turn of events silenced everyone outside the Lonely Mountain. The Ironfoot soldiers on the high ground were the first to react: they marched forward in step, shields raised before them, spears pointed at the Elven army below.

The Elven army quickly formed a shield wall, ready to fight the Dwarves.

Seeing this, Owen drew his sword. He used the tip to flip off Dáin's helmet, then pressed the blade to his neck. "I'd like to see who dares move!"

Owen's voice was not loud, yet it echoed clearly across the entire area around the Lonely Mountain.

At the sight, the Ironfoot soldiers froze in their tracks—though they still kept their guard up.

"Release me, you lowly coward... I, the great Lord of the Iron Hills, challenge you to a duel!" Dáin shouted furiously at Owen. But Owen paid no mind; he struck Dáin to the ground with the flat of his sword, then pressed a foot down on his chest.

"You know what? If I kill you now, do you think your 'King under the Mountain' cousin will risk his life to save you—avenge you?" Owen pressed the tip of his sword to Dáin's neck. The sharp blade pierced Dáin's skin, and blood began to trickle out.

"Thorin! Your cousin's life is in my hands. I'll give you a chance—will you come and try to save him?" Owen looked up at Thorin, who stood on the Lonely Mountain's defensive walls. His voice reached every ear present.

The Ironfoot soldiers all turned their eyes to Thorin. Even the Durin's Folk dwarves beside Thorin stared at him—as did the entire alliance on the open ground below.

Lying on the ground, Dáin disregarded his own safety and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Thorin, don't mind me... you're no match for him!"

All eyes turned to Thorin. But the self-proclaimed Dwarf-King hesitated—then retreated, like a rat afraid of the light, shrinking back into the shadows deep within the mountain.

"No one moves without my order... hold the entrance... no one shall break through... no one!"

Thorin's roars faded into the distance as his figure vanished into the deepest recesses of the Lonely Mountain.

In that moment, not only the Lonely Mountain dwarves, but even the Ironfoot soldiers on the high ground felt utter disappointment in Thorin. Dáin, pinned beneath Owen's foot, gradually stopped struggling and shouting. The light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by despair.

"Ha—so this is the Dwarf-King. How laughable."

A soft laugh escaped Owen's lips. None of the Dwarves present could refute his words—after all, the dwarf king, chosen by blood, had abandoned all Dwarves outside the mountain before countless eyes.

This was exactly what Owen had wanted. He had never believed in the cheesy "last-minute redemption" portrayed in the films.

A coward was a coward. Thorin's evil deeds could never be erased by some trivial act of redemption.