LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

"Yaaah!"

With a defiant roar, Thorin swung his sword in a brutal arc, separating an Orc's snarling head from its shoulders.

His kin closed ranks around him, fending off wave after wave of pursuing Orcs. Their blades clashed with steel and snarled through flesh, but the enemy kept coming like a flood.

"Down the path!" Thorin shouted. "The chariot squad is stationed there—we regroup with them, then break out!"

"No time, Thorin!" Dwalin growled, eyes scanning the surrounding cliffs. "They're circling around. From both sides!"

The mountain pass was now blocked, front and rear. The Orcs had sealed their fate with jagged steel and shrieks of bloodlust.

Unseen by anyone, above the battlefield, hidden in the shadows of a broken tower…

Bolg silently raised his bow, his black eyes locked onto Thorin far below.

Whoosh.

A whisper of air split the sky.

Thorin's instincts flared. He jerked his head up—

Clang!

A silver dagger sliced through the air and knocked the arrow away with a sharp ping.

"What—?"

Bolg turned upward, his grimace deepening. A lone Elf stood atop the tower, bow already drawn for another shot.

Snap!

Bolg swatted the arrow from the sky with a swing of his cleaver, the shaft shattering midair. He glared at the Elf for a long beat, then withdrew into the ruins.

Two arrows, two shooters, two misses.

But one life saved.

"You owe me, Dwarf," Legolas called coolly down.

Thorin picked up the dagger, recognizing the craftsmanship instantly. He looked up, expression unreadable.

Then, without warning, he hurled it skyward.

Thunk.

It whistled past Legolas' ear and buried itself into the throat of an Orc creeping behind him.

"Consider it returned," Thorin muttered.

Legolas pulled the blade from the corpse and gave a sharp breath, nodding once in acknowledgment before descending the tower.

The battle below worsened.

Even with the fiercest of the Durin line and a king born for war, the odds were not in their favor. Their arms grew heavy, movements slower, while the Orcs swelled in number like a tide.

"Kíli!"

The youngest among them faltered first. His sword was knocked from his grasp, and an Orc loomed over him, ready to strike.

"Down!"

A familiar voice rang out.

Thud.

A long Elven blade flew in and plunged deep into the Orc's chest.

Kíli didn't hesitate. He seized the sword and turned his gaze upward.

"Tauriel!"

Her presence rekindled a spark of strength in him.

Tauriel leapt down like a scarlet storm, twin daggers already in hand, carving through the enemy ranks with speed and grace that made the wind jealous.

Dwalin grunted and raised his axe. "I'm not getting shown up by an Elf!"

"Where's their commander?" Thorin suddenly frowned. "He tried to take me out and then just vanished?"

Up on the second level of the tower, Legolas had just spotted Tauriel joining the fight and was preparing to jump down—when a shadow blocked his path.

Bolg.

The towering Orc captain stepped into view, eyes gleaming with murder, sealing off the only way down.

This one was no ordinary brute.

Legolas assessed him instantly. Bolg was nearly his height, perhaps taller, and built like a mountain. For an Orc, he was freakishly large.

But Legolas, of the Woodland Realm and well-versed in every kind of combat, didn't flinch. If anything, his competitive spirit flared.

Their blades met in a flurry of sparks.

With a deft maneuver, Legolas drove a dagger into Bolg's palm.

Ordinary Orcs would've howled, retreated, maybe even died.

Bolg? He didn't even blink. He grabbed the dagger, yanked it free, then caught Legolas by the collar and slammed him to the floor.

Before the Elf could recover, Bolg lifted him like a sack of cabbages and hurled him off the side of the tower.

But expecting a fall to kill a Woodland Elf was a fool's dream.

Legolas caught a jutting beam on his way down and swung to safety, though not unscathed.

Panting, he touched a finger to his lip—and stared at the blood.

His blood.

A crash of metal snapped him back to the present. A massive club had just missed his head.

Then—

Thwack.

A stone flew from nowhere and clocked the troll right in its oversized noggin.

"Hey! Big guy!"

Thorin's eyes went wide. "Bilbo?!"

The Hobbit gave him a nod and a look that said, Trust me, before tossing another rock at the fuming troll.

"Over here, lump-head!"

The troll snarled and turned, forgetting all about Thorin. It began clambering up the rocks toward the nimble burglar.

Bilbo darted behind a boulder.

The troll smashed it to rubble—only to find nothing.

Then—

Plop.

Another rock hit its back.

Bilbo had reappeared again, grinning impishly.

Just as the troll was drawn away, Bolg descended from the tower and, without a word, flung a knife straight at Thorin.

"Gah!"

It struck Thorin's hand, the blade punching through flesh.

Gritting his teeth, he yanked it out and, bleeding and furious, still managed to cut down two more Orcs.

Bolg sneered. "This is the so-called King under the Mountain? You're more fragile than I thought."

Thorin met his gaze with fire. "Try me and see."

Wounded, exhausted, but unbowed, he lifted his sword again.

Because sometimes, just when you think you've got nothing left, you find a little more.

Swish.

Another arrow flew from above.

Bolg dodged it and stomped the shaft underfoot.

"Ha! Two Elves and one little king. Come at me!"

Legolas' eyes narrowed.

Of all the things he'd endured today, this was the final insult.

With a growl, he leapt down, flipped midair, kicked Thorin's discarded dagger up into his hand, and landed beside him.

Elf and Dwarf. Side by side once more.

Rumble.

Before they could move, thunderous footsteps echoed from the rear.

A group of trolls smashed through the Orc lines, barreling toward them.

Bolg grinned. "Perfect timing. Go finish—"

But the trolls charged right past him.

Bolg blinked.

"What are you…?"

He turned just in time to see dozens of Orcs sprinting past in a frenzy, wide-eyed and panicked, as if chased by death itself.

"What's going on?" Dwalin barked. The warriors regrouped instinctively.

Legolas and Tauriel finally reunited.

"It's fear," Tauriel whispered. "They're afraid of something."

Taking advantage of the distraction, Thorin tore a strip of cloth from his tunic and wrapped his bleeding hand.

He tightened his grip on his sword and turned toward the direction the Orcs were fleeing from.

"Whatever it is, let it come. I doubt it can make things worse."

Bolg wasn't so optimistic. He grabbed a fleeing Orc and lifted it by the throat.

"What happened?! What's coming?!"

The creature croaked out a few trembling words.

"Big… killer… doom…"

"Doom?" Bolg snapped. "What doom—?"

Screams.

More Orcs fell from above, their bodies aflame, smoldering as they crashed into the dirt.

Bolg spun toward the noise.

A figure stepped through the smoke, cloaked in black, sword dragging behind him like a reaper at dusk.

His voice was low, calm, and terrifying.

"There you are."

Bolg's instinct screamed to flee. His muscles tensed. His heart raced. His brain dumped every chemical it had into survival mode.

But he roared instead, lifting his cleaver and charging forward.

Their weapons clashed.

Neither side gave ground.

But Eric had no intention of dragging this out.

He twisted Bolg's blade aside, stepped back, then began to channel energy into his sword.

Bolg lunged, roaring.

"Die!"

Crack.

A sudden flash of light burst from Eric's sword.

The blade carved through Bolg's weapon, slicing not just the cleaver but his armor as well, ripping through iron and leather to strike deep into flesh.

Armor shattered.

Ignition.

In the next breath, flames erupted across Bolg's hulking frame.

The Orc let out a tortured scream, his monstrous resilience now meaningless against searing fire.

His strength, his pride, his unnatural resistance to pain, none of it helped him now.

He writhed for a few seconds, then collapsed to the ground in silence.

The battlefield stilled for a heartbeat.

Bolg, captain of Azog's vanguard, was dead.