Warrior's Heart

Chapter Twelve

The snow stopped falling shortly after sunrise, but the brisk wind remained, stiff and icy cold as Arielle and Tauriel sat, polishing their weapons in comfortable silence. The rumbles of war drew near, and Arielle's stomach knotted something terrible. She hadn't told anyone in the tent about being pregnant because she knew if she did, she would be forbidden to leave. And remaining behind was not going to happen.

She was going to Erebor. She had to try one last time to find Thorin before he was lost forever, and she wasn't giving up on him without one very big fight.

"Tauriel! Arielle!" Legolas interrupted the silence, his voice heavy with urgency. "Orcs have invaded Dale!"

They were on their feet at once, swords and knives slid into scabbards, quiver filled with arrows and bow at the ready. Arielle looked over at her brother, then her friend and said, "We are all coming back. Don't be reckless, but show no mercy."

Legolas nodded. "As if we would."

"If I should fall in battle," she held his blue eyed gaze sternly, "Tiriana is to live with her father. She goes to Erebor to be with Thorin."

"You won't fall," he replied, grabbing her hand to give it a squeeze. "You will find your dwarf and make him see reason and then—"

"I'll try but I cannot promise I will succeed. And that's why you must make certain Tiriana—"

"I will. I give you my word."

Tauriel hugged them both, whispering, "Good fortune be on our side," in Elvish.

"Always." Arielle said.

They parted then, leaving the safety of Thranduíl's tent before he could halt any of them. The narrow, winding streets of Dale crawled with Orcs, panicked humans, and furious elf warriors. Arielle yanked her sword free, cutting down any Orc that got too close to her. Erebor was her objective and she was going there no matter how many she had to kill to clear her path.

Arrows sliced through the air. Steel clanged against steel. She leaped up onto a barrel, then sprang up to the rooftop to skirt the town and make it to the plains between Dale and the Lonely Mountain. As far as she could see, there were Orcs. Orcs and more Orcs.

But as she crested the last rise before Erebor, she froze. The Orc army marched, but so did another, from the West.

Dwarves.

Thorin's cousin, Dáin Ironfoot, from the Iron Hills. The one who said he would not come. He was there, his long rusty beard fluttering in the wind as he sat astride his giant pig. Her heart rammed against her ribs as she realized the front of the fortress was gone, blown into nothing more than a pile of rubble, and she bit down on her bottom lip as Thorin led the charge of his men, shield at the ready, sword overhead, and his voice carried clear across toward her.

He was back.

She swallowed hard, spinning around, sword slicing through the frigid air as two Orcs pounced. Gripping her sword with two hands, she planted her feet firmly against the frozen ground and thrust, the blade sinking into first one, then the one behind him. They crumpled with a howl and she wasted no time in putting her booted foot square into the first one's chest to yank her sword free.

But more Orcs swarmed and she was gravely outnumbered, so she leaped along the jagged teeth of the rock formations, skipping over them as if just taking a leisurely jog along a road. She bounced up, out of their reach, and moved across the landscape to get closer to Erebor.

She paused atop one rock, scanning the battlefield below. Her sword slid easily into its scabbard as she grabbed her bow and loaded it. Spotting Dwalin and Bofur swinging their axes, she aimed and let her arrow fly. It embedded in the back of Bofur's Orc's head, and as the Orc fell, Bofur looked up and smiled when he saw her. She reloaded, aimed, and took out two more, through the eyes, and this time, Ori turned in her direction. She waved and bounced closer to the main gates of Erebor.