Elsewhere on the battlefield, another Great Orc held a massive double-bladed war axe in one hand as if it were nothing more than a feather. In his other hand he carried a heavy mace studded with iron spikes and crudely wrapped in rawhide. Opposite him stood a Sindar Elf holding two thin, slightly curved short swords, one in each hand. Both warriors had assumed battle stances and watched each other carefully.
With a growl rumbling from deep within his throat, the Orc lunged forward. When he brought the axe down in a vertical arc, the ground itself seemed to split. The Elf slipped beside the blow like water flowing around a stone and attempted to drive one of his blades into the Orc's unarmored inner arm. But the Great Orc's reflexes snapped into action like a cat's; he used the mace in his other hand as a shield, knocking the blade aside. The sword scraped against the thick steel bracer on the Orc's arm, producing faint sparks.
Having deflected the Elf's attack, the Orc did not break his momentum. Exploiting the brief opening, he swung the mace toward the Elf's ribs. Seeing the danger, the Elf reacted instantly, crossing his swords to block the blow. When the steel blades collided with the stone-hard mace, the Elf felt the bones in his arms ache from the impact, yet he gritted his teeth and maintained his focus. Leaping backward, he created a brief gap and then launched forward again, delivering a swift kick to the Orc's exposed kneecap. His aim was not to break the bone but to disrupt the creature's balance.
As the Orc staggered for a moment, the Elf surged forward, thrusting both swords toward the gap in the Orc's neck armor. At that exact instant, a savage, bloodthirsty grin spread across the Great Orc's face.
Instead of avoiding the strike, the Orc chose to step directly into the attack. One of the swords pierced into his shoulder, punching through the armor. At the same time, the Orc dropped the mace in his free hand and seized the Elf's sword-wielding wrist with his massive claw-like grip. Caught completely off guard, the Elf stared in shock as he realized he had fallen into a trap—but it was already too late.
Grinning madly, the Orc squeezed the Elf's wrist with all his strength. The sound of bones cracking echoed sharply. The Elf clenched his teeth in agony as his wrist broke and the sword slipped from his grasp. With brutal efficiency, the Orc drove the axe in his other hand into the Elf's abdomen from close range, stabbing as if with a dagger. The wide blade tore through the Elf's slender armor like paper.
The struck Elf shuddered, his eyes widening in disbelief as fresh blood spilled from his mouth onto his silvery armor. As the light slowly faded from his eyes, the Orc yanked the axe back violently. The Elf collapsed to his knees in the mud and then slumped forward into the dirt.
The Great Orc ripped the sword still lodged in his shoulder free with a grunt of pain and tossed it aside. Pressing a hand against his wound, he took a breath and watched his noble enemy fall. He did not behave with disrespect; he simply placed the axe back upon his shoulder and stepped over the fallen Elf, continuing toward the heart of the battle in search of his next victim.
On the western side of the battlefield, the air had grown heavy. This time the opponents facing each other were a veteran Great Orc wielding a heavy, serrated spear and an Elven noble who carried a large two-handed sword—long and flexible, resembling a slender branch of willow.
The Great Orc dragged the tip of his spear across the earth, carving a rough half-circle in the soil. His armor was crude yet solid, a reflection of the Orcs' brutish nature; the bone ornaments on his shoulder plates creaked with every breath and movement. Opposite him, the Elf held his sword upright in a vertical guard, already in a battle stance, his eyes never leaving his opponent for even a single moment.
With the impatience of one who despised waiting, the Orc suddenly thrust his spear forward. The weapon had a wide reach; its jagged tip shot toward the Elf's ribcage like a thrown lance. The Elf tilted both his body and sword aside at the same time, sliding his blade along the shaft of the spear. The screech of steel scraping against metal was ear-piercing. The Elf lunged forward to close the distance, but the Orc swung the lower end of the spear like a club straight toward the Elf's face.
At the last possible moment, the Elf knocked the blow upward with the hilt of his sword. When the two weapons locked together, the Great Orc's physical superiority immediately came into play. Using his spear like a lever, the Orc shoved the Elf backward with brutal force. As the Elf staggered across the muddy ground, the Orc tightened his grip, the muscles in his arms swelling as veins bulged across them. Grasping the spear with both hands, he spun it once above his head and brought the serrated, axe-like head crashing down vertically toward the Elf's shoulder. The sheer force of the strike stirred the air like a gust of wind.
Realizing that blocking such a blow would be suicide, the Elf rolled to the side in a swift tumble. The spear struck the shield that had stood where the Elf had been moments before, splitting it in two like paper. A thunderous crack echoed as dust burst into the air. At the same instant, the Elf sprang to his feet and saw the opening created by the Orc's heavy movement. He swung his sword upward from below, aiming directly at the Orc's forward hand gripping the spear.
The Orc snarled and jerked his hand back, but the maneuver disrupted the defensive line of his weapon. Seizing the opportunity, the Elf thrust his sword forward like a spear. The blade's tip slid into the narrow strip of exposed leather between the Orc's neck guard and shoulder plate. The Orc roared in pain, releasing his right hand as he tried to seize the blade, but the Elf had already withdrawn his weapon and retaken his guard.
Ignoring the black blood trickling down his neck, the Orc bellowed with fury. With one hand, he hurled the spear like a javelin. Though the sudden throw surprised the Elf, his reflexes answered instantly; he slapped the weapon aside in midair with the flat of his sword. But this had been the Orc's trap. Before the spear even touched the ground, the Orc leapt forward and crashed into the Elf. Caught completely off guard, the Elf was seized by the Orc and his sword slipped from his grasp.
The two rolled together into the mud and lay tangled for a brief second. The Elf quickly shifted into a crouched position and delivered two hard punches to the Orc beside him. After taking the blows, the Orc shook his head to clear the momentary daze. Then he drew the wide-bladed hunting knife at his belt and lunged forward, striking the Elf and knocking him to the ground. Raising the knife high, he tried to plunge it into the Elf's throat.
The Elf grabbed the Orc's wrist with both hands and pushed upward with all his strength. For several seconds they struggled like that, locked in a desperate contest of force. The Orc's breath washed over the Elf's face, heavy with the smell of blood and rage. The Elf grimaced in faint disgust as he pushed death away from his throat with both arms. Yet the raw power of the Great Orc—whose body seemed carved entirely from muscle—began to dominate. Slowly, inexorably, the knife crept closer to the Elf's throat.
The blade drew nearer and nearer, almost touching the skin.
At that exact moment, the Elf used the flexibility of his body to wrap his legs around the Orc's waist and rolled sideways with all his weight. They tumbled across the mud several times before the Elf ended up on top. Realizing he could not reach his sword lying on the ground, he slammed his forehead brutally into the Orc's nose.
When the Orc loosened his grip for a moment under the blow, stunned, the Elf sprang to his feet with swift agility. In one fluid motion he snatched up his sword from the ground and spun around. Before the Orc could raise his knife again, the long blade plunged through a weak gap beneath the creature's chest armor and burst out from his back.
The Great Orc shuddered in shock. His eyes widened from the pain, bulging in their sockets. His green, muscular body trembled violently for a moment. With a wet, blood-choked growl escaping his mouth, he looked into the Elf's eyes with a strange respect. There was no fear in that gaze—only the dark acceptance born of war.
The Elf wrenched his sword free.
The Orc collapsed to his knees and then toppled forward, falling face-down into the mud like a great fallen mass.
The Elf's arm trembled from the intensity of the struggle. He planted his sword into the ground for a moment and drew a deep breath. But he could not rest for long; the battle around him still raged. Stepping over the body of his fallen enemy with quiet dignity, he moved silently toward the next line of combat.
At the fiercest point of the battlefield, amid the corpses and shattered banners, two giants faced one another. The armies around them seemed to leave the area as though an invisible barrier existed, fighting everywhere except within the circle that had formed around these two figures.
On one side stood the Lord of Rivendell—Elrond, the embodiment of ancient wisdom and Elven grace clad in the form of a blade.
On the other side stood the most savage and disciplined general of the Dark Great Orc:
Khorgul the Heart-Eater.
Khorgul possessed the towering, massive build typical of the Great Orcs, yet his movements carried the cold discipline of a seasoned master of war. The shield in his hand was forged of hammered black steel, its edges sharpened to shatter the bones of enemies. His sword was heavy and wide, a monstrous weapon that tore through the air with every swing.
With a deep growl rumbling from his throat, Khorgul launched the first attack. Driving his shield forward like a battering ram, he charged straight at Elrond. Elrond slipped aside like a droplet of water, evading the crushing impact, and with Hadhafang he struck toward the gap in Khorgul's armor beneath the arm.
Despite his enormous, muscular frame, Khorgul reacted with astonishing agility. He swung his sword over the rim of his shield and intercepted Elrond's strike. The clash of metal against metal rang out loudly enough to drown the surrounding battle. The moment their blades locked, Khorgul slammed the lower edge of his shield into Elrond's kneecap.
Anticipating the maneuver, Elrond leapt backward—but Khorgul did not stop. He swung his dark sword in a wide horizontal arc. Elrond raised his blade vertically and blocked the heavy strike. The sheer power of the blow made Elrond's arms tremble and drove his boots deep into the soil.
When their eyes met, Khorgul roared, his voice filled with the confidence of countless years of war.
"The blood of Eärendil will water the earth today!"
Elrond did not reply. He merely gazed calmly into his opponent's eyes, his face bearing the composed, solemn expression shaped by centuries. Grasping Hadhafang with both hands, he attacked.
Elrond's movements flowed like a river, in stark contrast to Khorgul's savage strength. With a series of rapid, precise strikes, he tested the defenses of Khorgul's shield. His blade flashed like a streak of silver light, striking first the Orc's shoulder plate, then glancing against his helmet.
Rather than retreat under the assault, Khorgul raised his shield like a wall and pressed forward. The two collided and locked together. While Khorgul tried to crush Elrond with his shield, Elrond slammed the hilt of his sword against the visor of the Orc's helmet. As Khorgul staggered back in a moment of dizziness, Elrond swung his blade upward from below toward the Orc's shield arm.
At the last instant Khorgul forced his shield downward and deflected the blow—but Elrond's speed was relentless. Spinning with fluid grace, Elrond slashed toward the Orc's neck. Khorgul lifted his sword to block the strike, but that was the opening Elrond had been waiting for. In mid-motion he altered the direction of his attack and drove his blade into the Orc's armored thigh.
Khorgul dropped to one knee as pitch-black blood burst from the wound.
Yet he had not earned the title "Heart-Eater" nor the favor of Sauron without reason. The pain from the wound only made him more dangerous. Even as he knelt, he hurled his shield upward with all his strength toward Elrond's abdomen.
Caught unprepared, Elrond was thrown backward by the blow and crashed onto a heap of corpses.
Khorgul groaned in pain as he forced himself back to his feet. Ignoring the blood flowing from his wounded leg, he slammed his sword against the ground.
"Get up, Elf! Your heart will be my supper tonight!"
Elrond rose with effortless grace, losing none of his noble bearing. With a swift motion he brushed the dust from his garments. His cloak was torn, and his chest armor was coated in grime, yet his gaze remained as sharp and unwavering as a honed blade. The two leaders once again took their guards in the midst of their armies. On one side stood the wisdom and speed of centuries; on the other, an unyielding will and barbaric strength. Then both warriors moved again, crashing into battle once more.
In the battlefield where dust and blood mingled in the air, the struggle between Elrond and Khorgul had now transcended words, becoming a pure symphony of metal and will. Khorgul gripped his sword with both hands and began bringing it down again and again like a hammer. Rather than meeting those crushing blows head-on, Elrond used Hadhafang like a mirror, altering the direction of each strike by the slightest angles. Sparks scattered with every clash, briefly illuminating their faces with flashes of light. Each time Khorgul's blade tore through the air, the deep whoom of its passage brushed past Elrond's cloak.
With a savage motion, Khorgul swung the sharpened rim of his shield toward Elrond's face. Elrond bent backward in a graceful arc, his body curving like a bowstring; the honed edge passed within a hair's breadth of his nose. Before he had even straightened, Elrond lashed out with his sword like a whip, cutting into the inner side of Khorgul's shield arm. Black blood sprayed across the dusty earth, yet Khorgul did not falter. With a brutal snarl he lunged forward, slamming his armored shoulder into Elrond's chest.
Elrond felt the breath driven from his lungs by the raw force of the impact, but his centuries of experience prevented any trace of panic. As he was thrown backward, he thrust the tip of his sword toward Khorgul's foot, as though trying to nail it to the ground. Khorgul roared and jerked his foot away, then with his free blade carved a lethal horizontal arc toward Elrond's neck. Elrond blocked the attack with his own sword, locking the two blades together. The warriors stood face to face once more; Khorgul's furious, rasping breath crashed against Elrond's calm yet piercing gaze.
Through the lock of their blades, Khorgul suddenly drove his knee upward. Elrond pressed the strike down with his left hand and used the motion to propel himself into a backward flip behind the Orc. While still airborne, he delivered three rapid strikes with his sword into the gaps between the armor plates on Khorgul's back. Fragments of metal and strips of leather flew through the air.
With a snarl of rage, Khorgul spun around and swung his blade in uncontrolled fury. This time Elrond did not evade. Holding his sword with both hands parallel above his head, he deflected the incoming strike upward and drove the full weight of his body into his counterattack, carving a deep gash across Khorgul's chest armor. Khorgul staggered, his feet tangling with the heap of corpses beneath him.
Elrond seized that fleeting opening and thrust Hadhafang forward with lightning speed. The sword slipped beneath Khorgul's shield and plunged into his armored abdomen.
With a roar of pain and fury, Khorgul reached out to seize Elrond by the throat. But Elrond had already withdrawn his blade and stepped aside. Khorgul dropped to his knees, a choking rasp escaping his throat as blood flooded his lungs.
Elrond clearly held the advantage now. Every movement of his was more economical, every strike more lethal. Yet Khorgul the Heart-Eater planted his sword into the earth like a crutch and, trembling violently, forced himself back to his feet once more. The savage gleam in his eyes had not faded. If anything, it burned brighter—fueled for one final dance of death.
Elrond held his sword slightly to the side and studied the opponent before him, his brows drawing together faintly. Somewhere deep within him stirred a sense of unease he could not quite name. Something felt wrong. He could sense it, yet could not define it. Without taking his eyes off Khorgul, he spoke.
"What is your plan? We both know it is impossible to take Rivendell with an army this small. What I do not understand is what you hoped to achieve with such a futile attack."
Hearing these words, the wounded and rage-filled Khorgul suddenly grew calm for a moment and let out a mocking chuckle.
"Who knows? Perhaps it has simply been too long since I last killed an elf… and I found myself craving a fresh heart."
Khorgul's evasive answer only deepened Elrond's suspicions. He now understood that this army had merely been used as bait—to draw his attention elsewhere. Yet he still could not determine what the true target was. As Elrond weighed the situation in his mind, Khorgul remembered the command given by his dark master: once the true task was completed, he was to leave this place alive.
Drawing a deep breath, Khorgul raised two fingers to his mouth and released a sharp whistle.
The moment Elrond heard it, he wasted no time. Surging forward with lethal speed, he sought to end Khorgul at once. At the last instant Khorgul raised his shield and managed to deflect the fierce attack. Ignoring the unbearable pressure crushing his injured leg, he focused entirely on Elrond.
For a brief moment their weapons locked together again, steel grinding against steel.
A vile smile crept across Khorgul's face as he spoke.
*"I am no longer your opponent, elf ***!"
As Elrond frowned, trying to understand what he meant, a monstrous roar suddenly tore across the battlefield, drowning out the noise of the fighting. When he turned his gaze for the briefest moment, he saw it—
An armored Manticore, its body and jaws drenched in blood, trampling both elf and orc soldiers alike as it charged through the chaos of battle… and then leapt directly toward him.
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