In LOTR with Harry Potter system

At the sight of the vast Orc army swarming over the mountain slopes, the company tensed, their earlier cheer vanishing like mist. It was clear now, they were hopelessly outnumbered.

Bofur turned anxiously to Sylas. "That shrieking root of yours, pull it out again and flatten them like you did in the Goblin cave!"

The others glanced at Sylas with eager hope. The memory of the Mandrake's devastating cry back in the tunnels was still fresh in their minds.

But Sylas calmly studied the terrain, his expression grave. "Don't get your hopes up. The cave's echo chamber amplified the cry. Out here in the open, and with so many at range... the effect will be limited."

Still, he drew the Mandrake from his pouch.

One by one, he cast a Silencing Charm on everyone nearby, just as before. Then, gripping it by the stem, he yanked the wailing root from its enchanted soil pod and hurled it toward the advancing Orcs and Wargs.

The immediate effect was dramatic.

Those closest to the Mandrake collapsed instantly, either dead or convulsing in pain from the unearthly screech. Wargs tumbled and snarled in agony, their riders thrown violently from their saddles.

But farther back, the noise lost its sting.

The rear lines halted, uneasy, many clutching their heads and retreating several paces. Fear rippled through their ranks.

Atop a crag, the Orc chieftain snarled, eyes locked on the wailing plant.

"Back! Out of its range!"

"It's the Black-robed Wizard! That creature, don't listen to it!"

"But the chief wants the Dwarves' heads," one Orc protested.

"Then shoot them! Kill them from afar! Their heads are all he cares about!"

On the ridge above, the army shifted tactics.

Down below, the Dwarves whooped and jeered, some making lewd gestures at the hesitant Orcs. Their cheer, however, was short-lived.

In the very next instant, the sky darkened with a swarm of arrows.

"Down!" someone shouted.

Thousands of black-fletched shafts screamed through the air toward them.

Sylas raised his wand with a snap, conjuring a shimmering golden shield that arched overhead like a dome. The arrows struck the barrier with sharp, musical clangs, thousands raining down in a storm, but not a single one landing.

The group cheered.

But Sylas's smile vanished. His eyes widened.

A chill surged down his spine, his instincts flared a warning.

Across the field, the Orc chieftain had drawn a arrow from his quiver. Grinning, he nocked it and loosed.

The arrow shrieked through the air.

It passed through the magical barrier as though it wasn't even there.

A moment later, it slammed into Sylas's chest.

"SYLAS!"

The cry rang out from Bilbo first, and then from all the others as they rushed to his side.

Sylas staggered, but didn't fall. He clutched the shaft embedded in his ribs, grimacing.

Gandalf caught him just in time.

His eyes fell on the blackened arrowhead, and his face blanched.

"Morgul-arrow."

Bilbo stared at him. "Morgul? What does that mean?"

"It's a cursed arrow," Gandalf said grimly. "Forged in Mordor, etched with dark runes, and tipped with poison. Those struck by it suffer a slow, agonizing death."

The Dwarves paled.

"Will Sylas be alright?" one of them asked anxiously, turning to Sylas, who stood pale and silent, clutching his chest.

"Cough… cough…" Sylas finally wheezed, blood flecking the corner of his lips. Everyone immediately gathered around him.

"Sylas!" Bilbo exclaimed in alarm. 

Without answering, Sylas slowly pulled the arrow from his chest. Then he tore open the front of his robes to reveal a gleaming silver mesh beneath.

The Dwarves gasped.

"Mithril!" Thorin's eyes widened in astonishment. "You've been wearing Mithril mail? That explains it… no wonder the arrow didn't pierce your heart."

Relief washed over the group.

"Thank goodness," Bilbo said, his voice trembling with joy. "You're safe!"

Gandalf released a quiet breath, while the others voiced similar sentiments.

Sylas looked down at the dark arrow now stained with his blood, still pulsing faintly with a residual aura of malice. The black runes etched along the shaft flickered ominously. He stared at it for a long moment, then crushed the shaft in his hand.

If not for the chainmail he'd been wearing, that cursed arrow would have spelled his end. The realization made his gaze sharpen.

He looked toward the distant hill where the Orc chieftain stood, leering down at them with satisfaction. Sylas's jaw tightened.

'So far, my journey has been too smooth. But today, I nearly died.

This isn't something I'll forget. Or forgive.'

"Uh, Sylas… the Mandrake's gone quiet," Kili called, pointing.

Everyone turned toward the small, root-like creature that lay slumped outside the Silencing Charm's boundary.

The Mandrake's leaves were curled, its mouth slightly open, its whole form trembling weakly. It gave no more sound, only soft, exhausted whimpers.

"It's worn out," Gandalf muttered. "It cried too long."

Sylas nodded. 

The little root creature shivered, then flopped into his hand, allowing itself to be gently reburied into the enchanted pot. Sylas covered it with soil and whispered a brief incantation to help it rest.

Then he turned to Gandalf.

"I'll leave the company to you. Lead them out through the mist."

"What about you?" Gandalf asked, already guessing the answer.

Sylas's gaze was locked on the Orc chieftain in the distance, his voice low and resolute. "I'm going to deal with the one who fired that arrow."

He raised his wand and muttered, "Nebulus."

At once, a dense fog burst forth, rolling across the mountainside like a living tide. The mists thickened, swallowing trees, rocks, and the startled cries of Orcs and Wargs. Visibility dropped to nothing.

The Orcs began shouting in confusion. The Wargs snarled and howled, trying to locate one another through sound alone.

Under cover of the fog, Gandalf led the company away, slipping past enemy lines.

And Sylas vanished.

Gliding through the mist like a shadow, guided by his Palantír, Sylas moved silently toward the hilltop.

A snarling Warg lunged from the fog.

"Confringo."

The spell detonated like thunder.

The beast and its rider were torn apart in an instant, screaming for less than a heartbeat before they vanished into crimson mist.

The distant Orcs panicked.

"The Black-robed Wizard! He's inside the fog!" 

"Have everyone gather together and guard against the Wizard's sneak attack!" the Orc leader barked in Black Speech.

The Warg beneath him roared in response, a guttural, commanding howl that echoed through the mountains.

One by one, the other Wargs obeyed, racing through the fog to regroup around their commander.

Watching this through the Palantír's shimmering surface, Sylas narrowed his eyes and smirked. "You think numbers are your strength? You've only made it easier for me to destroy you all at once."

From within the thick mist, screams continued to erupt, chilling the bones of every nearby Orc. The leader's unease deepened. He gritted his fangs, knowing the Wizard was hunting him.

Still, with nearly a thousand Orcs and Wargs forming a protective ring around him, he felt a shred of confidence. No matter how powerful Sylas's magic was, surely he couldn't eliminate them all, let alone reach him through this living wall.

Just then, the Warg he rode on snarled and turned its head toward the mist, its nose twitching with agitation. It sensed something.

"There! Fire! Shoot every arrow you've got! (Black Speech!)"

The Orcs obeyed instantly, loosing a barrage of arrows toward the darkened mist.

The chieftain, not to be outdone, nocked another Morgul-arrow, his best weapon, and fired it straight into the fog.

A deadly silence followed.

And then—

"Repello Telum!"

Sylas's voice rang out, sharp and unyielding.

The very arrows the Orcs had just loosed came whistling back out of the mist, reversed mid-flight.

Dozens of screams followed as the Orcs were pierced by their own weapons. Blood sprayed through the air, Wargs toppled, and warriors dropped like rag dolls.

The leader barely managed to survive by yanking a subordinate into his path, letting the poor soul take the brunt of the counterattack.

He gasped, heart pounding, only for his pupils to dilate in terror as a sudden crimson flash lit up the mist in front of him.

"Reducto!"

The explosion tore through the battlefield with a sound like the heavens shattering.

A radiant sphere of magic detonated at the Orc army's core. Those closest to the blast were vaporized, nothing remained but scorched ash. Others were hurled through the air, crashing into trees and rocks, limbs twisted and bodies broken.

The impact was so powerful, it swept away the entire mist like a gale, exposing the carnage.