The flood of soldiers rushing in is a welcome sight, but that they're Templars negates some of that delight. He's far too aware of what will happen should any of them do-- whatever it is they do that threatens to pull him apart each time. The feeling of relief spreads despite this-- every Freeman he cuts down is one less, and the flood is no longer so overwhelming.

Thranduil minds their faces when he can, the armor of the Wardens sticking in his mind. He must find them later, must thank them-- because this may well have gone the other way, with more Freemen flooding in.