The throne of the Lonely Mountain had sat in silence for nearly two hundred years.
Long, long years—long enough for warriors' axes to rust, and for ambition to be ground down to dust.
But today, the Emperor of Erebor had returned!
The Company rested for a day. While they did, the dwarves hauled great boulders to the gate and stacked them into a thick wall, trying to defend the kingdom that way.
After that, everyone waited in anxious dread—waiting for word from the wizard Dumbledore. If no message came for too long, then it could only mean the dragon had killed him, and Smaug would return to the Lonely Mountain. And then they would have to flee in disgrace all over again.
They were still full of worry for the future—but rolling around on a mountain of gold was, truly, ridiculously fun.
Bilbo planned to pack up his share and leave the Mountain as soon as possible. Thorin stopped him—wouldn't let him go, and wouldn't allow him to take even a single gold coin.
"So you're going to break the contract?" Bilbo asked, shaking. "Aren't you afraid of the wizard's curse?"
"The wizard hasn't come back yet," Thorin said. "Until he does, no one takes anything. I want you to help me find the Arkenstone. Of all the treasure of the Mountain, I want only that one thing. Whoever keeps it for himself—I'll be his enemy to the death!"
Just then, the ravens of the Mountain came calling. An old bird named Roäc could speak the tongue of Men, and he was the leader of the flock.
"O Thorin, son of Thráin—Roäc am I, son of Carc. Carc is dead, but he told us of the old king's deeds. We were close companions in the days of old."
"Yes. I know the ravens of Erebor," Thorin said. "I was about to ask you for help—carry my message north to my kin in the Mountains, especially to the Iron Hills. Tell my cousin Dáin: his host is strong, and he is the nearest. He must come with all speed."
"Too late," Roäc said. "Thorin—those who covet treasure have already reached the Mountain. I have seen Elves, and a great host of Orcs, pouring in from the west and southwest. They were prepared. When they saw the dragon depart, they quickened their pace. Climb the slopes and look—you'll see their tents and banners."
The dwarves went pale. They hurried outside. The wasteland that had been desolate—somehow, without their noticing, war-banners now stood upon it.
The Elves' armor looked like green fish-scales, reflecting emerald light along the horizon. Their banners caught the sinking sun, like crow-dark clouds stretched long by the wind at the edge of the world.
To the south, savage, rough-hewn masses of Orcs moved about. Azog's troops were orderly and grim, but another force clustered around a towering wooden siege-tower—cackling, whooping, and hollering as though trapped in an endless carnival, making a dizzying, mind-numbing din.
At the Lonely Mountain, the enemies' jeers and shrieks rode the wind up to the gate, thinning into something dark and low—like a soft midsummer drizzle—yet each sound still felt like molten iron, scorching every heart with dread.
This was the rainstorm of war, and every drop carried the prelude to death.
Beneath the Mountain, the kingdom held only thirteen dwarves and one hobbit.
It was known that five hundred warriors of the Woodland Realm were about to reach Erebor, while Azog's two thousand Orcs and a further thousand Orcs of the Lord of the Rings were also converging. Three thousand five hundred enemies in all—Elves would never ally with Orcs—yet if they all invaded the Mountain, it meant each dwarf and the hobbit would have to fight two hundred and fifty foes apiece.
The Elves arrived first. Their commander was none other than King Thranduil himself, leading the host in person. He demanded that the dwarves of the Mountain hand over the jewel.
Thorin assumed the Elf meant the Arkenstone. He immediately cursed them from the ramparts, telling them to abandon the thought—he would never surrender the gem.
Thranduil assessed the stone wall the dwarves had built to seal the gate, then turned and withdrew.
Not long after, a band of Orcs came as well, laughing and jeering at the gate, and they too shouted for Thorin to hand over the jewel.
"Nothing! Get lost!"
Azog's envoys arrived last. They were blunt: they wanted Thorin's head.
"Then come up here and take it!"
A great host ringed the Mountain. The Elves took the western slopes; the Orcs took the eastern slopes and the southern ruins of Dale.
Elves and Orcs could only be enemies, never allies. The dwarves were the common target of both. Three forces faced off, and for a time no one dared make the first move.
"We must find outside help," Thorin said, gathering the Company. "The ravens have flown north, but even if the Iron Hills ride hard, it will take five days. Who else can help us?"
"The Men of Lake-town to the south might," someone said.
"Then call them," Thorin said darkly. "Tell them this: if they help the Mountain endure until the Iron Hills host arrives, I will grant them a portion of Erebor's treasure as reward."
At a moment like this—life or death—no one bothered quibbling over personal shares.
When the message reached Lake-town, Bard assembled a militia and sailed north.
Time continued to seep by in a dreadful, suffocating slowness.
Everyone waited. The besiegers waited for the dwarves trapped inside the Mountain to surrender. The trapped waited for reinforcements. Commanders waited for the right moment. Soldiers waited for the order to attack.
Each night that followed was terrifying. The Company endured on limited provisions; their stored food would last no more than a week. Within that week, the course of the war would be decided.
Bilbo stood on the battlements and watched. In the southern ruins of Dale, the Orcs lit clusters of dreadful orange-red fires—doing who knew what. From the eastern camp came the occasional howl of wargs. And from the Elves' lands to the west came their cheerful singing.
Stars glittered across the black vault of the sky. The moon, wrapped in clouds, gave off a gentle warmth.
From the main peak of the Lonely Mountain rose the dwarves' war-song, sung to raise courage—shouted and bellowed as they celebrated their king's return.
Bilbo, sorrowful, longed for it to end quickly. He heard that both Elves and Orcs were demanding the jewel—if it were handed over, could war be avoided?
And most of all…
Where was Dumbledore?
The wizard was still on his broom, chasing the dragon.
Smaug's struggle with the Dragonborn was fierce and glorious—from mountain peaks to open earth, from thunder to gale.
They tangled in the air, and when they crashed to the ground they beat at each other with teeth, fists, and tail. The Dragonborn laughed in a low, savage delight, trying to force Smaug into submission. This was the man who had defeated Alduin the World-Eater with his Voice, proving himself king among dragonkind—and now, in a foreign world, he meant to make the dragon of this land bow as well.
Smaug's red-hot body melted soil and stone. When he rolled on the ground, the earth became a canvas smeared with scarlet lava. He roared and spewed flame, refusing to lower his head to the Dragonborn.
Dumbledore did not interfere.
The struggle did not rage without pause. When one side grew weary, they would break away to recover elsewhere, snatch some food—sleep was impossible. They could not share a world. They meant to drive the other to the limits of flesh and spirit, and then shatter them completely.
The sun rose and fell three times. They drove east, past the Iron Hills—crashing through a small hill under the stunned, frightened eyes of the local dwarves—then swept south along the Redwater. At last, at the meeting of the Running River and the Redwater, the fight reached its end.
Smaug gave a mournful cry and slammed down upon the riverbank. One horn snapped. Both wings tore. The fire in his chest had gone out. He had no strength left to resist—only to howl as though surrendering his fate to the sky.
The Dragonborn stood atop Smaug's dying head. His armor had broken apart; his powerful body was webbed with injuries, as if he were cracked ice-glaze on porcelain. A massive gouge along his side—left by dragon-teeth—had torn away at least half a pound of flesh. Two fingers on his left hand had been broken in the struggle. And yet, despite all that, his spirit looked astonishingly bright.
He stepped close to Smaug and demanded, "Have you ever slaughtered the innocent? Killed without restraint for greed?"
Smaug blinked weakly, admitting his crimes.
"Do you repent—and will you spend what remains of your life overcoming your evil nature?"
Smaug bared his teeth in a grin and spat a mouthful of black smoke at him.
"Then so be it. In the name of Ysmir (Dragon of the North), chieftain of dragonkind, I sentence you to death!"
He had defeated Smaug fair and square. No one could object to that judgment—Smaug himself closed his eyes. The final blow fell upon the dragon's skull, shattering bone and piercing the brain.
Smaug, drenched in wickedness, loosed the last howl of his life.
As the dragon-fight ended, the western sunset pierced the clouds like a pointing finger, shining down upon the hero from another world and bathing him in warm radiance. In that light, his wounds began to knit at a frightening speed.
The Dragonborn and Dumbledore stood by the river beside the mountain-sized corpse. Blood dyed the water red. On the wind came the singing of a harp, and a satisfied, quiet chuckle.
"It's Ilúvatar," Dumbledore said, deeply moved. "He acknowledges your deed of slaying the dragon."
The Dragonborn said nothing. Without a word, he began to butcher the dragon—acting like a man who would never leave empty-handed. It was hard not to laugh. Seeing him hack away so broadly and wastefully, Dumbledore quickly stepped in to take over; the old wizard's butchery skills were unexpectedly superb.
"May I buy some of the dragon materials from you?" Dumbledore asked. "I should be rather wealthy now. Of the Lonely Mountain's treasure, I received one fourteenth."
With the dragon-slaying delivery job finished, the errand-god Dragonborn prepared to return to his own world and rest. He let Dumbledore choose whatever dragon materials he wanted, and he didn't forget Thorin's dragon-sickness either, so he added, "He's welcome to learn the Way of the Voice at any time. I'll take him to High Hrothgar."
Then the Dragonborn departed through a portal.
Dumbledore flew back to the Lonely Mountain on his broom—and when he arrived, he found this place had already become the brutal battlefield of the Battle of Five Armies.
To the north were the Iron Hills dwarves; to the east, two Orc hosts; to the west, the Woodland Elves; to the south, the Men of Lake-town. In the river-valleys of Erebor, they fought in a chaotic tangle: dwarves against Elves, Orcs against Men, dwarves against Orcs, Elves against Orcs…
Banners shook. Horns blared without end. The roar of killing was like thunder. Corpses piled like mountains.
Dumbledore's lips trembled. He was only a wizard—he could not stop a war.
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