The war erupted at the turn of late summer into early autumn.
It wouldn't last long—one or two days at most. With fighting this intense, the outcome would be decided quickly.
Once everyone's dead, the winner is decided.
When Dumbledore returned, the battle had already reached its most fevered, white-hot phase.
These five armies hadn't met and instantly clashed. In fact, they had even shared one peaceful day together.
Back then, five hundred elite dwarves from the Iron Hills arrived at the Lonely Mountain and joined up with four hundred militia from Lake-town. After that, they meant to take the main road into Erebor—only to be stopped outside the valley.
Dáin Ironfoot's reputation thundered far and wide, and with Men present to bolster the show of force, both King Thranduil of the Elves and Azog of the Orcs were willing to send envoys to negotiate.
Erebor sent two in return—Bilbo and Balin. They climbed down the wall by rope, gathered their courage, and went to the parley beyond Dale.
The five sides met. Every face was grim—except for the innocent Mr. Baggins, who truly believed this meant no one had to fight, and everyone could go home safe.
Old Balin took one look at Bilbo's expression and knew what he was thinking, so he murmured softly, "Not possible."
The smile vanished from Bilbo's face.
"Look. The Elves are here for the gem. The Orcs—half of them for the gem, half for revenge. Men are here for money. Only the great lord of the Iron Hills is on our side. Understand?"
"Understand what?" Bilbo's throat felt dry. He already knew the war was inevitable—he just didn't want to admit it.
"Even if we found the gem—and we won't—Thorin would never hand it over. And even if we did hand it over, no one would be able to simply leave. Because the moment Elves or Orcs got the gem and tried to withdraw, the others would attack. And to keep either side from winning, we'd be dragged into the fighting too."
"There has to be a better way. There has to," Bilbo said, clenching the wizard's pocket.
As expected, the parley ended in bitterness.
After the negotiations, Bilbo and Balin did not return to Erebor. Instead, they went to meet Dáin Ironfoot's host. After being trapped for five days, they finally ate a proper, full meal. The hobbit—who had always loved food—was unusually silent.
Balin spoke with Dáin.
"The Elvenking insists we hand over the gem," Balin grumbled. "And the Orcs squatting in Dale are strange indeed—they want the Arkenstone too, and I can't shake the feeling I've seen their envoy somewhere before."
"For a single jewel… is a war worth it?" Dáin frowned and sighed. "If the gem could make one side withdraw—or make them slaughter each other—then we seize the initiative."
Bilbo quietly pricked up his ears.
Balin shook his head. "The gem is the Lonely Mountain's only bargaining chip. Handing over the Arkenstone is like offering the hilt of a blade and hoping the other man turns the point toward your enemy."
"Think again. Give it to the Elves, and you bind down a portion of the Orcs. Then we fight Azog in a decisive battle. We'll have a common enemy. Would the Elves be mad enough to stab an ally in the back?"
"But if they win, they'll take the gem and leave. Thorin swore an oath—whoever takes the gem becomes his enemy to the death."
"If there are no people left, what use is any treasure?" Dáin said quietly. "No cheers, no praise—no way to trade it for bread or ale. Let the Elves have it. If a jewel dug from the deep earth of the Mountain is fated to depart because the Mountain's people are surrounded… then that is the will of fate."
"You're right, Dáin," Balin said at last. Then his shoulders sagged. "But it's useless. We don't have the Arkenstone. We searched for days, nearly counted every coin, and still…"
"It's here." The hobbit spoke suddenly, setting down his bread and smoked meat. "It's with me."
From the wizard's pocket he drew a radiant jewel. Some called it the Heart of the Mountain. Anyone who saw it felt as if they were looking upon the moon itself—its pure white light seemed able to brighten the heavens, and where its countless facets met, points of brilliance flashed like stars: the summit of nature married to the summit of craft.
Balin and Dáin both went still, spellbound.
Dáin soon broke into a smile. "Excellent. With this, we needn't be passive any longer." He didn't hurry to take it; instead he asked, "Hobbit—why not keep it, slip away quietly? Does it truly not tempt you?"
Mr. Baggins was calm. "Even if I kept the Arkenstone, I'd only hide it in a cellar for the rest of my life, never letting anyone see it. But if bringing it out means less blood will be spilled… then it's worth it."
"Your virtue shines brighter than the Arkenstone," Dáin said. "But I must apologize. War is inevitable. Do not weep for warriors who die—only mothers may weep for children lost. The rest of us need only offer songs and flowers."
He ordered an envoy to present the Arkenstone to the Elvenking—and at the same time, to do it with great fanfare. The Orcs must know the jewel had fallen into Elven hands.
If that jewel truly was the prize everyone was fighting over, then Dáin's plan would succeed.
But unfortunately—precious as it was—it was still far inferior to Azura's Star.
When the envoy presented the Arkenstone to the Elvenking, the Orc host charged the Elven camp.
Thranduil felt deceived, tricked, outplayed. In fury, he cut off the envoy's head and hurled it from afar into the Iron Hills camp.
Enraged dwarven soldiers surged at the Elves, and Azog's warg riders seized the moment to strike the flank of the allied Iron Hills host and the Men of Lake-town.
The great melee began—on a silent morning.
The banners of the Iron Hills thrust north toward the Gates of Erebor. The Orcs of Dale likewise drove north, attacking the Elven camp by the western spur. Azog's force from the eastern mountains pushed south, clashing with the Lake-town militia.
Hearing the news of the Arkenstone, Thorin and those within the Mountain smashed open the gate themselves and marched south to relieve Dáin Ironfoot.
The shape of the five armies fully formed.
By the time Dumbledore arrived, it was nearing noon. From high above, he witnessed the chaos: stalwart dwarf warriors bellowing, warped Orcs cackling madly, wargs howling without end, Elven warriors cold as ice, and human militia wailing for their fathers and mothers.
Blood. Bone. Severed limbs.
With every snap of bowstrings, a fine death-rain fell from the sky, cutting into Orc and dwarf ranks alike—bodies dropping like wheat stalks under a hard wind. Ballistae shuddered; massive bolts flew in rows, a pounding surf that drilled ruined flesh into the slopes. Trolls roared, swinging roughly hewn tree-trunks—one sweep into a crowd, and living soldiers popped off the ground like kicked balls. Ringwraiths shrieked; potent necromancy spread the Dark Lord's dread authority, unstoppable upon the field.
Every second, people died—there was no place left for tears.
This was an unjust war, with no honor to be found.
Members of the Company had endured danger after danger and survived—only to fall here, one after another. Fourteen, thirteen, nine, eight.
Blood and roaring blinded eyes and deafened ears.
Until orange-red starlight spilled down.
Until a solemn proclamation descended.
Everyone looked up and saw a strange new star in the heavens. It was not the work of Varda among the Valar. It was bright, but it was not the dazzling Carnil (Mars). It appeared in the south, yet it did not belong to Menelmacar (Orion).
That radiance was held aloft by an old man with hair and beard as white as snow. He shouted down at the soldiers on the earth—men driven mad by hatred and greed:
"Stop!"
With a spell laid upon it, his mighty voice spread across all five armies.
Dumbledore…
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