The dawn broke pale and chill upon the mountain. In the high watchtower, Kíli leaned against the stone battlement, half lulled by the silence of morning. His eyes drifted shut—until the sudden flutter of wings startled him. A thrush alighted on his shoulder, chittering in his ear and stabbing its beak insistently toward the east.
Kíli followed its urging. Beyond the golden light of the rising sun, the crest of the eastern ridge darkened. At first he thought it a trick of the light, but then the truth dawned: ranks upon ranks of dwarves, armored head to heel, marching with the steady thunder of iron boots. The glint of steel caught the sun in a thousand places, a river of burnished mail and polished plate flowing over the ridge. Kíli's eyes widened.
With a cry, he seized the great horn mounted at the tower's edge and loosed a single blast. The deep note rolled out across the plain, echoing from the mountain's scarred face. Below, gates swung open. Thorin's Company, joined by Bilbo and Ben, spilled out into the clear morning air.
Across the green sward the host of the Iron Hills advanced in perfect order, divided into three great wings. To the fore marched 500 heavy infantry, their shields overlapping like scales, their long spears thrust forward in bristling ranks. Then came the bulk of the army—about 6000 well-armed light infantry. Their helms gleamed with crests of iron, their mail glittered with the light of dawn, and the tramp of their boots beat a warlike rhythm on the earth. Behind them came about 300 mounted dwarves, cavalry astride great armored rams. The beasts' horns were tipped in steel, their barding wrought of overlapping plates; the riders bore axes and swords, ready to hew through any foe.
At the army's back rumbled the engines of war: 9 colossal ballistae, dragged on massive wheels, their arms wound with chains and iron winches. Pack mules trudged in the rear with casks, sacks, and soldier's rations enough to sustain the army for a week.
But it was the vanguard that drew every eye. At the front, 5 swift war-chariots thundered, pulled by teams of armored rams whose breath steamed in the morning chill. The chariot wheels bore savage rotating blades, keen as scythes, and each was fitted with a mounted scorpion launcher ready to hurl bolts the length of spears. They wheeled in tight formation beside their lord, a wall of iron and motion.
And at their center rode a towering figure upon a tusked war-boar. His beard and hair blazed ginger-red beneath his helm, and across his broad back hung a warhammer almost as long as he was tall. The beast beneath him was as fearsome as its master, armored from snout to flank, helm-crested and tusked like a living battering ram.
The host drew to a halt before the moat and the gates of Erebor. Silence fell, broken only by the stamping of beasts, the snort of rams, and the clatter of harness.
Then Thorin stepped forward, his face breaking into a rare smile.
"Dáin!" he cried.
The rider swung down from his boar with a heavy thud, his grin as wide as Thorin's.
"Thorin!"
They strode together and clasped arms, laughing like boys, and then embraced fiercely. Dáin thumped his cousin's shoulders, eyes shining.
"Good to see you alive and well, cousin," he said, his voice rough with feeling. He cast his gaze over the Company gathered at the gates. "And good to see you all as well."
But his smile twisted slyly as he turned back.
"Still, I've a bone to pick with you, Thorin. Months ago when you came to me, you said your aim was to creep into this mountain and filch away the Arkenstone. Well, I'm no sneak. Look at the size of me!" He stamped one massive boot, the ground quivering. "I'd have woken the dragon within five minutes, what with the noise from my big hairy feet!"
The Company chuckled, and even Thorin's stern mouth quirked into a grin. Dáin lifted his warhammer in one hand, its shaft tall as himself.
"But had you told me the truth—that you meant to slay that overgrown lizard—I'd have been at your side from the first, hammer in hand!"
Thorin laughed aloud, his voice echoing against the stone.
"On my word, Dáin, I would have liked nothing better than to cleave that winged worm's skull myself. But when last we spoke, such a thing seemed far beyond hope. It was only with the aid of our new friends"—he gestured toward Bilbo and Ben—"that Smaug was brought low and our home reclaimed."
Dáin's sharp eyes followed his cousin's hand. He studied the halfling and the young man, and then gave a slow nod.
"Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, and Benjamin Carter—Master Wizard and Craftsman," Thorin said formally. "And this, is my cousin, Dáin Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills."
Dáin's brows rose at the halfling.
"A hobbit, eh? From the Shire? You must have quite a tale to tell, Master Baggins."
Bilbo gave a faint smile. "One most would find quite hard to believe."
Dáin laughed, his mirth booming like a drum. Then he turned to Ben, squinting with a hint of curiosity.
"Begging your pardon, lad, but aren't you a little young to be a Wizard? Let alone a Master Craftsman?"
Ben opened his mouth, but Thorin was quicker. Draping an arm across Ben's shoulders, Thorin spoke with pride ringing in his voice.
"Do not let his looks deceive you, cousin. You'll find it hard to lift your jaw from the floor once you see what he is capable of. Without him, our quest would have ended in fire and ruin. Without him, none of us would be standing here, whole and unscathed."
The conviction in Thorin's tone left no room for jest. Dáin studied Ben anew, and this time he inclined his head with the gravity of one warrior to another.
"Then you have my respect," he said simply.
Together they turned, and with the Iron Hills host standing sentinel on the plain, Thorin and Dáin led the Company back through the gates of Erebor, to wait for their other allies that would soon arrive.
---
The light of the afternoon sun slanted over the blasted plain located miles away to the south-east of Erebor. There, massed like a black tide before the roots of a barren hill, stood an army of orcs beyond counting. Spears bristled like a forest of iron, wargs snarled and pawed at the earth, and towering among them loomed twenty-eight war trolls.
These were no common trolls of stone and shadow, who withered to rock at the first touch of the sun. These were Olog-hai—spawn of Sauron's will, bred for endurance and cruelty, their thick hides armored and their eyes gleaming with malice. Some bore chains that bound siege-works to their backs: massive catapults that could hurl ruin from afar.
And before them, burrowing against the side of the hill, writhed nightmares out of the deeps. Three were-worms, each the length of four hundred feet and the girth of seventy-five, twisted their serpentine bodies with shrieks that split the air. Their pale, glistening hides rippled as they gnashed into the earth. At Azog's signal, the whips of his orc-drivers cracked against their flanks. The worms screamed, their jaws opening wide enough to swallow a house, and then they sank into the hillside, tearing vast tunnels with grinding, hideous ease. The land shuddered with the sound of stone and soil crushed beneath their passage.
The army stirred. Drums beat like the heartbeat of a beast, and the orcs began their march, filing into the freshly carved tunnels. Azog watched, his pale face lit with cruel satisfaction. Soon, the worms would break through near Dale, opening hidden ways east of the Lonely Mountain. His warriors would pour forth like a flood, and the dwarves—secure in their reclaimed halls—would be caught utterly unawares. He smiled thinly at the thought of their terror.
Far to the north, at the roots of the Misty Mountains, another evil was on the move. Mount Gundabad, once sacred to Durin's Folk, where the first of their kind had awakened in the world's youth, now seethed with darkness. Where once the dwarves had fought to cleanse it in the War of the Dwarves and Orcs, the fortress had again become the lair of countless foes.
From its blackened halls poured a cloud of wings—bats bred for war, vast and shrieking, their bodies filling the sky. Amid their storm rode Bolg, clad in heavy armor, astride a slavering warg. His mace gleamed cruelly in the gloom as he lifted it high, bellowing a command. Trumpets blared, and the iron gates of Gundabad swung wide.
Forth marched rank upon rank of northern orcs, massive brutes bearing spears thrice their own height, the shafts like tree trunks in their hands. The ground shook beneath their tread. Bolg wheeled his mount to the fore, the swarm of bats wheeling above him like a living storm-cloud.
He had his orders: he would strike from the west at Ravenhill, while his sire Azog swept in from the east. Between them, the dwarves would be crushed like grain between millstones. Quick, brutal, inescapable. The thought twisted his scarred mouth into a smile.
With another command, the ranks parted, letting loose a tide of leaner, swifter orcs—scouts and hunters, who ran ahead of the main force with snarls on their lips and bloodlust in their eyes.
The trap was set. The assault was planned with cunning precision. Two armies, moving separately, converging like claws of a beast upon Erebor.
But high above, unnoticed, wings beat in silence. Tiny birds hovered on the currents—not true birds, though they looked as harmless as hummingbirds flitting in the sun. Their bodies were made of metal and rune-work, their beaks tipped with crystal, their eyes unblinking lenses. They watched, recorded, measured: the number of troops, the pace of their march, the paths of their advance, even the armament of their siege-beasts.
Far away, deep within Erebor, Ben sat in a sparsely furnished chamber, pen scratching across paper. Before him shimmered two faint illusory screens, each showing the world through the eyes of his creations. He leaned back in his chair, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
Let the orcs believe themselves clever, hidden, inevitable. Let Azog and Bolg dream of crushing their foes. The truth was otherwise. For it was not the dwarves who would be taken by surprise, but the servants of darkness themselves.
Ben's eyes glimmered as he jotted the last of his notes.
"Checkmate, you ugly bastards," he murmured.
---
"Da!" cried Tilda as she broke into a run, her small voice trembling with joy. She leapt into her father's arms, clinging to him with all her strength. Bard staggered back a half step but held her tightly, burying his face in her hair. Sigrid and Bain pressed in a heartbeat later, the three children surrounding their father in a fierce embrace. Relief shone in their eyes—relief that the nightmare of fire and dragon was behind them, and that Bard still lived.
It was evening, and the reunion unfolded just outside the vast gates of Erebor. The mountain loomed over them, its doors majestic and monumental, but for the moment, Bard's family saw only him.
A little distance away, Legolas and Tauriel stood speaking quietly with Ben. They had arrived from Lake-town not long before, stepping through one of Ben's shimmering portals. With them had come Bard's children; neither the elves nor Ben had trusted the safety of Lake-town, not with the Master's men still prowling and plotting. Thorin had agreed when the matter was raised—inside Erebor, the children would be safe while the adults faced the peril that marched upon them.
Bard kissed each of his children's heads, then guided them gently toward the waiting gates. Their awe was plain as they crossed the threshold. Dwarvish architecture surrounded them—carved pillars that seemed as tall as trees, vaults ribbed with stone artistry, and great halls echoing with ancient grandeur. The children gasped aloud, eyes wide at the splendor of Erebor.
Two days earlier, after Smaug's death, Ben had travelled once more through his portals to the Woodland Realm. He had carried with him tidings of victory, and Thranduil had been caught off guard—not only by the news that the dragon had been slain, but also by the fact that every member of Thorin's company had survived unscathed. The Elvenking, shaken by this miracle, had given his word before Ben departed: he would march with his host to Erebor without delay.
Now, the elves were here. Their encampment filled the broken city of Dale, gleaming like a forest of bronze and gold amid ruin. Ten thousand strong, they stood arrayed in ranks—each elf clad in finely wrought lamellar, scales of golden-bronze interlocked with hardened leather and accented with elegant pauldrons. Their helmets rose high and leaflike, crowned with motifs of trees and antlers, a proud echo of the Greenwood from which they hailed. Each bore tall kite shields, spears tipped with leaf-shaped blades, and curved single-edged swords that hung at their sides. Among them, three thousand carried longbows strung with silken cords, quivers bristling on their backs.
They stood in absolute silence, aligned with perfect discipline, gazes fixed toward Erebor. To see them gathered thus was to witness a vision of otherworldly might.
From the parapets above, Thorin Oakenshield and Dain Ironfoot gazed down at the host. The light of the evening sun struck off the elves' golden ranks, and Dain's lips curled in distaste.
"I don't like this, Thorin," he growled. "That pointy-eared bastard betrayed us once—deserted our kin when they most needed aid. And now we're to fight beside him? To call him ally?" He spat to the side. "It leaves a sour taste in my mouth."
Thorin did not answer at once. He stared down at the ordered ranks below, his face grave, his eyes far away. At length, he spoke, his voice low.
"Do you think this pleases me? To march with elves?" He turned, meeting Dain's scowling gaze. "The day the dragon came, you were not here. I was. I stood at the gates when Smaug broke them asunder. I was there when we drove the dams and children from the halls, when despair choked every breath. And I was the one who saw them crest the western hill—the elves, our supposed allies." His jaw tightened, his voice faltered only for a moment. "I called out for their aid. And then… I watched as Thranduil turned his back, and led them away."
Thorin's eyes clouded with the memory, old bitterness etched deep in his tone. "I can understand the wish to protect one's people from a dragon's wrath. But to abandon friends at their hour of greatest need? To give not even a token of aid—" He broke off, shaking his head as though the memory still cut like a blade.
His gaze swept back to the horizon. "But Azog is on his way here. The filth that severed my grandfather's head and dreams to end Durin's line. He comes, and he will bring his legions. You know their numbers, cousin—you know how quickly those vile creatures spawn." His hand tightened on the stone parapet. "They will outnumber us. Even if we fought with all our strength, how many of our kin would remain standing after the fighting is done? How many fathers would see their sons again? How many would return to their wives, and how many would lie broken before these gates, never to rise?"
Dain's shoulders sagged; his eyes fell, and he gave no reply. The truth of Thorin's words weighed heavy upon him.
"I would give every coin in Erebor," Thorin said softly, "to spare the life of one dwarf. To pay a few jewels for ten thousand warriors at our side—aye, that is a bargain well struck." His eyes turned again toward Dale, where the elves stood gleaming in the fading light. "I have not forgiven, nor have I forgotten. But I choose, as a good friend once said, to lead past it."
Silence stretched between them.
At last, Dain looked at Thorin with something new in his eyes. "You've changed, Thorin," he said quietly.
Thorin met his gaze.
Dain's lips twisted into a rare smile. "You have the bearing of a King now. One I would proudly follow."
A faint smile touched Thorin's face. The cousins clasped arms, their grip firm, binding kinship and resolve together against the storm to come.