The first light of dawn crept across the Lonely Mountain when the ground shuddered with a deep, guttural rumble. Cracks split open along the base of a rocky spur, and with an ear-splitting shriek, three colossal were-worms erupted from the earth. Their serpentine bodies writhed and twisted, stone and soil cascading from their glistening hides. For a moment, they loomed like towers of living nightmare—then, as quickly as they had come, the beasts vanished back into the tunnels they had carved, leaving only gaping maws of earth behind.
From the largest of these, a pale shape emerged—Azog the Defiler, astride his white warg. A cadre of snarling warg riders followed, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust. Azog drew rein at the mouth of the tunnel and cast his gaze toward Erebor.
His face darkened.
He had expected a mountain caught unawares, panicked defenders scrambling to muster. Instead, the valley before the gates of Erebor was lined with disciplined ranks of dwarves—thousands of them, armored head to toe in burnished iron. Square shields gleamed in the rising sun, long spears bristled like a forest of steel, and axes hung ready at their sides.
At the very forefront stood Thorin Oakenshield, clad in gleaming mail and a king's bearing. In his hand he held Thror'sJustice; on his back rested the Shield of Thrain. At his side stood Dáin Ironfoot, broad and immovable as the mountain itself. And on Thorin's other side, calm and watchful, was Ben—the strange human wizard whose presence gnawed at Azog's instincts.
Thorin's voice rang out across the valley, magnified by Ben's Sonorous charm until it rolled like thunder:
"Defiler scum! You crawl from the dirt like the maggot you are, only to die upon it once more!"
The dwarves roared their approval, the sound echoing off the mountainsides. Azog's lips peeled back in a snarl, hatred burning hotter than the morning sun. His pale eyes flicked toward Ben, narrowing. It was him. Somehow, impossibly, the wizard had sensed his approach. The element of surprise—lost. Ravenhill would not be his command post this day.
But Azog's confidence did not falter. His force was twenty-thousand strong, and Bolg would soon arrive with another twelve. Against such numbers, even a wall of iron would break.
He lifted his blade-arm high, and in the Black Speech barked his order.
Two thousand armored orcs surged forward, the vanguard of his host. Spears lowered, mouths foaming, they thundered across the rugged earth towards the dwarven line.
The dwarves of the Iron Hills did not flinch. They stood as statues, shields and spears unwavering.
Azog frowned. No shield wall? No defensive maneuver? What trick was this?
Ben's eyes narrowed behind his enchanted spectacles. In the lenses, three faint red lines shimmered across the battlefield: three markers, etched into reality itself—150 feet, 200 feet, 300 feet. As the orcs stormed across the 300-foot line, the farthest glowed faintly.
"Hold," Ben murmured, his hand hovering over a small trigger marked with glowing runes.
The dwarves, drilled in the plan, steadied themselves.
The orcs crossed 200 feet. The second line lit up.
"Hold," Ben said again, his jaw tight, his right hand flexing with restrained power.
The orcs pounded closer, black iron and pale flesh filling the horizon. As they were about to reach the 150-foot line, the nearest markers flared crimson.
Ben's voice cut like a whip: "Now!"
Thorin's Sonorous-augmented shout overlapped his, booming across the field:
"Shields! Now!"
In a single motion, the dwarves snapped their heavy square shields into place, interlocking with a thunderous clack. The line became a wall of iron. Thorin swung the Shield of Thrain from his back in one fluid motion, bracing himself. Beside him, Ben thrust his right hand outward, conjuring a shimmering barrier of magic around himself, Thorin, and Dáin.
Ben's left hand pressed the trigger.
The earth roared.
150 feet away, the ground erupted in a chain of explosions—searing fire and pulverized rock blasting skyward. Orcs were torn apart instantly, bodies reduced to flying shreds of flesh and twisted armor. The detonations leapt outward, rolling in a devastating wave to 200 feet, then 300.
The battlefield became a storm of flame and thunder. Hundreds of orcs vanished in a heartbeat, their screams drowned by the roar of destruction. Others were hurled broken into the air, only to crash lifeless onto the blackened ground. Shockwaves ripped through the valley, slamming into the dwarven line. The shield wall shuddered but held. Ben's barrier rippled, absorbing the worst of the force for those at the very front.
When at last the explosions ended and the dust began to clear, the valley lay scarred and smoking. Of the two thousand orcs in Azog's vanguard, only a few dozen stumbled about in confusion, burned and broken, their ears ringing, their eyes wide with terror.
Azog sat frozen on his mount, his face twisted in disbelief.
The dwarves erupted in a cheer that shook the stones of Erebor itself. Spears rattled against shields, voices bellowed war cries, and Thorin turned to Azog with a smirk of pure disdain.
Azog's shock gave way to fury. His snarl split into a roar as he raised his arm and bellowed another command.
At once, four thousand orcs detached from the sea of his host and began to advance. These were no reckless berserkers like the doomed vanguard—these came on slowly, shields up, spears bristling, their snarls low and deliberate.
The dwarves of the Iron Hills held firm. Shields interlocked, spearpoints jutting out like a row of fangs, they stood unflinching before the oncoming tide. The charred, blood-soaked earth where the first wave had perished still smoked before them, a warning written in ash and ruin.
Azog barked another order in the Black Speech. Horns blared, sharp and cruel. The orcs halted, then parted their ranks. From behind surged two more forces—two thousand breaking toward the eastern hills, another two thousand toward the west.
The Defiler's strategy was plain: let the main body pin the dwarves in front while his flanking divisions swept down from both sides, encircling the line.
Still the dwarves did not move. Their shield wall remained fixed, eyes locked forward, as if the flanking threat did not exist.
Azog's pale eyes narrowed. He remembered the inferno that had annihilated his vanguard. He smelled the trick before it came, but could not see it. Not yet.
The flanking battalions trudged up the slopes of the eastern and western hills. Then, with another horn blast, they began to descend at a charge, screaming war cries, blades raised high.
That was when the sky itself darkened.
From beyond the crests of the hills, a storm of arrows poured down. Silver-feathered shafts fell like rain, and hundreds of orcs toppled mid-stride, pierced through throat, chest, and eye. Cries of shock and pain split the air.
Then came the answering war horns—clear, sharp, and proud.
The elves revealed themselves.
The veils of Ben's Scent-masking and Invisibility wards shimmered and fell away, and ten thousand Silvan elves crested the ridges in perfect ranks. On the western slope, five thousand spears gleamed beneath the morning sun, led by Legolas and Tauriel at the vanguard. Beside them strode Saruman, staff aglow, and Kíli with bow in hand.
On the east, Thranduil, seated tall upon his great elk, his armor glittering green and silver, commanded the other half of the elven army. Gandalf stood near, staff crackling faintly, while Bilbo and Bard stood nearby, bows in hand and eyes on the enemy.
The elven host unfurled like twin blades drawn in unison. Infantry with shields and spears braced the slopes, while archers loosed a second withering volley. More orcs screamed and tumbled, their charge broken, their formation shredded.
Even the four thousand orcs advancing from the front faltered, eyes wide at the sudden appearance of their ancient foes.
Thorin Oakenshield saw hesitation. He seized it.
Raising Thror's Justice high, he let out a battle cry that rolled like thunder:
"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"
He brought the sword down in a sharp arc.
Behind the dwarven line, nine great ballistae fired. The bolts they loosed were no ordinary shafts of iron. Their heads shone faintly, etched with Ben's Runes and packed with volatile alchemic mixtures.
The massive bolts screamed overhead and landed in the midst of the halted orc ranks. For an instant, silence—then runes flared, powders ignited, and the valley erupted in fire. Explosions blossomed among the orcs, tearing holes through their mass. Bodies, armor, and earth alike were flung skyward.
The dwarves cheered, their voices deafening, weapons pounding against shields in a storm of iron thunder.
On the flanks, the elves swept down the slopes. Arrows fell with deadly precision, skewering foes before they reached the line. Those orcs who did stagger into melee met the swift, merciless blades of the elven spearmen. Legolas cut down two with flashing strokes, Tauriel's twin blades danced crimson arcs, and Thranduil himself skewered a charging brute upon his elk's antlers before driving his long sword through another. Gandalf's staff flared, sending orcs flying, while Saruman's voice cracked the air like ice, shattering weapons and will alike.
Caught off guard, hemmed in from all sides, the flanking divisions of Azog's army faltered.
But in the center, four thousand orcs still thundered forward, enraged now, hurling themselves against the dwarven shield wall.
The ground shook as iron crashed against iron. The dwarves braced, shields locked, spears thrusting. Azog's front line smashed into them, snarls and roars colliding with guttural war cries.
Steel crashed against steel. The valley before Erebor became a cauldron of blood and thunder. Orcs and dwarves slammed into each other in a grinding melee, shields ringing, axes cleaving, spears stabbing through black mail.
But the dwarves held firm. Their lines did not break. They fought shoulder to shoulder, their movements disciplined, their roars unified. For every dwarf that fell, five orcs died screaming.
At the center of the dwarven line, Thorin Oakenshield fought like a force of nature. Thror's Justice blazed in his hands, cutting through orc armor and flesh with ease—its edge sharp enough to split chainmail as though it were cloth. The Shield of Thrain on his left arm turned aside every blow that sought him. His movements were swift and lethal, a blend of dwarven power and royal precision.
To his right, Dáin Ironfoot rode his great armored boar into the fray, his massive warhammer sweeping orcs off their feet, crushing skulls and shattering bones. Around them, the Company of Erebor fought with their enchanted weapons—Wind-slash swords that carved the air into blades, Gravity hammers that smashed through ranks with bone-breaking force, and Flame axes that left burning trails in their wake.
The elves had finished their slaughter on the flanks. Their spear lines descended the slopes in perfect order, joining the dwarves in the valley. Archers remained on the ridges above, raining arrows into the chaos below with merciless precision. From the rear of the dwarven army, the ballistae continued to fire their rune-inscribed bolts—each landing among the orcs with a blinding white flash and thunderous blast.
The orc front began to crumble under the relentless pressure.
High on the hill, Azog's face twisted in fury. He raised his arm and roared an order in the Black Speech. The sound of horns answered him—a deep, mournful drone that rolled over the battlefield like the growl of the mountain itself.
The black tide surged again. Ten thousand more orcs poured forth, their howls shaking the air. Behind them came the war beasts.
From the tunnels emerged the ogres—hulking ten-foot brutes, pale-skinned and half-naked, wielding spiked clubs the size of tree trunks. Behind them lumbered the true monsters: war trolls in full plate armor, thirty feet tall, bearing bladed gauntlets, massive iron maces, and siege spikes strapped to their forearms.
Ben fought among the dwarves, sweat running down his brow, wandless hands moving like lightning. One moment he unleashed cutting curses that sliced through orcs; the next, his shimmering blue shields deflected sword strikes and hurled javelins. When he saw the hulking shapes advancing through the smoke, his eyes hardened. If those creatures reached the dwarven line, it would break.
With a Telekinetic Push, he sent a charging wave of orcs flying. Then, he struck the ground with his palm. "Stone Spire!"
The ground rumbled. A stone spire erupted from the earth, carrying Ben upward until he stood fifty feet above the battle. The fighting below slowed as both armies turned to look.
High atop the spire, Ben's hands rose. Five spears of pure fire coalesced above him, spinning in the air. With a sharp motion, he sent them flying. The flame-spears streaked downward like meteors, piercing through five ogres' chests. They screamed, burning alive as their massive bodies collapsed in flames.
Before the shock faded, lightning gathered between Ben's palms. The storm bent to his will.
"Chain Lightning!"
The bolt shot downward, tearing through the chest of a charging troll. Its armor blackened, and the lightning leapt to three others, frying them where they stood. The trolls toppled like felled towers, crushing dozens of orcs beneath their weight.
The dwarves roared their approval. Even the elves paused, eyes wide at the display of raw elemental power. The sight of the young human wizard blazing like a thunder god renewed their will to fight.
Azog snarled, eyes locked on Ben's glowing form. He barked another order, and seven enormous trolls—each bearing a crude catapult on its back—lurched forward. Goblin crews scrambled over their shoulders, loading and releasing giant boulders with ear-splitting creaks.
The stones whistled through the air, all aimed for the lone spire.
Ben didn't flinch. His right hand swept outward, opening a shimmering circle of rippling air—a portal. Two of the incoming rocks vanished into it and immediately burst out the other side, high above a troll's head. The boulders slammed down with a crash, crushing the beast and a dozen goblins beneath it.
Two more portals opened in the air. The next pair of rocks disappeared mid-flight and reappeared over the dense orc ranks, dropping straight down into the chaos below. The explosions of impact sent shockwaves through the battlefield.
The last two boulders came too close, too fast. Ben's eyes flashed. He flicked both hands, transmuting the rocks midair into clouds of fine sand that scattered harmlessly over the army.
The dwarves and elves, who had braced themselves for impact, now stared in stunned silence. Then the cheers began again, echoing through the valley. Thorin turned to Dáin and grinned.
"Now!" Dáin bellowed. "Send in the goats!"
The horns of the Iron Hills sounded once more. From behind the lines thundered the dwarven cavalry—hundreds of armored riders mounted on ram-steeds clad in steel barding. They charged as one, crashing into the orc ranks like a living avalanche. The rams' massive horns broke bones and shields alike, while their riders swung swords and axes in brutal arcs.
From the rear, five dwarven war chariots thundered forward, each drawn by ten rams. Bladed wheels spun like saws, cutting down orcs in their path. The ground shook under their advance as they carved through the enemy ranks, scattering the black tide.
Azog's fury deepened into something colder, crueler. "Make the beasts destroy their war machines!" he roared.
At his command, several surviving ogres turned toward the dwarven chariots, clubs raised to smash them apart—only for lightning to descend again. Ben stood atop the stone spire, lightning leaping from his hands in blinding bolts that tore through the beasts. Each strike was followed by a flash and a thunderclap. One troll tried to reach a chariot—Ben struck it square in the chest, the bolt punching through its heart. The monster fell face-first, skidding into the dirt.
The dwarves cheered louder, emboldened beyond measure. The elves advanced beside them, cutting down the remnants of the orc vanguard. The valley was becoming a slaughterhouse.
But then, from the western horizon, a dark cloud appeared—moving fast.
A mass of bats, vast enough to blot out the sun, wheeled across the sky. Their screeches filled the air as they swarmed above the battlefield.
Azog turned towards Ravenhill. A cruel smile curved across his face.
Bolg had arrived.