Although the dwarves found it uncomfortable to be escorted by the elves to the foot of the Misty Mountains, they had no real reason to complain… yet they did so anyway. They muttered under their breath, unable to feel at ease under the watch of those they considered rivals rather than allies.
Thorin, on the other hand, did not join in the protests. He remained silent, riding alongside Gandalf, apart from the rest. No one could hear what they spoke of, but it was enough to see their faces to understand that it was no light conversation, but a serious discussion laden with concern.
The journey was uncomfortable for some, but for others it was nothing more than an unexpectedly safe passage. Miquella, though aware of the gravity of the situation, made an effort to take it calmly. He rode near his followers, listening to Leda and Ansbach recount what had been said at the meeting while he slept, discussing among themselves their next steps and how to face what was to come.
In truth, the dwarves owed thanks to the elves' helping hand: thanks to the escort, they had reached the foot of the mountain much sooner than they ever would have on their own.
When the terrain grew too steep, the company halted. Everyone dismounted—except for Miquella. The elves took the reins of the mounts, bade them a simple farewell, and began their return to Rivendell.
Now they were alone: dwarves, Eldens, Bilbo, and Gandalf, facing the challenge of crossing the mountain passes that led over the dwarves' ancient dwelling, Khazad-dûm. Neither ponies nor horses were suited for that harsh and treacherous terrain; they would have to continue on foot. All, except for Miquella: Torrent was a unique steed, prepared to face even those impossible trails. And in a way, it was for the best: the demigod, frail in appearance, would have had great difficulty enduring the journey unaided.
The march resumed. Gandalf and Thorin led at the front, the dwarves and Bilbo walked in the middle, and the Eldens closed the rear. It was not a strict division, for the terrain forced them to stay close together, especially in the narrower passages. Miquella, thanks to Torrent, had more freedom: he moved back and forth, scouted ahead of the explorers or climbed promontories to watch the route. He was, in effect, an improvised scout.
It was during one of those climbs that he distinguished, in the distance, dark storm clouds approaching. He smiled with faint irony: he remembered what was supposed to happen in the story he knew. But this time, the dwarves had departed earlier, and that altered the course of events. If his calculation was correct, the storm would only reach them at the end of the crossing, and perhaps they would not have to face the danger that awaited beneath the mountain. Even so, he could not help but feel curious about those stone giants.
The path remained surprisingly calm. Too calm. And that calm, instead of bringing relief, weighed upon them all like a shadow. Gandalf sensed it, and so did Miquella… and even the more perceptive among the rest: it was not peace, but the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. As though invisible eyes followed them from the cracks and rocks around them.
The rain began as a light drizzle, just a few drops. It was not a storm; not even the sky had darkened, only turned to a pale gray. Yet the atmosphere felt ominous. Tension mounted at the faint sound of stones clattering.
The group stopped, looking at one another. The position they were in was far from ideal, and their visibility was limited. They could not tell if it was a rockslide or something else. Even so, everyone already had their hands on their belongings and weapons.
Intrigued, Miquella urged Torrent uphill for a better view. From there, he saw nothing, only a seemingly silent mountain. And yet he felt it: the air was hostile, a multiple, malicious gaze piercing them from many points.
Seconds before he returned to report that he had found nothing, it happened. Among the stones, in different directions, dark figures began to move, slowly revealing themselves from behind the rocks.
Humanoid figures, colossal, as tall as two or three trolls, rose in the distance. From his vantage point, Miquella could not clearly distinguish their features, but he could see enough: hulking bodies, slightly hunched, covered in rough, rugged brownish skin, perhaps scaly. Their faces were grotesque, scarcely recognizable as human; closer to deformed Neanderthals, though even that seemed inaccurate.
One of them slowly bent down, seized a massive boulder in both hands, and lifted it above its head.
"WATCH OUT!" shouted Miquella, as he urged Torrent to leap aside. A colossal stone crashed against the slope, grazing where he had been moments before.
His cry came just in time. The company looked up to see more rocks rushing down upon them. The dwarves scattered as best they could, narrowly dodging the projectiles that shattered the path and sent shards flying everywhere.
The impacts resounded like the hammer blows of an angry god. Each stone ripped away entire sections of the trail, leaving them at the brink of the void.
"Giants!" roared Gandalf, pointing at the nearest one, already stooping for another stone.
The danger was clear: they were too far to retaliate, and no one could be sure arrows would be of any use against creatures of such size.
"Run forward, find cover!" Thorin commanded firmly, forcing his way along the narrow path.
The company obeyed without question, rushing ahead. The path crumbled beneath their feet, broken stretches forced them to leap from stone to stone, and the drizzle made everything slippery as ice. Bilbo, misstepping, slid and nearly fell into the abyss; had it not been for an Elden who caught him midair and flung him forward, he would have plunged into endless darkness.
Meanwhile, Miquella and Gandalf held the rear as the last line of defense. Spells burst in flashes of light and surges of energy, shattering the most threatening rocks before they struck their companions. But it was useless to think they were safe: the rain of projectiles did not cease, and every second was a gamble with death.
Then they spotted a cave at the side of the path. The idea split them instantly: yes, it offered cover from the projectiles, but what if it had no exit? What if the giants' blows caused a collapse and trapped them inside?
There was no time to decide.
A greater roar shook the mountain. The sound of splitting stone was so deafening that they all froze instinctively. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and a dull roar, like that of the earth itself, rose with the first flash of lightning.
Before their eyes, the mountain itself seemed to rise, breaking apart into titanic blocks that formed limbs. A colossal figure, made of solid rock, heaved upward, shaking the entire slope with each movement. And it was not the only one: other silhouettes began to emerge from nearby peaks, as though the whole mountain range had chosen to awaken.
The stones hurled by the lesser flesh giants had struck various parts of the mountain, and from those very spots more towering figures began to rise. These were stone giants, colossal, far larger and more terrifying than those of flesh and blood. They were no mere beasts, but living masses of mountain that seemed to embody the primal power of the earth itself.
Their gazes—if such they could be called—fell first upon those who had awakened them.
"Stone giants…" murmured Gandalf once more, incredulous at such a fate.
"This couldn't get any worse…" growled Thorin, echoing the despair of his dwarves, who had barely escaped one disaster only to face a greater one.
But it was not the company that was the focus of attention. The lesser flesh giants had not foreseen what their attacks would unleash either. The stone colossi did not understand malice or violence as mortals did: they were like massive children, simple-minded, to whom the flesh giants were large enough to draw attention and become visible playthings, unlike the others who were no more than insects in their eyes. Thus, with brutal innocence, they began hurling enormous boulders at them, far larger than any of the previous projectiles.
In an instant, one flesh giant was crushed beneath a titanic stone, silenced forever. His companions roared in fury, and battle erupted. The "smaller" giants charged against the living mountains, which did not even grasp they were in a real fight. To them, it was still just a game.
The chaos was indescribable. Rocks flew in all directions, fragments of mountains collapsed with thunderous crashes, and the violence of the clash was so overwhelming that the company had no choice: they had to flee. The knee of a stone colossus crashed down just meters away, opening a crater and shaking the entire valley. Without hesitation, they rushed into the cave, the only immediate shelter the mountainside offered.
Miquella dismissed Torrent just as they leapt inside, before an impact shook the entrance and the walls quivered like a drum. Inside, the gloom filled with dust, falling debris, and a brittle silence steeped in terror.
The ceiling cracked above their heads. Chunks of stone fell around them. The company, fear plain on their faces, hurried to seek a way out, but found none. Only closed walls and darkness—a possible tomb of stone.
Tension grew with every new crack, with every muffled roar from outside, with every tremor that made the ground quake beneath their boots. All kept their weapons ready, as though steel could shield them from a mountain's collapse.
They could not go out, but staying was no option either. Gandalf and Miquella stood tense, prepared to unleash their power the instant the cave gave way, though even they were not sure they could save them all.
Then, amid the thunder and collapses, a different sound rose: a lower, closer creaking.
A series of cracks took them all by surprise, but they paid little heed, thinking it was just the cave breaking further… and in a sense, it was, only this time it was not the walls or the ceiling—it was the ground.
With horror, they saw fissures open beneath their feet, and at the same time, a faint bluish glow lit the Elven blades of Thorin, Gandalf, and Bilbo, revealing what lurked in the depths.
A moment later, the entire floor gave way. There was nothing to cling to, for there was nothing left to hold onto: the ground vanished beneath them as though swallowed by an abyss.
They all fell, the entire company, glimpsing through the storm of dust and shattered timbers the cause: underground structures, reinforced with beams, had collapsed, torn down by hideous humanoid creatures lurking under the mountain.
There was no time to understand more. The descent was like the cruelest slide in the world: an endless fall along rough stone that tore at clothes and skin, with no way to stop.
Leda tried to hold on, and Ansbach struck his scythe's blade to slow his fall, but then Miquella's clear voice rang out.
"Let yourselves fall!" he commanded, clutching his robe firmly as he maneuvered in the descent.
The Eldens, obedient, released their attempts at resistance and moved to draw closer to their lord, shielding him with their bodies as they plunged into the unknown.