The end of the fall brought them to a narrow wooden platform, hardly suited for the number of bodies that landed on it. Thirteen dwarves, seven and a half Eldens, Gandalf, and Bilbo—all piled together in a cramped space, crashing one atop another… It was not a pleasant experience, especially for those unlucky enough to be the first to land and thus become the foundation of that improvised human mountain.
The best off were Miquella and Gandalf, who managed to cushion their impact with a bit of magic. They even tried to help the others, but it wasn't easy, and although they avoided a greater disaster, the situation remained chaotic.
Yet one detail in particular caught Miquella's eye. The platform was so small that, while the first to fall were battered under the weight of the rest, the last risked missing the landing entirely and plummeting to their deaths. Some managed to cling desperately to a companion or to the edges, scrambling up to safety. But one did not: Bilbo.
Miquella watched in disbelief as the hobbit slipped off the platform like a loose ball. And yet, instead of tumbling to a fatal end, his small body rolled in a near-impossible way—sliding between rocks and cracks, taking blows that somehow seemed controlled, as though an invisible hand guided his descent to minimize harm, carrying him ever deeper into the abyss. It was luck far too convenient.
The demigod frowned. Everything felt… orchestrated. What was most disturbing was that neither Gandalf nor the dwarves seemed to notice Bilbo's absence. A few of the Eldens did, however. For an instant, even Miquella felt as if he wasn't supposed to have noticed, as if something were trying to erase the fact from his mind. He shook off the sensation, though he could not help but wonder how much of Eru Ilúvatar's designs permeated this world. Still, he sensed that neither he nor the other Eldens were quite as subject to that silent influence.
He had little time to dwell on the thought. Barely seconds after the fall, a primal instinct chilled him: they were not alone. The threat was imminent.
Gandalf was the first to react. Sensing the danger, he raised his staff and unleashed a burst of light that diverted a rain of arrows aimed at the group. The flash snapped everyone from their daze, forcing them to rise and prepare.
Miquella was quickly surrounded by the other Eldens, while the dwarves scrambled into a tight formation. Now all could see what was happening.
The Eldens closed ranks around Miquella, while the dwarves regrouped in a defensive circle. Soon, the full extent of the threat was revealed: across the single wooden bridge leading to their platform, a horde of humanoids rushed toward them, wielding crude swords with murderous intent.
On neighboring platforms, clinging to the cavern walls, more of the creatures bent their bows, ready to unleash another volley like the one Gandalf had just repelled.
They were goblins: a subspecies of orcs from the Misty Mountains. Adapted to subterranean life, they moved with greater agility in caves than their Mordor kin, though at the cost of suffering more under light. Twisted, hostile, ravenous beings—now charging straight at the company.
Those who advanced across the bridge were what could be called "mountain goblins": pale-skinned, short, and hunched orcs whose civilization had settled in the upper, inner part of the great mountain range. Their appearance was grotesque; they were stockier, with arched backs and abrupt movements, adapted to moving through narrow passages.
Yet those waiting on the wall-embedded platforms were of a different stock. Taller and more gaunt, though their crouched gait and habit of scuttling about on all fours made them appear more hunched. Their skin was earthen, their features filthy, their eyes glowing with sickly hatred. They dwelled in the lower tunnels—once the dwarves' kingdom—so they might be called "Moria goblins."
That there were different breeds of goblins was no surprise; the Misty Mountains stretched far enough to harbor countless factions, each with its own chieftain and customs. What was truly unusual was that two such peoples were working together without slaughtering one another. Of course, Miquella did not yet know these distinctions; to him, in that moment, they were all simply orcs eager to tear them apart.
The tension was unbearable. No one moved, save for restless eyes darting from face to face. The goblins halted a few paces away, beating their weapons against the stone in a macabre rhythm, while the archers kept their strings taut, arrows aimed squarely at their chests. The scene was no less perilous than the battle with the giants outside the mountain—though, at least here, the destruction seemed more contained.
The truth was plain: they were surrounded, trapped on a platform far too narrow. Their only choices were to leap into the void or attempt to break through across the bridge—already frail, and guarded by a goblin army.
Gandalf and Miquella reached the same conclusion at the same time. Both readied themselves to unleash dazzling magic, a burst of light and power to grant at least a moment's respite, a slim chance to react.
But before they could act, a mountain goblin pushed through the throng and stood at the fore. At a glance he was little different from the rest, perhaps with more leather on his garb and a weapon absurdly large for his frame, but his authority was unquestionable: the others fell silent the moment he raised his bony hand.
"The king wants to see you… before killing you," he growled in a hideous dialect of the Common Tongue, his voice rasping like rusted iron, his mouth bristling with yellowed fangs.
At once, both the Moria and mountain goblins erupted into a unified roar, a savage ovation that rang out like an omen. It was the cry of those who celebrated a fate already sealed, convinced their prisoners' deaths were inevitable.
The dwarves and Eldens tightened their grips on their weapons, ready to fight to the death. Yet Gandalf narrowed his eyes. He saw clearly what the others had only begun to sense: two goblin factions acting in concert. That was unnatural. His instincts told him something else was being forged in the shadows.
The mountain goblins slowly withdrew across the wooden bridge, still hammering their weapons against the stone in a harsh, intimidating rhythm. They did not retreat far—only enough to make plain which path the company was expected to take.
"What do we do?" Thorin asked, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on their dwindling options.
"Forward," Gandalf replied, never taking his gaze off the creatures. "Let's do as they want… here we have no way out. If we reach their leader, perhaps we can buy time. And if 'negotiations' fail, there will always be a chance to escape along the way."
The wizard's voice was firm, though inwardly he admitted he was curious. He wanted to see with his own eyes what sort of goblin could unite two rival peoples under one command. He was the first to step forward.
Thorin ground his teeth. He loathed the idea of obeying an orc—especially if it led them to doom. But he had no alternatives. He signaled to the dwarves to be ready, always poised to carve a path with their axes, and began to follow the wizard.
The Eldens looked to Miquella, still protected at the heart of their defensive circle. The demigod nodded, giving leave to advance. In silence, he reflected that despite the shifts their journey had taken, they had still ended up in the hands of the Goblin King. What he did not know was that this deviation from the original tale was no accident—the goblins seemed to have anticipated their arrival.
The group advanced slowly, driven on by the roar of the horde. The mountain goblins fell back before them, while others climbed the walls with unsettling ease, appearing behind the company and cutting off any chance of retreat. They were surrounded on every side, forced onward. The tension grew nearly unbearable.
Soon they reached a point where the bridge branched into multiple walkways and tunnels. It was the entrance to what could only be described as the goblin city: a hive of passages, bridges, and platforms lit by torches and other flames.
Some dwarves, spotting a chance to flee, tried to veer inconspicuously down a side path. But the Moria goblins' arrows whistled from above, striking the ground at their feet. The shafts were not meant to kill—not yet—but they made it clear any escape attempt would be punished. Luckily, none struck flesh.
Growling in frustration, the dwarves had to retreat and resign themselves to the only path their captors allowed: the one leading to their leader.
The Eldens, by contrast, faced no such treatment. None of them broke the turtle-shell formation they had formed around Miquella. Their bodies were an unyielding wall, ready to absorb any projectile rather than let it reach their lord.
The way ahead was an impossible labyrinth, a snarl of wooden walkways, hanging bridges, and rock-hewn platforms. Perhaps only the goblins truly understood it; to any outsider, finding a way to the Goblin King without a guide would have been near impossible.
As they pressed on, the company grasped the true scale of the place. The goblin city was crude, primitive even, yet it revealed the strength of its people. In the stone-dug houses, the hanging balconies, the dark tunnels, there thronged dozens—hundreds—perhaps thousands of goblins, and that was only what the eye could see.
Most were mountain goblins, though scattered groups of Moria goblins mingled among them. They didn't seem fond of each other, but they made a conscious effort to restrain their mutual hostility and not tear each other apart. That alone was alarming.
And it wasn't the only thing. What truly killed any hope of the dwarves' dreaming of diversions were the other creatures that shared dominion over the cavern.
There were spiders the size of ponies, large enough to be ridden by goblins—something some of them indeed did—and whose venom was harvested to smear over their weapons. There were cave trolls, huge and brutish, stones in their hands ready to hurl if arrows were not enough to keep the company in line. And worst of all: at least one giant, the same kind they had faced outside, lumbered through one of the cavern's broader halls.
Such an army was not something Gandalf, Thorin, nor even Miquella had anticipated. None of these forces was new in isolation; all knew that goblins, in their various strongholds, developed their own weapons of war. But to see so many weapons, races, and horrors gathered under one roof was an unmistakable sign that something dark was brewing.
And still there was more. The Eldens, with their keen gaze, noticed something uncanny: in the distance rose what appeared to be a pen of giant rats, native to the Lands Between. The goblins had captured and domesticated them as livestock inside the mountain. The stench was already unbearable, and the rats only added to the rot of that subterranean city.
And what other horrors might they have bred in the mountain's depths? What else from the Lands Between had they dragged into their dark dominion?