Outside the walls of Dale, sixty thousand Orcs had gathered—a grim host born of Mount Gundabad and Guldûr alike. Fifty thousand dark-skinned warriors from the north, ten thousand blood-eyed beasts of the east. They stretched across the frozen plains like an army summoned from the very pits of shadow.
Across the River Running, siege engines stood ready—hundreds of them, bristling with sharpened ladders, their monstrous crews snarling with anticipation.
At their head, standing proud and dreadful upon a black steed, loomed the Witch-king of Angmar, flanked by three of his fellow Nazgûl. Their unseen eyes pierced the walls as though they were paper, hunger and malice swirling in the air around them.
Upon Dale's battered ramparts stood four figures in solemn defiance: Kaen Eowenríel, his silver-gold radiance burning softly; Bard, the bowman-king of men; Legolas, prince of Mirkwood, his bow ever at the ready; and Tauriel, fierce and bright-eyed as ever.
Behind them, a weary but resolute force— less than five hundred soldiers of Dale and almost thousand Elven warriors—stood ready for the storm.
Then came the horn.
A single, sonorous bellow, deep as the roots of the earth and sharp as a blade. And the Orcs charged.
They came like a plague of insects, a tide of gnashing teeth and rusted steel, surging toward the city walls. Trolls—giant, lumbering brutes—dragged stone-throwers to the banks of the river, hurling boulders through the air with monstrous strength.
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
Stone after stone slammed into the ramparts. Masonry shattered. Men and Elves fell with broken bones and crushed lungs. The walls groaned under the strain.
From behind the Orcs, archers loosed black-fletched arrows in endless waves. The sky itself seemed to weep iron rain.
And yet—none faltered.
"Hold steady!" Bard bellowed. "Don't break! Let the beasts come to us—we'll cut them down as they climb!"
And soon, the arrows ceased.
Kaen's eyes narrowed. That silence could mean only one thing.
He strode to the battlements and looked down. As expected, the ground below had turned black with bodies—Orcs by the thousands were swarming beneath the walls, raising siege ladders and clawing for a way up.
"Archers! Loose at will—do not waste a single shaft!"
"Ballistae! Target the trolls—bring them down!"
"Everyone else—brace for melee! Not a single beast makes it past this wall!"
His voice rang like thunder across the ramparts.
Arrow after arrow plunged into the climbing horde. The air was thick with cries of pain. And the great ballistae, fitted with dwarf-forged harpoons, launched their deadly payloads across the river. Trolls staggered, shrieked, and fell, crashing into their own kin with earth-shaking finality.
The ladders came up, and so too did the Orcs.
Kaen raised his gleaming sword high, light bursting from its edge like the dawn itself.
"Corruption shall rot, and justice shall prevail!" he cried.
….
Beneath the Lonely Mountain, the storm was no less fierce.
Eighty thousand Orcs pressed in from the north—seventy thousand from Gundabad, ten thousand of the Red-Eyed legion. The dark sea of enemies surged like a living wave.
Yet before the gates of Erebor stood a line of iron and starlight.
Two thousand five hundred dwarves of the Ironfoot host, shields and spears soaked in blood, formed a wall of steel.
Behind them, fifteen hundred Elves stood ready, blades gleaming like frost in moonlight.
"Ready!" shouted Thranduil.
The Elven archers raised their bows. The dwarves spun their crank-mounted crossbows, each bolt glinting like a fang.
"Loose!"
Steel rained upon the Orcs.
Bolts and arrows struck with deadly precision. Orcs tumbled. Trolls wailed. Beasts of war collapsed beneath the weight of their wounds. Still, the enemy pressed forward.
And then—white-hot fury met cold steel.
"Charge!" Thranduil commanded.
And thus, the front lines met.
Elves and Dwarves fought side by side—strange allies in a world bent on their destruction.
Thranduil rode upon his mighty stag, his blade singing death through every sweep. Every strike was poetry, every movement lethal grace.
Dáin, though his loyal boar had vanished into the chaos, stood red with gore, his great warhammer crushing skulls and bone alike. Behind him, the Ironfoot dwarves roared:
"Forward! Forward! Sons of Durin!"
From above, the staffs of Gandalf and Saruman blazed with white fire. Beams of light cut through the darkness, vaporizing Orcs in crackling bursts. Two wizards—one of myth, one of might—fought side by side once more.
The battlefield was chaos—glory and gore in equal measure.
And still the tide pressed in.
….
Yet within the Mountain, there was silence.
Kíli and Bilbo sat within the great halls of their ancestors, along with the rest of the Company. They listened to the sounds of battle beyond the stone, and their hearts burned with shame and sorrow.
Then, from the shadowed corridors of Erebor, a figure emerged.
Faint golden light shimmered around him.
Kíli stood and shouted, his voice filled with anger:
"Our kin are dying out there! They fight beside the Elves, outnumbered tenfold, and they do not falter!"
"Kaen fights in Dale—surrounded by the armies of shadow—and yet his light shines like a beacon. His courage gives hope to all!"
"But you—you, King under the Mountain—you cower in our forefathers' halls like a frightened clown! You have cast aside your crown and your honor!"
"Uncle Thorin! I care not if you exile me. I will not remain here, hiding like a worm. I will go—and stand beside our people in battle!"
The other dwarves rose with him, weapons in hand, silent but resolute.
From the darkness stepped Thorin Oakenshield.
The gold around him glowed faintly—but it was not dragon-sickness. It was the same light that burned within Kaen. The same flame of resolve.
His eyes were clear. His voice, steady.
"I am sorry. I have failed you."
"I have fought and conquered the dragon in my heart. But I know well—I lost the heart of a king long ago."
"But if you will have me... then fight with me now. Let us march together, one last time."
The dwarves looked to one another—then bowed deeply to their king.
….
Outside, the blood never ceased.
The snow fell heavier now, though it could not cleanse the battlefield.
The Elves and Dwarves, though unyielding, began to tire. Their lines thinned. Their cries became hoarse.
Then, from the gates of Erebor—
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
A great golden bell tolled, shattering the silence.
Stone tumbled. The ancient gates swung open.
And out came Thorin Oakenshield, golden light upon his brow, leading a charge of armored dwarves like the wrath of the mountain made flesh.
Behind him, Bombur blew a great war horn, its sound echoing from peak to peak.
"Sons of Durin! CHARGE!"
The Elves parted to let them through.
Thorin and his kin plunged into the heart of battle.
The Ironfoot dwarves saw him and knew: another king had returned. Hope flared once more.
Dáin laughed, wild and proud. "HAH! Took you long enough, old friend! I thought you'd let me die here for sure!"
Gandalf smiled. "Kaen was right... He would defeat the dragon within... and rise as a true king."