Everyone was immersed in the battle, except Thorin.
Dwalin found him crouching behind a boiler, pale as a specter and breathing in ragged gasps.
"Thorin! Are you hurt?" Dwalin exclaimed, grabbing his arm firmly.
"That... that isn't..." the king stammered.
"Steady now, it will be alright," Dwalin said, trying to bolster his spirit. "That thing can't best us. We're going to kill it and reclaim our home."
"That is not Smaug!" Thorin roared with a desperation that chilled Dwalin's blood.
"What?" Dwalin recoiled in shock.
"I said that is not Smaug!" Thorin shouted, seizing his friend by the breastplate. "It's not the same one I saw sixty years ago. It's not as vast, nor as strong... even the color of its scales, the shape of its head, and its tail don't match! Process it, Dwalin! That is not Smaug!"
The silence that followed the revelation weighed heavier than the iron of the anvils. Never, even in his worst nightmares, had Thorin imagined that the mountain's occupant was a stranger. This dragon was smaller, but what that implied was far more terrifying than Smaug himself. Had they bred? Was it an unheard-of case of dragons sharing territory? Had Old Smaug left?
No. What truly tore at Thorin's mind was a much darker idea: the dwarves had found powerful allies in the Eldens... but Smaug, it seemed, was not alone either. A dragon as large and dangerous as Smaug was already a calamity for the dwarves, but another one?
Thorin wasn't the only one to grasp this horrific reality; Balin, whose eyes still held the vivid image of the fire sixty years ago, turned pale as he realized the beast before them lacked the wingspan and the ancestral malevolence of the Smaug he remembered.
However, there was no time for analysis. A thunder of wings and roars flooded the workshops as Legolas, Tauriel, and Latenna burst into the room, pursued closely by a second winged silhouette.
Chaos paused for a heartbeat. The dwarves' attacks ceased and the archers' flight was interrupted at the sight of two dragons occupying the same space. Only the Eldens, whose pause was almost imperceptible, kept their cool. For them, there was no surprise, only the confirmation of a suspicion: these dragons were far too reminiscent of those from the Lands Between. For Miquella's warriors, this was nothing new—it was a familiar hunt.
"What the hell is going on?!" Dwalin roared, seeing the two serpents, similar yet marked by different scars. "Thorin! What do we do?!"
Thorin watched as the crossfire from both beasts began to lick the pillars of the forge. His face shifted from deathly pale to a burning red, the veins in his neck bulging like stone roots. Anguish transformed into pure, volcanic hatred that swept away any trace of fear.
High above, Kilian leapt onto one of the large control levers; the mechanism gave way with a crunch, and a cascade of cooling water fell upon the flames, quenching them amidst clouds of suffocating steam. Beside her, Filian fired her last arrows before unsheathing her sword, positioning herself in front of her sister as a final shield.
Meanwhile, the Eldens moved with great prowess. They attacked the dragons' flanks with a haunting familiarity, proving that if they managed to isolate them, they had the power necessary to bring them down over time.
The dwarves, for their part, used the vigor of the troll runes and fragmentation bombs to create a wall of thunder, while the elves attacked their eyes, trying desperately to keep the two beasts apart. They knew that if the dragons managed to coordinate, it would be the worst possible scenario.
Thorin filled his lungs with the air foul with smoke and sulfur. His voice, laden with the weight of generations of exile, rose above the din of metal.
"Kill them! Kill them all!" he roared, raising his sword toward the shadows of the ceiling. "Let none of these leeches ever again stain the stone of our home!"
Without waiting for an answer, the King Under the Mountain threw himself into the fray. He no longer sought only to reclaim his home; he sought the total eradication of the brood that had dared to nest in the tombs of his ancestors.
Dwalin, seeing his king with a reinvigorated will, let out a roar and lunged after him. Instantly, the rest of the dwarves emboldened the air with their war cries, surrendering to the chaos. While the warriors charged, those with less martial skill frantically returned to the workshop storehouses, ready to empty the mountain's reserves of gunpowder and minerals to manufacture as many bombs as necessary.
Thorin charged at one of the dragons that had just landed, its scales emitting a stifling heat. He leapt with a cry of fury, bringing his sword down against the joint of the beast's leg. The impact, however, was nearly useless; the human steel of Esgaroth, forged by rough hands and lacking the mastery of old, not only failed to penetrate the monster's hide but chipped instantly. The dragon, with a simple, contemptuous twist of its body, tossed Thorin through the air like a rag doll.
The king rolled across the stony floor, coughing blood and struggling for air. His robust dwarven constitution saved him from broken bones, but his weapon was ruined. He lamented bitterly that he hadn't had time to loot the royal armories of Erebor, where the steel blessed by his ancestors awaited him. But then, a silver flash crossed the floor, sliding toward him with a metallic hiss.
Before his eyes appeared a brilliant blade, adorned with ancient runes and elegant elven carvings: Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver, was once again within his reach. Thorin looked up and met Legolas's gaze. The elven prince, who had just thrown him the sword, continued the fight with his quiver nearly empty of arrows; his efforts had been lethal, managing to completely blind one of the beast's eyes, leaving a wound that oozed thick, black blood.
Without a single thought of resentment, Thorin gripped the hilt of the ancient sword. In that moment, the grudges of a thousand years vanished under the weight of a common enemy. Any being that did not have scales or spit fire was, in that instant, a brother-in-arms.
Despite the pain of his injuries, Thorin stood up and returned to the charge with Orcrist singing in his hand. However, the outlook was grim: although they had managed to wound the serpents, the cost was proving devastating. The first screams of agony from the allies began to rise above the din of the forge, marking the start of a battle of attrition that was already claiming victims with extremely grave injuries.
...
Beneath the roar of coins sliding like a golden tide, Bilbo heard a deep snort—a sound that carried the weight of centuries. A sensation of absolute terror, denser than anything he had felt before, completely overwhelmed him. It was not just the fear of death; it was a tangible presence, an invisible force that constricted his lungs and crushed his will.
In his pocket, the ring seemed to react, emitting a freezing pulse that momentarily repelled that oppressive pressure. Out of pure survival instinct, Bilbo slipped the gold band onto his finger. Instantly, the world became a blur and he vanished from sight.
"Do not hide... thief... I know you are there." A voice, a terrifying mixture of silk and thunder, vibrated through the walls of the chamber. "I can smell you... I can hear you... I can... feel you."
Bilbo tried to climb the avalanche of treasures that threatened to bury him while the creature emerged from its lethargy. The hobbit's heart stopped when the true master of Erebor rose from among the gold. This was not the wounded dragon from before; this being was colossal, majestic, and possessed an ancient evil that made the others look like simple beasts. And, to his horror, the creature fixed its gaze exactly in his direction.
"So... you have dared to enter my domains... common thief," Smaug said with a mocking curiosity. His yellow eyes scanned the space where Bilbo was hidden; he could not see him, but his sense of smell and supernatural senses mapped out his location perfectly.
The beast moved its immense body, displacing tons of treasure with every lazy step. He brought his head close—a mass of crimson scales and teeth like swords—until Bilbo could feel the scorching heat emanating from his nostrils. Smaug knew exactly where he was.
"A curious creature has managed to slip into my bed," the dragon murmured, his breath fluttering the hobbit's clothes. "Why not show yourself, little thief? Perhaps we can chat a while before I turn you to ash... Or perhaps you prefer to skip the courtesy and go straight to the end."
As he spoke, Smaug's scaly throat began to glow with the radiance of an internal forge, illuminating the chamber with a baleful red light.
Bilbo realized his invisibility trick was useless. He was cornered, with no escape and facing death itself. In a final act of desperate bravery, seeking to win even a few seconds of life, he took off the ring and let the light of the treasure reveal his small and trembling figure.
The hobbit's silhouette materialized before the dragon, who responded with a deep laugh, a sound like the clashing of metal plates. Smaug pulled his head back leisurely, observing the tiny creature from an arrogant height, savoring his dominance.
"There you are... thief..." he hissed mockingly. "I thought you had managed to sneak in here by bypassing my new concubines, but I see that is not the case..."
Smaug sniffed the air, detecting the scent of burnt cloth and singed hair coming from Bilbo.
"Heh... yes... they are most charming ladies," Bilbo stammered, appealing to his wit while terror gripped his vitals. "It was worth crossing half the world just to meet them... and you, oh, Great Smaug, the Immeasurably Wealthy, the King Under the Mountain. It is clear you possess exquisite taste; you have sought companions as beautiful as they are... fiery."
The hobbit spoke quickly, trying to make his charm a shield against the fire that still glowed ominously in the monster's throat.
"Hmm... you have a nimble tongue for a common burglar," Smaug replied, settling his rings of scales over the bed of gold with absolute contempt. "But you are mistaken. I did not seek out my new companions; they came to me."
The dragon moved with a calculated slowness, enjoying his own narcissism. He treated Bilbo like a curious toy, an entertainment before the sacrifice.
"Oh... that is logical," Bilbo continued, trying to buy seconds of life. "For a dragon as colossal and spectacular as you, it is only natural that others would seek shelter under your majestic wing..."
"You speak well... but you have no idea," Smaug mocked, puffing out two columns of gray smoke from his nostrils as he looked toward the shadows of the ceiling. "I myself did not expect the arrival of these strangers. It was... unexpected. They are not exactly of my lineage. In fact, I had to eliminate one whose breath was not of fire... but, in any case, times are changing."
Smaug turned his immense eye to fix his pupil on the hobbit, who had tried to take a step back, taking advantage of the distraction.
"Change is good," the dragon continued with a cold laugh. "Now I possess not only my treasure... but these new servants... I shall no longer be just the most majestic dragon this age has known... I shall be something much greater... heh heh... but you will not live to see it."
The beast reared up, and the glow in his chest intensified until it became blinding.
"It has been a pleasure chatting, thief. In fact, this encounter pleases me exceedingly... I had grown tired of waiting for you."
"Waiting for me?" Bilbo asked, trembling from head to toe and stopping dead. "What do you mean... waiting for me?"