The battle had lasted for several days.
The entire Goblin-town, inside and out, had been thoroughly searched. Most of the goblins had been wiped out, with only a few managing to escape, some fled northward, either toward Mount Gundabad or hiding among the mountains.
In any case, it could be expected that their presence would become scarce, and there would no longer be any need to worry about goblins causing trouble in the area.
The joint army of Dale had achieved miraculous results in its first expedition, on all fronts, especially in terms of mobilization and marching speed. It was almost record-breaking in Middle-earth.
And to think, this army didn't even have cavalry.
"Not a single one stayed behind."
Watching the soldiers carry out crates of spoils, Bard looked a bit dazed.
"I never knew you had this kind of talent."
He asked, "How did you manage to remember all the routes inside so clearly?"
"Maybe it's just a gift," Garrett replied without shame. "As long as I've walked a path, I won't forget it."
"As it happens, I passed through here once before. That time, I was pursuing the Great Goblin and wandered underground for quite a while, so I remember it quite well."
"I see," Bard accepted the explanation.
People are multifaceted, when you look from another angle, you might discover something new about them.
"What do you plan to do with the spoils?"
Looking at the piles of treasures and precious jewelry stacked high along the road, Bard asked.
"Do whatever you want with them."
Garrett walked over and rummaged through a few items, picking up a silver platter.
Engraved on it were the words: "Made in Rivendell."
"How did they get this? Could it have been stolen from the elves' homeland?"
At those words, the dwarves who had just been celebrating suddenly fell silent. They all looked away and started whistling.
Thorin's mouth twitched.
Ahem.
He cleared his throat to get the two men's attention.
"If you're willing, I'd like to purchase the tableware, candle holders, and other decorations marked with Rivendell's insignia."
"Oh?" Bard asked curiously. "What would the King under the Mountain want with elven goods?"
"I want to return them to the elves of Rivendell."
That statement stunned Bard for several seconds.
Did I hear that right? A dwarf voluntarily giving things to the elves?
"That's remarkable indeed..."
He stepped forward and saluted Thorin. "As a king among dwarves, your magnanimity truly earns my heartfelt respect."
Thorin looked at him and slowly nodded, accepting the compliment without the slightest modesty.
"I got them fair and square..." one dwarf muttered under his breath, only to be immediately kicked by another.
He shut his mouth.
"No need," Garrett said with a chuckle, waving his hand. "If that's what you want, just take them. We don't really need things like this. Besides, you all contributed to the assault on Goblin-town, it's your rightful share."
With Garrett's permission, Thorin immediately turned around and said to the dwarves behind him with a stern face, "You all certainly recognize what came from Rivendell, don't you?"
"Go find them yourselves."
A cold chill suddenly seemed to sweep over the dwarves.
"Right away!"
They began searching through the spoils.
Gimli scratched his head in confusion as he watched the others scramble about.
"They're so knowledgeable, they can even recognize elvish items."
Thorin sighed, patted the young dwarf on the shoulder, and said, "Remember to be an honest dwarf, Gimli. Don't take things that don't belong to you."
Though Gimli didn't fully understand the situation, this was a direct instruction from the king himself. He immediately thumped his chest and said with excitement, "I swear it!"
The great army returned in triumph, their hands full of spoils. The soldiers kept their faces serious and marched solemnly into the city, welcomed by cheering crowds lining both sides of the road.
That day, the town was more lively than ever before, filled with celebration and laughter. The festivities continued late into the night, with lights burning bright. Even dwarves from the Lonely Mountain came upon hearing the news, joining the townsfolk in celebration.
"They're back?"
In Erebor's council hall, Balin, who was temporarily handling royal duties, suddenly stopped what he was doing. He pricked up his ears, listening intently to the noise outside.
Moments later, he slammed his paperwork down on the table and stood up, marching outside.
"Why didn't anyone inform me!" he shouted indignantly.
His white beard trembled with frustration.
But where there is joy, there is also worry.
---
Far to the south of Minas Tirith, the capital of Gondor, lay Minas Morgul, the cursed fortress under the direct control of the Nazgûl.
The Witch-king looked northward, his dark presence growing agitated.
Through the eyes of bats, he saw a massive elevated bridge, at least a hundred meters wide. It spanned high in the air, bypassing all obstacles and potential threats, connecting Lake-town directly to the goblin settlement in the Misty Mountains.
That elite human army had used this obviously unfinished road to travel such a great distance in just a few days. Their speed in assembling and marching was truly terrifying.
"My lord, latest report: the goblin settlement no longer exists."
An orc approached fearfully to deliver the news.
"I saw it."
The Witch-king's harsh voice came from within his armor. He paced back and forth in the great hall, visibly unsettled.
That unfinished road was a serious threat.
Once completed, it would connect the northern regions of the east and west. It would be a sturdy iron wall, impossible to breach.
It would also completely eliminate any possibility of Angmar's revival.
Such a thing must either be destroyed, or taken.
But... He recalled the final image the bat had sent back, an arrow shot within the cave, and especially, the one who had fired it.
Either option now seemed unrealistic.
Could they really just sit and do nothing?
No. That was not acceptable.
If there was no move to be made from the eastern side of the mountains, perhaps something could be done from the west.
Though the Kingdom of Angmar had long since fallen, there were still orcs and hill-men lurking in that dark land. The Ettenmoors, near the ruins of Angmar, were home to many trolls. With those forces, plus the wights from the barrows, it might just be possible to cobble together a makeshift army. But... That region was heavily contested, Lindon, Rivendell, the Rangers, and nearby settlements were all potential enemies.
It seemed like a poor strategy no matter how he looked at it.
While he brooded over this, a figure appeared before him.
Another Nazgûl.
"The Master knows what you're thinking," he said.
"Do not act rashly. Lie low for now."
"I understand," the Witch-king replied, nodding. He let out a breath, clearly relieved.
Now the pressure shifted to Sauron.
Beneath the blackened land of Mordor, fire stirred.
---
"What's that?"
In the wilds east of the Misty Mountains and west of Mirkwood, near Dol Guldur, Gandalf suddenly turned his head and caught sight of a small, slender figure.
He squinted, studying the unusually shaped little creature closely for a long while.
"A creature I've never seen before... Never mind. It's not worth investigating further."