That night was far from peaceful. As darkness fell, the constant clanging and hammering of construction never stopped. Meanwhile, Rangers rode out on horseback, keeping strict watch over the surrounding lands.
Any orc attempting to sneak close for reconnaissance was swiftly slain, and from time to time, white fireworks could be seen bursting in the distant sky.
"What's that?" Balin suddenly looked up.
"Bats."
Gandalf narrowed his eyes. No one knew how he could still see so clearly at such distance in the dark.
"The Rangers are shooting at the bats in the sky."
"White fireworks... that means we need not worry for now. If it were a call for aid, the fireworks would be bright red."
The townsfolk carried on with their work, and Gandalf and Balin weren't idle either.
Though neither could contribute much to the actual building, one was a learned wizard who had wandered Middle-earth for millennia, and the other a scholar who had lived for over two centuries. At the very least, they could act as overseers, guiding and supervising the work like master craftsmen.
Everything proceeded in good order.
At sunrise, when the dazzling light spread across the land, a shining silver-white army appeared at the far end of the northern Grey Road.
The soldiers from Wayfort had arrived.
Standing atop the high wall, Gandalf gazed into the distance, struck by a strange sense of familiarity.
This army bore the disciplined bearing of the Eldar.
Rumble.
The brand-new gates opened, and the army entered in formation, assembling neatly in the vast open ground where few buildings had yet been raised.
"It appears we made it in time."
Halbarad, now clad in mail and helm, led the force. Behind him, besides the soldiers of Wayfort, stood several figures of exceptional stature and bearing.
These were the veteran instructors who dwelt in Wayfort, tasked with training soldiers.
Their expressions were stern, their frames strong and resolute. Most carried an air of weathered endurance, like stones worn smooth by countless storms. In comparison, the soldiers of Wayfort seemed like young oak saplings stepping out from sheltered groves for the first time.
No wonder the Rangers liked to call them "green recruits." Looking at them now, the name seemed fitting.
"Latest intelligence: the enemy numbers more than fifteen thousand, and there are at least three Nazgûl."
Seeing Halbarad return with the army, Gandalf descended from the wall to meet him.
At this news, Halbarad frowned deeply, sensing the gravity of their situation.
The vast orc army was concerning enough, but Riverside Fortress, though newly built, had walls strong enough that even if breached by some extraordinary means, they could be swiftly repaired.
Counting the Rangers, the reinforcements from Wayfort, and the construction crews, they had nearly five thousand able fighters. Not a single person was unfit for battle.
And more than that, every one of them was trained in both archery and swordplay, capable of fighting at both range and close quarters.
"If our enemy were only orcs, that would be manageable..." Halbarad said with concern.
"But they are far more than orcs. Even without mentioning their siege beasts, they have the Nazgûl."
"I can face two of them," Gandalf said. "Can you handle the third?"
"Of course."
Halbarad tapped his sword hilt with confidence.
"I once defeated a Nazgûl."
"Good. Very good." Gandalf nodded.
But Balin was not pleased.
"Here now, don't forget there's a Dwarf present. Can't you spare one for me to deal with?"
"You're welcome to try," Gandalf replied, glancing at him. "When the Nazgûl comes, just leap up and strike him on the head."
"What did you say?" Balin glared at Gandalf. "Was that your polite way of making jest at my expense?"
"Not at all. I was merely offering sound advice."
"Some advice indeed, Gandalf. Makes me want to leap up and try it out on you first."
"Oh mercy, spare me. I'm an old man, I wouldn't survive a blow from that great axe of yours."
"So you think I'm young, then?"
The two old men began bickering like children.
At the side, the "youngster" Halbarad, barely over a hundred years old, couldn't get a word in edgewise. Out of respect for them, he could only watch helplessly, letting the two settle it on their own.
Yet sometimes, doing nothing was itself a mistake. A fire once lit would not extinguish itself, it would only grow larger, until it burned even the bystanders.
"What do you think, Halbarad?"
"Er, I think..."
Halbarad felt torn.
I think we'd better summon Garrett back here immediately.
---
Far away in Dale, Bard was thinking the exact same thing.
"Could he not have waited just a little longer?"
To suddenly summon the armies of all three settlements under Dale's jurisdiction and march them toward Wayfort, toward a brand-new, unheard-of territory called Riverside Fortress on the far side of the mountains... it was all far too abrupt, with not the slightest warning.
Garrett had appeared in Dale seemingly from nowhere, delivered the news, and issued it as an urgent command.
"Gather your forces at once and move with all speed. Our enemy is an army of tens of thousands of orcs... and several Nazgûl."
Bard understood all too well the gravity of these words.
Tens of thousands of orcs, it brought back memories of the Battle of Five Armies. Back then, there had been more than thirty thousand orcs, while the combined forces of Men, Dwarves, and Elves barely numbered five thousand.
But now, Dale's territories commanded far more than five thousand soldiers...
"Emergency assembly!"
As he hurriedly strapped on his armor, he issued orders to his captains.
"Leave only the minimum garrison! Everyone else, arm yourselves and march immediately!"
Boom!
The great gates opened. With no time for speeches before battle, a flood of soldiers surged toward the entrance to the Sky Road.
In truth, no speech was needed. One phrase was enough: "For our lord, for the Free Peoples."
Nor was Dale alone. In the settlement at the Carrock, the Beornings, fierce and warlike by nature, also began mustering their fighters, preparing to march for the front.
Great forces now surged along the lofty Sky Road, converging toward the western side of the mountains with remarkable speed.
"What's happening now?"
The scene unfolded once again: Thorin hurried up to the walls of Erebor, staring in bewilderment at the city of Dale, now visibly diminished.
It was too swift, far too swift. By the time word had reached him, the army was already gone, vanished beyond the horizon.
The speed of their mobilization was astounding. Even Erebor, Dale's closest neighbor within sight of the road, hadn't had time to react before Dale's army was already well on its way.
"It's Garrett," said Dwalin, arriving swiftly with a report. "He issued an emergency command. He's summoned every available force to the western side of the mountains."
"This doesn't look like a campaign of conquest," he added. "It looks like they're marching to give aid."
"Aid? What details do we have?" Thorin asked urgently.
"We know little. They departed too quickly. Fíli rode off on his ram to pursue them, he may bring word back, but it'll take time."
Thorin paced back and forth, muttering, "For Garrett to go on the defensive, the enemy must be an orc army of at least ten thousand. This is no small matter, we need to muster our own forces..."
"But Garrett sent us no word of this," Dwalin reminded him.
Thorin spoke slowly, "That means—"
"That means he was in such haste he had no time to send word," Dwalin finished grimly.
In the halls of the Woodland Realm, Thranduil's command rang out.
"I know the Man well. He would never call for aid unless pressed to the utmost. But that does not mean we should stand idle while an ally walks into danger."
"Prepare to march. And tell me, has our army already assembled?"
Thranduil turned to his captain.
"My king, they've nearly departed the forest already."
"What?"