"Get out! All of you, get out now!"
Dáin Ironfoot roared, his voice booming across the snowy battlefield, dripping with contempt and fury.
"Lord Dáin, may I have a word?"
Gandalf stepped out from among the Elven ranks, raising his staff in a gesture of peace.
"Gandalf the Grey?" Dáin narrowed his eyes. "Tell these fools to turn around and run, or I'll use their blood to paint the stones red!"
"There must be no war between Dwarves, Men, and Elves," Gandalf said firmly. "An Orc host marches upon the Lonely Mountain as we speak. If we do not unite now, we will all fall. Stand down, Dáin. Point your blades where they belong."
But Dáin growled and lifted his warhammer defiantly. "I will not retreat in front of Elves, especially that arrogant Woodland Peacock!" he barked, pointing directly at Thranduil.
"He sneers at Dwarves and seeks only gold. If he dares stand between me and my king, I'll split his pretty skull and mount it on a pike!"
Thranduil laughed coldly, his piercing gaze locking with Dáin's. "So says the pig-riding brute of the Iron Hills. You'll be dust before your axe even rises."
Gandalf tried to interject, "Dáin, wait."
But the Dwarf lord had already turned his back.
"Prepare to advance!" Dáin shouted. "Let's see how long these delicate flowers can hold up!"
Thranduil's face darkened. "Draw bows."
At his command, Elven archers stepped forward with graceful precision. Dozens, then hundreds of arrows were notched, strings pulled taut.
The tension was about to snap.
"Let them fly," Thranduil said coolly.
A sharp horn sounded.
The Dwarven army surged forward like a thunderous tide, axes raised, feet pounding the snow.
From above, the sky suddenly shifted.
An enormous eagle- owl swooped down across the battlefield, its wings outstretched as it soared between the armies.
Just as arrows loosed from the Elven bows, the owl transformed midair, wings folding into robes, talons reshaping into hands, feathers melting into black fabric.
Sylas descended like a leaf caught in a breeze.
Hovering briefly, he raised his wand. With a subtle twist, the air shimmered.
The lethal rain of arrows transfigured midflight, becoming a cascade of blossoms, scattering harmlessly across the snowy ground.
He landed lightly in the narrow space between both armies, standing alone, yet utterly commanding.
The Dwarves halted their charge, startled.
Even the Elves lowered their bows in disbelief.
Dáin stared, tense. "Who in the blazes are you?"
Sylas turned his gaze upon the Dwarf lord, his black robes rippling like ink in water.
"I am Sylas, the Black Robe Wizard," he said, voice deep and calm. "I come to prevent senseless bloodshed."
He looked across both camps. "Even now, an Orc horde marches from Mount Gundabad. Tens of thousands, no, hundreds of thousands, will be here within two hours."
He let the words sink in.
"If you continue bickering over treasure and pride, you'll all be slaughtered before sunset. Now is the time to stand together—or die alone."
Murmurs rippled through the Men and Elves.
Even the Dwarves shifted uneasily.
Dáin narrowed his eyes. "And how do I know this isn't some trick? You ride with Gandalf. How do I know you're not stalling for those lying knife-ears and spineless men?"
Sylas's expression didn't change.
"Believe me or don't. I care little for your doubts."
Just then, Beorn soared across the battlefield atop a broomstick, Bilbo clinging nervously behind him.
Midair, Beorn leapt from the broom.
His body surged with transformation, fur erupting from his limbs, and in a heartbeat, he became a towering giant bear.
He caught Bilbo effortlessly in one massive paw as he landed with a thunderous crash that shook the snow-packed ground.
The sudden appearance startled Dáin's war-pig, which reared back in panic. Dáin Ironfoot swore loudly as he nearly lost his saddle, clinging to his mount with a scowl.
Beorn let out a deafening roar that echoed across the valley like a thunderclap.
He made no move toward Dáin, but the message was clear: no more squabbling, a far greater threat had arrived.
Ignoring Dáin's reaction, Sylas turned from the Dwarf lines and walked calmly toward the Elven and Human ranks.
Gandalf hurried to meet him.
"Sylas," he asked gravely, "are the Orcs truly here?"
"I saw them with the Palantír," Sylas said without hesitation. "Mount Gundabad has emptied. They'll be here any moment."
Gandalf's expression tightened with grim understanding. "Hundreds of thousands of Orcs… This may be the bloodiest battle the North has seen since Angmar fell."
But what happened next surprised even him.
The Elves, in a swift and orderly motion, lowered their weapons.
They began preparing to withdraw.
"Your Majesty Thranduil!" Gandalf called, rushing to the Elven King. "Why do you retreat now? The enemy is at the gates!"
Thranduil remained composed, his face as cold as the wind on the Lonely Mountain.
"This is a war between Orcs and Dwarves, not mine. I must protect my people. Every Elf of Mirkwood is a precious soul. I will not spill their blood in a foreign grave."
Gandalf's brow furrowed. "And when the Lonely Mountain falls, how long do you think your forest will stand? You believe the Orcs will stop at Erebor? Or are you preparing to bend the knee to darkness, Thranduil?"
The Elven King's eyes flared with offended pride.
"I need no lecture from you, Gandalf. I fought under the stars when Morgoth ruled. I saw my kin fall in droves and waded through Orc blood up to my knees. But my people did not die to save greedy Dwarves. They died to protect our home."
"Then you are a fool," Gandalf said.
But before Thranduil could reply, Sylas suddenly raised his wand and pointed to a distant ridge.
"There."
Thranduil and Gandalf turned to look.
From the distant northern peaks, black banners fluttered in the wind. They bore the mark of Gundabad, spikes and clawed glyphs soaked in red.
A low rumble began to rise from the earth, like a distant thunderstorm.
The ground shook.
And then, they saw them.
Enormous earth-burrowing beasts, like monstrous worms, broke through the mountain rock, gnawing wide tunnels.
From these dark maws, the Orc horde began to spill out, a relentless wave of filth and iron. Wargs snarled, Trolls bellowed, and monstrous giant bats circled overhead, casting a sickening shadow.
They poured down the slopes, completely encircling the armies of Dwarves, Men, and Elves.
"TO ARMS!" Dáin roared, turning his hammer toward the Orcs. "Defensive formation! Shields up!"
All thoughts of fighting Elves were gone.
Sylas stood silently in the eye of the storm, watching.
For a moment, he was in awe, not of the Orcs, but of the Were-worms.
He muttered to himself, "If I could tame one of those… tunnel building would be a lot easier."
But there was no time to dream.
The first clash exploded at the frontlines as the Dwarves, in thick armor and locked shields, met the Orcs head-on. Swords clashed. Axes split skulls. The battlefield became a sea of blood and fury.
Yet the Orcs came in overwhelming numbers, snarling and hacking with no regard for life or limb.
Just as it seemed the Dwarves might be overwhelmed—
The Elves moved.
With elegant precision, they surged forward in perfect formation. Arrows darkened the sky, cutting down swathes of Orcs like stalks of wheat.
Thranduil, now astride his massive elk, leapt into battle with flashing blades and unshakable calm.
Even Bard and the survivors of Lake-town entered the fray, forming a tight spear-wall and holding firm against the onslaught.
And at the center of it all was Beorn, a storm of teeth and claws.He tore through Orc ranks like a boulder through mud, swatting Wargs aside with bone-crushing strength.
Gandalf drew his sword, his face grim as he looked at the Orcs covering the mountains and plains.
He asked Sylas, "Sylas, where is the dragon? We need him!"
Sylas sensed something, looked into the distance, and smiled. "I think he's here."
Before he finished speaking, the figure of the great dragon Smaug appeared on the distant mountain peak.
The great dragon stood tall, tilted his head back, and let out a deafening roar before spewing scorching flames upon the ranks of the Orcs.
The sudden appearance of Smaug caused the entire battlefield to freeze for a few seconds.
The Dwarves and Elves were both startled, but when they saw the dragon attacking the Orcs, they erupted in cheers.
The Orcs, however, were thrown into chaos. Their formation crumbled as the Elves and Dwarves pressed the advantage in a fierce counterattack.
"Sylas, the Orcs are too many! We can't possibly slay them all. We must find Bolg. If we strike him down, the Orcs will fall into disarray. That's our chance!"
Gandalf cleaved an Orc aside and shouted to Sylas.
Sylas nodded. With a wave of his wand, he cleared the surrounding enemies in a burst of magical force.
"I know. Leave this to me."
He pulled out the Palantír and began searching for Bolg's location.
"There you are."
Sylas located Bolg's image within the Palantír and quickly pinpointed his position.
But just then, something changed.
The image of Bolg vanished, and in its place emerged a flaming, fiery-red Eye, a terrible magical presence pulsing with malice and shadow.
"Black Robe Sylas, Dragontamer of the North," the Eye whispered, "I know what you seek. Power. Legacy. Purpose. Why not strike a deal with me?"
"Help the Orcs seize Erebor, and I shall teach you the art of forging a Ring of Power. You will command nations, and your life will be eternal."
The whisper pressed into Sylas's mind like a vice, slick and seductive.
But just as the shadow crept closer, the strand of Galadriel's hair tied around his wrist shimmered with a holy glow, snapping him out of the trance.
Cold sweat ran down Sylas's back.
He had nearly been ensnared by the Dark Lord himself.
It was Sauron, contacting him through his own Palantír.
He now realized what had happened to Saruman. The same trick. The same trap.
Without hesitation, he yanked out the crystal vial that Galadriel had gifted him.
Summoning his magic, he unleashed the light within, Eärendil's Light.
The Palantír flared with a radiance like the rising sun. The Eye shrieked and withdrew in a flash of smoke and darkness.
Sauron was gone.
Sylas didn't stop there. He flooded the Palantír with the holy light again and again, scrubbing it of any remaining corruption.
Only when he was sure did he finally exhale and calm his trembling fingers.
"From now on, I'm keeping this thing sealed with Eärendil's Light. Let's see how long that Eye can stare into the light."
Still frowning, he tucked the Palantír and the light together in his satchel.
Sauron knew now. He would be watching. Which meant the Palantír was no longer safe for casual use.
Sylas would need to be careful, one false glance, and he'd end up like Saruman, or worse.
But for now, he had a mission.
He had seen Bolg's location, deep within one of the tunnels dug by the monstrous Were-worms.
He turned to Bilbo. "Bilbo, I'm going to the Orc main camp to deal with Bolg. It's not safe here. I should take you to Thorin."
But Bilbo shook his head, clutching his Elven blade. "No need, Sylas. I can hold my own."
Sylas studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Then take care of yourself."
He waved his wand, casting layer after layer of protective spells on the hobbit.
Then he mounted his broom and soared toward the mountains.
He hadn't flown far when a storm of giant bats came screaming through the sky, attempting to tear him down.
"Confringo! Bombarda!"
One by one, the dark creatures fell from the sky, their bodies tumbling like broken comets.