At Bolg's command, the Orc horde retreated in a frenzy, vanishing into the tunnels carved by the Were-worms.
By the time Sylas arrived on Smaug's back, only the stragglers, those too slow or wounded to reach the tunnel mouths, were left to be incinerated beneath the dragon's breath.
The rest, including Bolg, had already disappeared underground.
Sylas frowned as he surveyed the scene. Bolg, it seemed, was even more cunning than his father Azog. The moment the tide turned against him, he vanished beneath the earth like a rat fleeing fire.
Seeing Sylas's frustration, Smaug tried to offer a solution with a toothy grin.
"Master, if the Orcs have buried themselves like worms, I'll simply breathe fire into the tunnels and roast them all alive."
Sylas shook his head.
"Have you forgotten the Were-worm?" he said coldly. "As long as that beast is alive, they can dig and escape anywhere underground. Your fire won't reach them."
Entering the tunnels was out of the question. Underground, the advantage would belong to the were-worms. Tight spaces, unstable footing, ambushes from below, no, Sylas had no intention of falling into that trap. He suspected that was exactly what Bolg wanted.
But that didn't mean he was helpless.
Sylas dismounted, landing lightly at the edge of the tunnel entrance. With a flick of his wand and a glint in his eye, he muttered:
"Fiendfyre."
A flicker of unnatural golden yellow flame sparked from his wand tip. It hissed and twisted unnaturally, almost as if it were alive, hungering.
The moment it touched the earth, it surged forward, gnawing through roots, wood, and stone alike. Even Sylas felt the heat radiating from it, the kind that scorched the soul more than the skin.
For a brief moment, the cursed fire turned toward its caster.
Sylas didn't flinch. His expression darkened, and with a commanding wave of his wand, he snapped the flame into submission.
As if chastened, the Fiendfyre reared back and plunged deeper into the tunnel on its own, growing larger as it consumed everything in its path.
Within moments, the hellish blaze morphed into a colossal serpent of fire, that slithered hungrily through the underground passages. The ground rumbled with its fury.
Sylas raised his wand once more and cast an Exploding Charm, collapsing the tunnel's mouth.
Only then did he exhale.
The Fiendfyre was among the most feared curses in all wizarding history. A self-propagating, sentient inferno born of Dark Magic, it consumed not only its targets but often its caster as well. Few dared to summon it.
So, once he unleashed it into the tunnel, he immediately sealed its path behind it. After all, there were only Orcs and monstrous worms down there, no innocents to spare.
Watching from nearby, Smaug recoiled slightly. His pupils contracted, his heavy limbs backing away instinctively.
"Master... what flame was that just now?" he asked, his voice low and edged with dread. "Why does it feel… more dangerous than dragonfire?"
"That," Sylas replied calmly, "was Fiendfyre. Also called Infernal Fire, a living flame born from Dark Magic. It grows stronger by consuming everything in its path. Without a counter-curse, it burns endlessly."
Smaug stiffened. The pride he held in his own fire, melted dwarven steel, incinerated stone, felt insignificant compared to what he had just seen.
If his master had used that spell against him during their first encounter, he might have been reduced to charred bones in moments.
Smaug swallowed hard. "Truly... I am fortunate to be your ally."
Sylas didn't hear him. If he had, he might've chuckled, Smaug was overthinking things. Had the Fiendfyre Curse not been so difficult to control, Sylas would've gladly used it more often.
But for now, he had more pressing matters.
With the entrance blocked, Sylas mounted his broom and soared into the air, while Smaug continued tearing through siege weapons and the scattered remains of the Orc army.
As Sylas waited, it happened, as he expected.
From another tunnel entrance below, a horde of screaming Orcs poured out in blind panic, trampling over each other in a frantic rush to escape. They shoved and clawed their way out of the dark, their eyes wide with horror.
And then it came.
A towering blaze, shaped like a Basilisk, erupted from the ground behind them. Born from the Fiendfyre, it hissed like a furious demon, incinerating the slowest Orcs in an instant.
The fiery serpent reared up, desperate to escape its prison and consume the world.
Sylas darted through the air on his broom, raised his wand, and roared, "Back! Into the dark with you!"
A shimmering force field slammed into the flame, pressing it downward with invisible weight. The Basilisk-shaped flame snarled and writhed, hurling bursts of fire upward in defiance, but Sylas held firm.
The two forces wrestled midair, man and flame, until finally, with a screech, the Fiendfyre was forced back underground.
Sylas wasted no time. With a swift incantation, he collapsed the tunnel and sealed the exit.
Sylas continued his silent watch from the skies.
Moments later, another tunnel mouth burst open, spewing out a stampede of terrified Orcs.
Without hesitation, Sylas struck first, collapsing the tunnel exit before the Fiendfyre could follow, sealing both the screaming Orcs and the cursed flames inside.
From then on, it was like a deadly game of whack-a-mole.
Every time Fiendfyre tried to emerge from a new tunnel, Sylas would swoop in, collapse the opening, and trap the cursed fire again
But just when he thought he had it under control, a thunderous roar echoed across the land.
Several leagues to the north of the Lonely Mountain, the earth exploded.
A towering column of yellow-red flame erupted into the sky, and from its core slithered a monstrous shape, ten thousand feet long, hissing with hatred and heat.
A Basilisk of Fiendfyre had broken free.
Sylas's eyes narrowed. He had underestimated the network of tunnels the Orcs had dug. The flames had traveled far beneath the earth, and now they had surfaced again, more dangerous than ever.
He shot through the air on his broom, racing toward the chaos.
Fiendfyre, once loose, could never be ignored.
If there was even a single scrap of wood or straw to burn, it would never stop.
And now, it was already devouring an were-worm, its flames curling hungrily around the massive creature's body as it thrashed in agony.
Sylas spotted Bolg below, staggering and attempting to flee from the fire's reach.
But he wouldn't escape again.
"Diffindo!"
A sharp arc of light cut through the air.
Bolg didn't even have time to scream. His monstrous body was sliced into dozens of pieces, scattered across the scorched earth.
Sylas didn't slow down.
That wasn't the real threat.
He turned to face the Fiendfyre Basilisk, its blazing body now towering and coiling through the sky. He lifted his wand.
"Finite Incantatem!"
A shimmering dome burst forth from his wand, forming a barrier of suppression that clamped down on the flames.
The Basilisk shrieked.
It reared and struck at the barrier, fangs and fire crashing into the spellwork, sending magical shockwaves rippling outward.
Sylas gritted his teeth. His hand trembled under the magical strain.
Finite Incantatem could suppress Fiendfyre, but not easily.
If the curse was fresh, the counter-spell could extinguish it cleanly.
But this Fiendfyre… this flame had fed on ten thousand Orcs, grown fat on flesh and fuel. It had matured, evolving into a force of elemental destruction.
A normal wizard wouldn't stand a chance.
Even four or five elite Aurors casting together might struggle to contain it now.
Sylas was doing it alone.
But he had no intention of erasing it entirely, not yet.
His goal was simpler: force it back into the tunnel. Seal it in. Let it burn itself out in the dark where no air, fuel, or prey remained.
Yet, as if sensing his plan, the Fiendfyre rebelled.
Its form twisted again, changing from a Basilisk into something far more terrifying.
A Balrog emerged from the flames.
It towered with demonic fury, crowned in molten horns, wings of flame stretched wide, and a blazing whip.
The Balrog raised its whip high and lashed out, hammering the barrier with blows that shook the earth.
Sylas's magic buckled. The barrier rippled and quaked.
His expression tightened. Sweat trickled down his temple.
If it broke through now, even he wouldn't be able to stop it.
He raised his wand again, pouring every drop of magical power into his voice:
"Back into the tunnel!"
The magical barrier continued to contract, inch by inch, forcing the Fiendfyre Balrog to retreat.
Though it had taken on the terrible shape of a demon, the Fiendfyre was not truly sentient, only a cursed echo of chaos. Seeing itself suppressed, the fiery creature began to slither backward, hissing furiously as it re-entered the tunnel from which it had emerged.
Sylas's eyes gleamed coldly. "Bombarda"
He thrust his wand forward. A crackling streak of red light shot from its tip and struck the earth above the tunnel mouth.
Boom!
The ground erupted in a violent blast. Stones, soil, and shattered bone rained down, collapsing the tunnel completely and burying the cursed fire beneath tons of rubble.
Still not satisfied, Sylas hovered over the site, casting warding spells and layers of magical stonework to seal the breach entirely.
Only after the ground lay silent and still did he finally let out a breath.
Then, with a simple flick of his wand, Bolg's severed head rose into the air beside him, suspended like a grotesque banner of justice.
Sylas mounted his broom and turned back toward the battlefield.
Down below, the tide of war had already turned.
The joint army of Elves, Dwarves, and Men had begun pushing the Orc horde into full retreat.
The moment Sylas had driven Bolg underground and released the Fiendfyre, the Orcs' morale had plummeted. Their ranks broke. Their snarling discipline gave way to terror.
Soon after, Gandalf had summoned the Great Eagles, who swept down from the skies, tearing through the bat swarms and diving into Orc ranks from above.
The Orc army, already fraying, began to collapse at the faintest push, fleeing in all directions.
And now, as Sylas soared high above them, he let Bolg's head drop from the sky.
Thud.
The gruesome trophy hit the ground in the center of the battlefield.
Sylas amplified his voice with magic, making it ring across the valley like a thunderclap:
"Orcs! Your leader Bolg is dead. You have been defeated!"
Gasps, shrieks, and snarls echoed through the ranks. Disbelief turned to despair.
Then, without ceremony, Sylas drew out a black horn.
It was long, carved from some unknown beast, inscribed with dark enchantments. He had taken it from Bolg's corpse and wiped the mouthpiece with open disdain.
Raising it to his lips, he blew hard.
BWOOOOOOOHHHHHHH!!!
A sharp, piercing note echoed through the mountains, a sound not meant for mortal ears. It cut across the battlefield, climbed the sky, and shattered the order that held the Orc army together.
In that instant, the clouds broke.
The bat swarm, which had until now veiled the sun, scattered in terror. The sky cleared rapidly, and sunlight spilled down onto the blood-soaked earth.
The sudden brightness was blinding.
Orcs screamed and clawed at their faces, desperately seeking shade.
Many crumpled where they stood, burned by the sun, their strength sapped in seconds.
Worse still were the Trolls.
Caught under the sun's gaze, their massive bodies froze in place.
...
Stones PLZZZ
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