Radagast the Brown was completely unhinged. While he spoke, a stick insect crawled out of his throat. Everyone started wondering whether his brain had been eaten hollow by bugs—otherwise, how could he not even remember what an old friend looked like?
"Gandalf."
"Don't call me Gandalf."
"Adolf?"
"…You'd better just call me Gandalf."
That was how people were: they loved compromise. If you called Dumbledore "Gandalf" right away, he would definitely object. But if you called him "Adolf," then suddenly he was perfectly happy to be called "Gandalf" again.
"Sauron has returned, Gandalf. You must be careful. I didn't see it with my own eyes, but when I was patrolling Dol Guldur, I saw—inside that pitch-black shadow—the Necromancer descending."
Dumbledore frowned slightly. "Sauron?"
"Yes. You know." The brown-robed wizard shivered. "That Dark Lord, raised under the Dark Enemy, blazing with dreadful power—how many calamities and wars has he brought to the world? He is Sauron, master of the One Ring."
"The One Ring?"
"Exactly. The Ring. Sauron poured most of his power into it to control the other Rings. And so long as the One Ring remains unmade, he can always return."
A strange, subtle sense of déjà vu rose in Dumbledore's chest.
"In that case, I'll accompany you to Dol Guldur and see what's really going on."
Bilbo and the others were reluctant to part. A plump dwarf warrior, Bombur, burst into loud sobs: Dumbledore, don't go—how are we supposed to live without you?
Dumbledore shoved the luggage pouch into Bilbo's hands, then produced another small bag and leaned close to whisper in the hobbit's ear, "This one contains a bit of Cackling Laughter Potion. It was a favorite prank tool of an old friend of mine—he was a Durmstrang student, and I'm told it's quite popular over there… This potion evaporates quickly in an enclosed space. Anyone who inhales it becomes absurdly happy and laughs nonstop—laughs until they lose the ability to move. If you run into trouble, use it to break free."
"And what if we inhale it by accident?" Bilbo asked nervously.
"There are matching filters in the bag."
Bilbo fished out a plain black little block. Two short tubes stuck out of the top. "How do I use this?"
"Point the two tubes at your nostrils and plug them in. The black block is the filter." Dumbledore demonstrated personally. With the nose plugs in place, the little black block rested under his nose and looked exactly like a small mustache. "Simple, right?"
"All right, I understand." Bilbo hesitated, then looked up. "Dumbledore… are you really leaving?"
"Don't worry. What will help you overcome hardship isn't just a foreign wizard—it's the courage in your own hearts. Bilbo, you're a burglar. You're destined to bring this company good fortune."
And just like that, Dumbledore temporarily bade the company farewell. With a flick of his wand, Radagast's rabbit-drawn sledge lifted into the air, and Dumbledore mounted his broomstick and shot eastward like an arrow.
"Oh, brilliant," a dwarf warrior groaned in despair. "Our wizard is gone."
"Who's going to light our soaking wet firewood?"
"Who's going to magic up a proper camping feast?"
"Who can make cheerful music with a wave of a stick—no harp, no flute?"
"Dumbledore, take me with you… Dumbledore…"
Thorin set his face. "Enough crying. Even without a wizard, I can still reclaim the Lonely Mountain. As long as you stand at my side, I'll dare storm any vile den of evil!"
The moment he finished speaking, an orcish whistle shrieked through the trees, followed by the rapid pounding of wargs running at full tilt. These agents of darkness—hunters of the wild—had come on their master's orders to capture the expedition.
"Bloody orcs, showing up at just the right time," Thorin snapped, his expression changing at once. "Mount up. We move."
The company drove east. In the forest, horses were no match for wargs; they stumbled and lurched, nearly turning ankles on roots. The warriors fought through blood and chaos, forcing a path out of the dense woods and into open ground, where their horses could finally stretch out into a full gallop.
Bilbo's heart hammered like a drum. Orc arrows whistled past his ears again and again—soft and slicing, like the wind whispering. And if one of them hit—
No. Stop it. Don't jinx it.
Too late. Balin took an arrow.
"Balin! Are you all right?"
"Just a mosquito bite on the backside!"
The howling of the orc wolf-riders grew louder and louder. Looking back, they seemed like a wall of black fire sweeping across a midsummer plain, ready to burn the bright world to ash.
Arrows fell like a drifting rain. One after another got hit—most of the wounds weren't fatal, but the horses beneath them were injured, and soon they staggered, exhausted, and collapsed.
"Go!" a dwarf shouted as he hit the ground, wrenching out his weapon. He threw his back into the fight to buy his comrades a road to escape.
From both north and south, more wolf-riders appeared, forming a loose encirclement, trying to trap the dwarves on the open plain.
Thorin let out a heavy sigh. Perhaps this was the end of the road.
"Dismount," he ordered. "We fight to the death."
All thirteen dwarves and one hobbit gathered together in a tight ring. One held a tinker's hammer; another had a bird-catcher's slingshot; another clutched a barrel lid as a shield. Whatever the weapon, not one of them was a coward.
"Prince Thorin, it's Balin's honor to fight at your side."
"Dwalin's as well."
"Fíli and Kíli too." …
"A-and Bilbo too," Bilbo said. "It's an honor to die with everyone."
Bilbo didn't cry. He even drew his short sword calmly and stood shoulder to shoulder with them—only for Thorin and another dwarf warrior to bind his hands and toss him onto the back of the last uninjured horse.
"Now we all believe you're a brave burglar." Thorin's voice was fierce, but steady. "Bilbo—run. Get on the horse and escape."
"N-no… you can't do this…" Bilbo finally felt the tears rise for real.
Woooo—
A clear, resounding horn sounded the rhythm of cavalry charging. Over the low hills to the east, Elven banners rose.
The Elves—the Firstborn children of Ilúvatar: eternal life, beautiful faces, tremendous strength, quick minds, and the most blessed of all peoples in this world.
They rode white horses from Rivendell in the east, sweeping in like the pale light that appears before sunrise, glorious and unstoppable, driving back the darkness running rampant across the land.
At their head, the Elven lord leveled his long spear and plunged straight into the center of the enemy line.
Thorin roared with laughter. "Looks like we don't have to die here today! Everyone—charge with me!"
Bilbo witnessed the short, savage battle from horseback, unable to move. He cried and laughed all at once.
Soon the orcs broke and fled in disarray.
Thorin checked his company—no one had died. "Excellent. You see? We don't need that wizard. We can overcome danger ourselves. Sometimes we just need a little bit of luck."
The Elven lord stepped forward. "We weren't too late, were we? Dumbledore's message was terribly rushed—he was afraid we wouldn't arrive in time. Fortunately, our cavalry was already nearby, patrolling the borderlands today."
Dwarves and Elves had old grievances. This Lord Elrond of Rivendell was courteous and proper; Thorin was grateful for the lifesaving aid, but he still pulled a long face. In the end, he forced himself to bow stiffly in thanks.
"We'll continue our journey at once. No need to escort us."
He led his injured, limping warriors through the cavalry. With bodies barely taller than the horses' backs, they looked like a gang of fat squirrels tunneling through shrubbery.
"Wait. Dumbledore asked me to look after you." Elrond reached out a hand to stop them." "Come to Rivendell and rest. You're exhausted. It isn't suitable for you to keep traveling."
"Well," Thorin said sharply, "since you insist. Heal our injuries, and we'll leave immediately. We won't stay a moment longer than necessary."
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