Three days had passed since their last encounter with the accursed pointed‑ears, yet the host’s advance remained as sluggish and infuriating as ever.
At this rate, the stinking Elves would surely have made ready.
The mere thought of his army dashing itself against a well‑fortified Elven city set the stump of Azog the Defiler’s left arm throbbing again, the arm that a foul, filthy Dwarf had hewn away.
“Move your feet, you lazy maggots!” The Pale Orc’s furious roar echoed among the hills of the Twilight, where he bestrode a monstrous white Warg, twice the bulk of any common breed.
With fangs like daggers and a snarling, blood‑hungry rasp, beast and rider seemed a demon roaming the mortal world.
“We must reach the Grey Havens before the great yellow face rises again!” Many believed the Pale Orc, the Defiler, chieftain of the Northern Orcs, a rare commander among their kind, the great Gundabad Orc Azog, had already perished in the Mines of Moria.
Yet here he was, prowling back and forth upon his giant Warg, restless and impatient as he drove the endless evil host onward.
The “great yellow face” was, of course, the Orcs’ scornful name for the Sun.
“I said move!” More cunning and more merciless than the common Orc, the Pale Orc wore a thick breastplate and greaves forged by the dark smiths of Mordor.
His left arm was severed below the elbow, and in its place a keen steel blade had been bound with iron bands, its haft driven deep into the hard, scarred muscle.
Venting his wrath, Azog snatched up a lowly Orc that had lagged and hoisted it with one hand, a bloodthirsty grin splitting his pale face.
“Run faster, you filthy, slothful vermin!” Ignoring the terrified stare of the small, filth‑caked, stinking Orc of the Misty Mountains, he swung his maimed arm; the steel blade swept out and cruelly sheared the wretch’s head from its shoulders.
A spray of foul green blood splattered Azog’s armor.
With disgust, he tossed the headless corpse carelessly into the midst of the marching Orc‑host, throwing the cowardly, treacherous rabble, who dared fight only with overwhelming numbers, into brief disarray.
He did not know why his Master had commanded the armies to march upon the North before Orc‑kind had regained the full strength of the Dark Years, but he knew well that his Master’s will could not be defied.
Not even if his ancient, terrible form had not yet been restored!
Moreover… Azog’s savage, pale eyes glanced back unwillingly toward the far horizon, leagues behind the host.
There, amid a darkness deeper than black, thicker than ink, a searing red light flickered and vanished.
Above, the clouds thickened, spreading forward as though with a will of their own, following the Orc‑host’s march.
These portents were wrought by the horror that followed them, a monster even the Pale Orc feared.
Gazing at those dreadful signs, the cruel and evil Orc’s eyes betrayed a flicker of dread.
He spurred his great Warg, pacing furiously among the small, wretched Orcs of the Misty Mountains, terrifying the foul creatures until they wished they had more legs to flee.
They shoved and snarled at one another, scrambling to hasten their steps.
Iron armor clattered, spears knocked, and scimitars jangled as they ran.
Behind the diminutive, craven Orcs came the Lossoth of Forodwaith, and behind them, massive Trolls, hulking and brutish, bearing great stones and crude catapults.
The dull‑witted Trolls lurched forward with a thunderous din, driven by the Pale Orc’s special horn‑calls.
Farther back, beyond the Orc‑host yet before that dreadful darkness on the horizon, other strange and twisted creatures shambled, shrieking and whispering among themselves.
Flanking this nigh‑endless dark host, swift Warg‑riders and a multitude of savage wolves coursed, watching.
Any Orc or wild man of the dark lands who lagged was dragged from the ranks with a snarl and torn apart.
Just then, a Warg‑rider who had pursued the Elven scouts came galloping directly from the direction of the Grey Havens.
“The pointed‑ears fled back to their city.
We were too slow,” the burly Orc snarled in the hideous Black Speech of Mordor.
He was only slightly shorter than Azog, and spoke with venom.
Azog’s fury kindled anew.
He glared at the tall Orc who bore his blood, and his white Warg circled the brown‑grey mount of his offspring, the blade on his stump tracing a lazy, menacing arc near the other’s throat.
“Take the wolves!” At last, Azog did not take the head.
The Pale Orc, perhaps the most cunning and treacherous of his kind, fixed his baleful stare upon his vile spawn and gave the fell command: “Circle around the stinking Elf‑city and strike from the south!
The Elves cannot fight on two fronts!
When my host attacks, when the stars themselves are quenched, you will lead all the wolves against the south gate and shatter their defenses from the rear!” Bolg, Azog’s son, a tall Orc of Gundabad, returned his sire’s murderous gaze with equal savagery and gave a curt nod.
He produced a whistle of bone and blew a shrill note.
Scores of green, gleaming eyes turned toward him.
With a great roar, Bolg led away all the wolves and a portion of the Warg‑riders, splitting from the main host to take the southern road and fall upon the Grey Havens from below.
Azog watched them vanish into the gloom, then nodded in grim satisfaction.
“Don’t stop!
Run, damn you!” The Pale Orc’s eyes gleamed with malice as he sighted the great river coming into view.
He swept the blade of his maimed arm forward.
“Any who slackens shall feed the wolves!
Their bones I will grind to dust, I swear it!
Battle is joined, maggots!
Elf‑flesh is before you!
Tear them, devour them, let their screams fill the night!” This host of Orcs, wolves, wild men of the far north, Trolls, and other fell creatures of ill‑renown from the Dark Years surged forward amid the howls and shouts, running now with great strides toward the Grey Havens.
Boom!
Boom!
The dreadful thunder of their march reached even the distant Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains.
Deep in the heart of the Ered Luin, within a rough‑hewn hall of stone and timber, bare of rich tapestries or glittering gems, a tall chamber stood.
Mithrandir, whom we call Gandalf, pricked up his ears.
A small white bird flew in from somewhere and alighted on his lean, strong hand.
It was a hummingbird, tiny and gentle, yet swift and hardy, a creature the wizards used to bear tidings.
Now, as the Grey Pilgrim, his robes damp with dew and his face weathered, listened to the message the hummingbird brought, his countenance grew stern.
A shadow gathered about him, one that even the blazing hearth‑fire could not dispel.
This made Thorin Oakenshield and his kinsmen, Balin and Dwalin, Dwarves of Durin’s line, start violently.
Their rough, powerful hands reached instinctively for their weapons.
Gandalf the Grey, a counsellor of kings, enigmatic and elusive, using his vast knowledge to aid monarchs in their need, such was the reputation of wizards among the Dwarves.
Yet though wizards were well‑regarded in Dwarf‑tales, they remained figures of legend, known mostly from fireside stories.
Few Dwarves living had ever met one.
Moreover, Durin’s Folk were in a bitter exile, their kingdom lost, and Thorin and his companions were deeply wary of this stranger who had appeared unbidden at their door, speaking of weighty matters.
The most level‑headed of the three was Balin, son of Fundin, Dwalin’s elder brother and also a distant cousin of Thorin.
In their own tongue, he whispered to his brother: Be not hasty.
He may not be a foe.
Let us hear what he has to say.
Dwalin, however, eyed the wizard with deep misgiving, muttering his worries into the prince’s ear and glancing repeatedly at his war‑axe.
But Thorin shook his head.
Balin spoke wisely; they did not know why the wizard had come to these remote highlands.
Yet Dwarves were no mannerless hill‑folk.
If this man claimed to be Gandalf the Grey, a counsellor of kings, and had sought out Durin’s heirs in the wilderness, then as hosts they should offer him a cup of hot tea and hear what counsel he bore for the future King under the Mountain.
Balin was much pleased; Thorin showed far more wisdom than his hot‑headed brother.
Yet he said nothing.
Thorin was his kinsman and would be his king; he would not show a hint of disrespect before an outsider.
Grumbling, Dwalin went to fetch the tea.
The wizard took note of the three Dwarves’ bearing, and in his heart a plan quickly formed.
But first he must attend to the bird; its tidings were grave and would hasten all his schemes.
He whispered something to the tiny creature, then raised his hand and sent it winging away.
When the bird had vanished into the sky, the Grey Wizard turned and spoke with grave formality to the Dwarf‑prince, a sturdy figure with greying hair and beard, his face clouded, his eyes smouldering with wrath and sorrow: “Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór.
I am Gandalf, Gandalf the Grey.” “I have heard your name.” The Dwarf‑prince, whose face and thick fingers bore the marks of many hardships, nodded with a touch of pride.
“You name yourselves counsellors of kings and bearers of knowledge.
You come at dusk to royal halls, speaking of precious tidings from afar, or perhaps warnings of doom, then steal away before dawn.
Few have ever seen your true faces.
Your fame reached our Kingdom under the Mountain.
It is said my grandsire Thrór once received your aid, and my father Thráin gained a forewarning of his fate from you.” Thorin Oakenshield fixed his bright eyes on Gandalf, a kingly presence gathering about him.
“Tell me, Gandalf the Grey!
Do you come before the fallen sons of Durin bearing precious tidings, or sorrowful doom?” At Thorin’s forceful words, Dwalin gave a battle‑cry and sprang back through the doorway, axe in hand.
As if expecting this, Gandalf murmured a word of command.
Instantly the axe‑head glowed red‑hot, and Dwalin yelped, casting it clattering to the floor.
“Peace, Dwarf!” The wizard seemed to grow, his shadow looming up to the rafters.
Thorin stared, amazed and wary, but saw that Dwalin was only startled, not harmed.
He let out a breath and waved his guards away from the door.
Seeing this, Gandalf let his shadow shrink to normal.
“Thorin Oakenshield, heir of the Kingdom under the Mountain, I trust you believe I mean no ill.” The Dwarf‑prince considered, then nodded.
They seated themselves again at the table.
Balin stared, dumbfounded, his white beard twitching.
At the doorway, a young Dwarf with golden hair and beard, his locks bound in small braids, peeped in.
Seeing the tension eased, he entered with a wooden tray bearing a cup of hot tea.
This was Fíli, Thorin’s nephew and second in line to the throne of Durin.
He set down the cup and eyed the wizard with open curiosity, especially his staff, he would have loved to examine it.
But Thorin, not yet willing to let him linger, ordered him sternly away.
Fíli, rather in awe of his stern uncle, retreated reluctantly, looking back thrice before he vanished.
Dwalin by then had retrieved his cooled axe and leaned it against the wall, approaching empty‑handed.
“I ask pardon,” the tough Dwarf said, his tone and manner much humbled.
Such are the Dwarves: stubborn, proud, ill‑tempered, and covetous of gold and treasure.
Yet also forthright, steadfast, generous in forgiving, and ever the same to friend and foe alike.
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