The River Running was at their backs now. The Spirit of Dawn soared across the last stretches of wilderness until at last the Lonely Mountain rose before them, vast and brooding against the darkening sky. At its feet sprawled Dale—the once-proud city of men, now nothing but a hollow carcass of stone and memory.
The ship descended onto a cracked plaza where weeds pushed through the cobblestones. As the struts settled into the earth, a shiver of dust and ash rose like ghosts from the past. The ramp lowered with a groan, and the company descended in silence.
Their boots rang sharply on old stone, every step an intrusion into a place abandoned to ruin. Thorin was the first to move forward. His hand rested on the hilt of Thror's Justice as his eyes swept the broken gates, the archways without doors, the statues broken in half and left to weather more than a century of neglect.
"Dale," Balin murmured, his voice heavy as an iron bell. "Once the jewel of the North."
The streets told their own story. Roofless houses leaned on scorched beams, market stalls lay preserved in blackened frames, and the skeletons of trees clawed at the sky, brittle and lifeless. Bilbo shivered and pulled his coat tighter.
"It's like walking through a graveyard," he whispered.
Bard said nothing. His steps carried him to a wall where the faded mural of a long-forgotten battle clung stubbornly to stone. He reached out and touched the scarred surface, where Girion, Lord of Dale, was painted standing tall against a tide of orcs. The scorch marks had eaten away the paint until Girion's face was nothing but shadow.
Gandalf and Saruman followed at a slower pace. Gandalf's staff clicked gently against the ground, his pipe hanging forgotten at his side. Saruman's eyes roved over the ruins with a keener, colder gaze, as though cataloguing the scars for study rather than mourning.
Ben halted before a half-collapsed fountain. Once, children must have played there, splashing in the water, their laughter echoing through bright streets. Now only silence remained. He crouched, picking up from the rubble a broken toy with faded colours, and turned it slowly in his hands.
It was one thing to watch a dragon's fire rain upon a city from the other side of a screen. It was another to stand within the bones of that city, to see with his own eyes the devastation it left behind. Dale had been a city more prosperous than Gondor, its thousands of people living lives of contentment and plenty. And all of it, wiped out in a single storm of fire, simply because Smaug could.
Ben rose, his gaze drawn inexorably to the Mountain. His jaw set. He vowed then, silently, that the dragon's reign would end before another city, another family, could be erased so thoughtlessly.
At last they reached the broad causeway, the road that led to the Mountain itself. The front gates of Erebor gleamed faintly in the distance. The Lonely Mountain towered above them, massive, implacable. Thorin's hand tightened around his sword.
"Eat well tonight," he said, his voice low but commanding. "Get plenty of rest. For tomorrow, we march on the Mountain. Tomorrow, we end the tyranny of Smaug."
---
Night fell. The company made camp within the walls of a half-standing courtyard—the remnants of a merchant's hall, still sturdy enough to keep out the chill wind. A fire crackled in the center, its light shielded by Gandalf's quiet wards so no gleam escaped into the night.
They ate heartily—thick cuts of roasted beef, turkey legs dripping with juice, chicken and mushroom pies, skewers spitting on the flames. Butterbeer passed from hand to hand, with the occasional burn of whiskey to sharpen spirits.
When the meal was done and the last bones cast aside, Ben rose. Firelight played against his face as he looked around at the gathered company—the dwarves, Bilbo, Bard, Gandalf, and Saruman.
"Gentlemen," he said, his tone light but carrying, "after months of not-so-harrowing journeys and a few memorable misadventures, here we are at last. Tomorrow, we enter Erebor. Tomorrow, we kill Smaug."
The dwarves erupted into cheers, voices echoing against the broken walls.
Ben raised a hand and they stilled. His expression softened. "Now, even though Smaug is a formidable opponent, I want to make one thing clear: the only acceptable outcome for me is the one where we all survive. I've come to care for your grumpy old asses, and I'd be mighty displeased if you went and got yourselves pancaked under the claws of that lazy overgrown lizard."
Laughter rippled around the fire. Even Bilbo smiled, and Bard's lips twitched in a rare show of amusement.
"To that end," Ben continued, "we need to update our gear. While the Wind-slash swords, Gravity hammers, and Fire axes I gave you are excellent against goblins, orcs, and trolls—dragons sit at the very top of the food chain. They require something a bit more… robust."
The dwarves exchanged eager glances. Dwalin leaned forward, eyes glittering. "What have ye got in mind?"
Ben waved a hand. With a shimmer of magic, several heavy crates materialized from his storage ring. One by one, he opened them, and the firelight gleamed upon strange shapes and rune-carved metal.
"Behold," he said, gesturing grandly, "the Dragon-Slaying Arsenal. Months of work went into this."
Even Saruman edged closer, his aloofness forgotten.
Ben lifted the first device—a palm-sized, rune-etched disc. "Drakescourge Grenades. They'll stick to Smaug's scales with enchanted suction. But instead of blowing outward, they'll force a concussive shockwave inward—vibrations that pass through his armor and into his organs. His scales are nearly impenetrable, but shock trauma bypasses armor. Enough of these, and even a dragon can die from internal bleeding."
A murmur of approval rippled through the dwarves.
Next, he held up a crystal sphere carved with delicate runes. "Sonic Resonance Bombs. These are tuned to resonate with dragon bone density. When they detonate, they emit ultra-low vibrations that cause pain, disorientation, and can even fracture bone from within."
The dwarves grinned, feral anticipation lighting their faces.
Then Ben reached for the largest weapon. He pulled free a shoulder-fired contraption of polished steel and runed brass, its four circular barrels gleaming in the firelight. A switch labeled SALVO/SEMI gleamed faintly in the dark.
"Introducing," Ben said, hefting it with both hands, "the Arcane Missile Launcher. Think of it as a portable ballista—only far nastier."
From the crates, he drew a series of small, rune-tipped projectiles, each one capped with a differently colored warhead.
Bofur leaned forward, eyes wide. "And what in Durin's name are those?"
"Missiles," Ben replied. "They are like arrows that, once fired, will not stop until they hit their target. No matter how far the target runs, no matter how evasive it's being."
He held up one glowing icy blue. "This is the Frostbite missile. With a liquid nitrogen core, it will freeze whatever it strikes in an instant—slowing Smaug and making his scales brittle."
He pointed to another, capped in white. "The Thunderlance missile. Crystal capacitors at the tip will release high temperature focused lightning on impact—melting scales and disrupting his nervous system."
A third, yellow-tipped missile gleamed wickedly. "The Dragonpiercer. A rotating drill head at the tip made of enchanted tungsten carbide, hollow-cored with alchemic explosives. Upon impact, it will burrow through the scales, detonating inside the wound."
The last missile, red-tipped and faintly pulsing, Ben held carefully. "This one is the most dangerous of the lot. The Aetheric Implosion missile. Its core will invert gravity in a three-meter radius for a split second. Everything near the point of impact will collapse inward—crushed to pulp—before being released in a concussive blast. Use it with extreme caution."
Fíli frowned. "What's gravity?"
"Never mind that," Ben said dryly. "It's too complicated to explain right now. Just trust me—it's badnews for whatever it hits."
He tapped the launcher's switch. "Two modes. SEMI, which fires one missile at a time. SALVO, which unleashes everything in sequence."
The company stared, wide-eyed. Even Saruman could not mask the awe in his voice. "Weapons such as these have never been seen before in this world."
"They are dangerous indeed," Gandalf said gravely. "But perhaps dangerous is exactly what is required in this instance."
Dwalin let out a booming laugh and clapped Ben on the back hard enough to stagger him. "Now that's what I call preparation! Smaug won't even know what hit him before he draws his last breath!"
The dwarves cheered. Thorin's smile was sharp as steel, and even Bard's somber features softened with a flicker of hope.
Ben let their excitement build for a moment before raising his hand once more. "These weapons will give us an edge, a very strong one yes, but we can't rely on them alone. Smaug is one of the most powerful dragons on Middle-Earth, not to mention cunning. Our best bet is to catch him unawares... to take him out before he fully realises who or what he is up against. With that in mind, here's what I think we should do…"
His words faded into the crackle of the fire, the night air heavy with expectation.
---
The lower vaults of Erebor lay smothered in silence. Mountains of gold, jewel-studded goblets, ornate helms, and priceless weapons stretched into the shadows—treasures piled so high they formed ridges like dunes beneath the cavern's towering ceiling. From beneath that glimmering sea of wealth rose the sound of slow, deep breathing.
Smaug slept.
His colossal form lay hidden beneath the hoard, only the faint curve of a horn or the ridge of a scale visible between cascades of coin. Gold shifted with each rise and fall of his chest, clinking softly like wind chimes in a breeze. He looked less like a beast than a mountain within a mountain, wrapped in the spoils of kingdoms long dead.
Then the mountain shuddered.
A thunderous blast cracked the silence, reverberating down the stone arteries of Erebor. Smaug's eyes snapped open—two blazing furnaces spilling light into the vaults. The treasure heaped upon his back rippled and cascaded in glittering avalanches as his colossal form stirred.
He rose, shedding coin and crown alike. His wings, broad as city streets, unfurled with a rustling thunder. His head—the size of a bus, horned, and cruel—swayed back and forth, scenting the air. A low growl rippled from his chest.
"Who dares," he hissed, his voice rolling through the caverns, "to step foot into my mountain?"
Smaug launched himself forward, soaring across the vaults. His wings stirred cyclones of dust and treasure in his wake. He swept over the great forges, their titanic furnaces cold and empty, and finally entered the Great Hall of the Kings.
The chamber stretched for hundreds of feet, upheld by towering pillars carved with runes and crowned with banners long faded. It was a hall built for majesty, not ruin, but ruin was all it had known since Smaug's coming. And there, standing defiantly at its far end, was a single dwarf.
Smaug didn't even need to look closely. One sniff of the air, one flick of his forked tongue, and he knew. Oakenshield. The heir of Erebor, bold enough—or foolish enough—to stand alone before him.
He wore no gilded armor, only his under-armor and travel-worn clothes. Thror's Justice glowed faintly in his grip; the Shield of Thrain rested across his back like a silver-grey promise. Alone, a solitary ember of defiance in the cavernous dark.
The dragon chuckled, low and rumbling, his amusement echoing off the pillars like distant thunder. "Well, well," he purred, stalking forward on taloned feet that gouged the stone. "Look who decided to crawl back to his people's tomb. Come to die, Oakenshield?"
Thorin's eyes flashed. His voice rang against the walls, unshaken. "I'm here to take back what you stole, you fat slug."
Smaug's lips peeled back in a snarl that revealed fangs longer than spears. He prowled closer, each word punctuated by the thunder of his steps. "You will take nothing from me, dwarf. I burnt your city. I devoured your kin by the hundreds, laid low your warriors of old. I instilled terror in the hearts of men. I—" his wings spread wide, the faint morning light gleaming off gold "—am King under the Mountain."
With each boast, he closed the distance, towering ever closer.
But Thorin did not flinch. His eyes gleamed with a fury as old as his bloodline. "This is not your kingdom. These are dwarf lands, dwarf gold. And we—" he raised his voice, defiant "—will have our revenge!"
Smaug tilted his monstrous head, eyes narrowing to slits of molten gold. "We?"
Thorin raised his sword high, lightning crackling faintly along its blade. "Khazâd ai-mênu!" he roared, slamming Thrór's Justice down into the stone.
Sparks leapt from the blade, snaking across the floor in jagged streaks of light. Smaug watched them curiously, unconcerned. He felt their weak charge beneath his claws and scoffed. These sparks could never harm him. What intrigued him was the blade itself—clearly enchanted, but in a manner he had never witnessed before. Not dwarvish, elvish or made by the hands of Man. How had the exiled pauper come by such a thing?
Then the sparks reached the center of the hall.
From the floor, several rune-marked discs detached as if alive, whirring up and latching onto the tender scales of Smaug's underside. One, two, then a dozen clamped fast to his chest and belly.
The dragon's eyes widened. "What—?"
The word was torn from his throat as the world erupted in fireless fury.
A chain of concussive blasts thundered upward through his body, shockwaves bypassing even his thickest scales to hammer bone and organ alike. Pain like he had never known lanced through him, tearing a roar from his lungs that split the air like a storm, a sound so violent the very pillars trembled.
The trap had been sprung.
---
Thirty minutes earlier.
"You know," Ben muttered, gazing up at the looming green-marble gates of Erebor, "I really thought I was prepared for all this. But you dwarves—boy, you take craftsmanship to another level."
The company stood with him: the thirteen dwarves, Bilbo clutching his coat tight, Bard grim as ever, and behind them the tall forms of Gandalf and Saruman. The gates rose like a cliff face, flanked by statues of dwarves with axes held in eternal vigil. Once pristine, now scarred—a great portion battered inward by Smaug's first assault. The dragon had since sealed the breach with rubble, but not completely. A gap yawned forty feet up, enough for a man to slip through.
Ben drew a slow breath. "Alright, everyone. This is it. Moment of truth. Stick to the plan—and good luck."
Nods passed down the line.
Ben lifted his hands, murmuring quiet incantations. First, a shimmer of silence folded around them—Noise Cancelling. Then a wash of clean air, scrubbing away their scents—Scent Masking. Finally, their very presence dimmed like fading embers—Aura Concealment, strong enough he hoped to hide them from a dragon's gaze.
Then he cast the spell of Flight, his form lifting from the ground. He rose toward the jagged gap, wings of magic holding him steady, and landed softly. One by one, with careful gestures, he levitated the others up after him.
Inside, they descended into the entrance hall, moving like shadows. From his storage ring, Ben drew forth already-loaded Arcane Missile Launchers. He handed one to each member of their group, except Gandalf and Saruman, who kept their staves, although their eyes lingered on the arcane weaponry.
Ben also provided them all with enchanted goggles that would allow them to see clearly inside the dark confines of the mountain. This time Gandalf and Saruman also partook, the two old men looking comical wearing tactical goggles while dressed in long robes and rocking staves.
They advanced into the mountain. The vast corridors swallowed them whole, their footfalls silenced by enchantment. At last, they reached the Great Hall of the Kings.
While the others melted into the cover of colossal pillars, Ben strode forward. At the center of the hall he knelt, taking out several rune-etched Drakescourge Grenades. One by one he planted them against the floor, then whispered a camouflage charm until they blended seamlessly into the stone.
His work done, he sprinted back toward the front gates. There he turned to the rock barricade, thrust out his palm, and unleashed a thunderous Bombarda. The blast shook the mountain, ripping a jagged wound in the makeshift barricade, leaving a gap yawning wide.
Ben fled back to the hall. Thorin was already at the far end, waiting. They met eyes, exchanged a silent nod. Ben slipped into the shadows of a pillar. Thorin remained.
And as the mountain trembled with the approach of wings and fire, the trap awaited its prey.
---
Back in the present, Smaug writhed and bellowed, his roar filling the mountain like the wrath of the earth itself.
The battle for Erebor had begun.