"The war has begun."
Radahn hovered in the air, arms folded across a mountain-like chest. Frost swirled in the downwash of his gravity field.
He dipped his head to Freyja. "Sound the horns and tell the people of Lake-town to stay indoors. Send word to Tarnes. Update him on everything here."
Freyja saluted with crisp respect and strode off.
Jerren watched her go, then spoke lightly to Radahn. "Just as you foresaw, my lord. Azog unleashed were-worms to strike from underground, and he chose Ravenhill, exactly as predicted."
Radahn's tone stayed even. "Once Ravenhill fell to us, Azog had no good options. We knew from the Dwarves that his beasts can tunnel under armies. Ravenhill's position is crucial. If I were him, I would retake it or destroy it."
He continued without haste. "But we hold more than Ravenhill. We hold Dale. Any commander with a working mind will conclude that the force that butchered that many Goblins is formidable. A direct assault would be costly even if he wins. Leveling Ravenhill to strip our eyes and put both sides back on equal footing becomes his second choice. Since the Dwarves warned of the worms, it is easy to deduce Azog's move once he learns Ravenhill is lost."
Jerren nodded, then asked, curious. "Suppose he thinks the same. What if he sends the worms to Dale instead of destroying Ravenhill?"
Radahn allowed a thin edge into his voice. "All the better. Tunnels go two ways. That is why Ogha stayed. If we want the dragon in the Mountain to step out and return the favor, we must pay it a visit with a proper gift."
Ravenhill.
The tremors sharpened. At first only fine sand trickled from cracks in the stone, the last grains in a failing hourglass.
Then the mountain groaned. Fissures split along the rock face as if struck by an invisible axe.
A were-worm's black carapace flashed through a fault. Sparks flared gold-red where shell scraped stone, scattering like fireflies in the dust.
The fortress became a hollowed giant's skeleton. Merlons toppled one after another. Shattered brick tumbled into the abyss. Each shiver of the ridge pried another seam apart.
The watchtower sheared away at the top. Stones boomed against the cliff as they fell, a dying giant's roar dwindling into echoes.
Wet gnawing rose from below. A dreadful maw broke the surface at last.
Teeth slick with slime bit into the foundation. Granite crumbled like brittle biscuits.
The cliff tilted, sloughed toward the chasm. Last beams shrieked as they snapped, the sound like rusted blades dragged across slate.
Dust rolled over all like a gray-yellow sea. Sunlight twisted to murk and fell in sallow threads across the boiling haze.
The culprits, two were-worms, burped, sated, and undulated back toward the Mountain.
Their retreat pulled loose more stone. Boulder after boulder thundered down, leaving terrain jagged and treacherous.
Only when the dust thinned on the wind, when a brittle calm returned, did a company of fire-red soldiers rise into view from a less-shaken ridge.
Ogha squinted at the utterly ruined ridge. His eyes narrowed toward the tunnel where stones still fell at intervals. "All right. Before the rockfall seals it, clear the mouth. Then we go in, as Lord Radahn planned. We jab the dragon right out of its blankets."
The Lonely Mountain, lower palace levels.
The were-worm tunnel was pitch dark and foul. Walls sweated old slime. The air carried a sour tang of bile and stone dust.
Ogha led at the point. The far end slanted upward. A stale reek seeped from that narrow throat.
The worms had passed not long before. The Orc host set to strike Thrain was already gone. Only the handlers remained. One Orc yawned, bored senseless.
When the worms went out, the handlers' hours were easy.
Their lax sprawl, weapons laid aside and eyes half-lidded, did not escape Ogha.
Behind him, the faint rattle of Redmane armor was swallowed by distant grinding in the maze of tunnels. The handlers heard nothing.
They had no idea a Golden Tree force lay under their noses.
Five Orcs in all.
Ogha memorized each position, then lifted one finger and waved behind without looking. Ten Redmane soldiers peeled off with short crossbows.
Faint clicks from winding strings, then ten bolts hissed out of the dark.
Steel punched through flesh. None managed a cry. Each target took two bolts, head or throat, and folded where he sat.
As the bodies thudded down, Ogha was already across the threshold with his squad.
Torchlight breathed across wreckage and ruin. Dwarf bones lay tossed in corners by careless hands, rings of scorched stone marking old campfires.
Boots avoided shards with care, out of respect for the dead and to keep silence.
Ogha motioned them on. He took a broad stair upward. The ascent was as quiet as smoke.
He had not expected what waited at the top. He eased the door with two fingers and was hit by the ripe stench of unwashed Orc bodies. Snores rolled like low drums.
A few unsleeping Orcs blinked, dumbfounded, staring at the Redmanes with empty surprise.
Ogha was not slow. The instant he understood he had opened a barracks, he flashed two hand signs and barked, clipped and hard, "Clear it."