When Radahn's soldiers drove bolts precisely into Orc eye sockets, the Redmane Legion's efficient and merciless slaughter began in earnest.
An Orc who had just reached for his shortsword had his head smashed like a bursting berry by Ogha's greatsword. Skull fragments and brain spattered into a brazier and coughed up a reek of black smoke.
The chaos lasted less than three minutes. When the final Orc was pinned to the rock wall by a spear, the barracks had become a mire of Orc flesh.
None of them had imagined an attack inside the Lonely Mountain. Unprepared, they were no match for the Redmanes.
Treading a floor slick with offal, Ogha crossed to the room's far exit, a stone-framed doorway faintly carved with Dwarven runes.
Had Thorin's company been present, they would have recognized the words at a glance. Durin Everbright.
From beyond the door came dense footfalls, the creak of other stone doors rising, and the sharp chatter of Orcs.
"Check wounds. Those lightly wounded carry the badly wounded back the way we came. The rest, with me. Upward."
Ogha's orders were simple. Only three men stepped out, lightly cut in the melee. Two had slashes on their arms. One had an injured ankle and, though reluctant, quit the line.
He had been surrounded by several Orcs at once, which worsened his wound.
Their injuries had been dressed. Antidotes for Orc toxins had been taken. Even so, the sting remained, and blood seeped through the white bandage.
The ankle-wounded soldier chose not to conceal it. He knew he would slow the line and force comrades to shield him. That would put them at greater risk.
He said nothing, and simply passed his Redmane flame pots, hand crossbow, and bolts to the nearest brothers.
The two with arm wounds did likewise, handing off gear before helping the ankle-wounded man withdraw.
Meanwhile, the clamor beyond the door sharpened.
Ogha produced a Redmane flame pot and spoke, calm and level. "Close ranks. Crossbows ready."
The line snapped tight. A heartbeat later, a hulking Orc slammed the stone door inward and cracked it open.
A bolt took him clean through the brow. He flipped backward with whitening eyes.
The opening was not wide, but wide enough for Ogha to lob a flame pot through.
He braced a shoulder against the gap to keep the door from being forced wider. Armor rasped sparks across stone.
Coarse breaths and jostling bodies thudded beyond. He counted roughly thirty Orcs jammed in the corridor.
He flicked the clay down the gap. It arced and shattered. An instant later a wave of red fire tongued back through the seam.
Screams and the stench of scorched meat bled through the stone. An Orc slapped at the flames climbing his body and only smeared the clinging fire up his arm. The limb carbonized into a black, brittle bough.
Before the flames could dim, Ogha yanked the door wide.
Crossbowmen, coiled and waiting, fired in the same breath. Dozens of bolts streaked out.
Orcs not killed by the blast blinked smoke-reddened eyes just in time for steel heads to sink into their brows. Shafts punched skulls and necks and nailed bodies to the rock in twitching heaps.
Farther down, those untouched tried to draw bows. The second volley bored into torsos and took their lives.
With the corridor mostly cleared, Ogha snapped, "Shield wall. Drive."
Crossbows slung, the shield-bearers surged. Two ranks of tower shields became an iron wall and rolled forward.
Two or three survivors crouched behind corpses and hurled whatever they could. Their missiles bounced off shield edges.
As the wall met them, spearpoints stabbed from the gaps, hooked clavicles, and ripped downward. Chests split open. Hearts burst.
"Forward."
In the throne hall, Azog lounged on the Dwarven king's seat. He jerked upright. His iron hook scraped the armrest.
An Orc scout staggered in and blurted, "Intruders on the lower levels. All men are…"
Azog rose with a grin, then sat back down slowly. "Men. Rotten fishmongers from Lake-town."
The scout shook his head. "I do not know. They wear red armor with lions on it. Their arrows curve as if they can bend."
Azog's single eye narrowed. He kicked the scout aside. "Useless filth. You cannot even recognize the elite who took Ravenhill and Dale."
The scout scrambled up and lay prone at the foot of the throne. He dared not speak further.
Only then did Azog grasp that the tunnels were not his alone.
He almost ordered the Olog-hai to massacre the intruders below. He swallowed the command.
No. These men can be used. The dragon will not dine like a king without paying a price.
He looked toward the hoard and smirked. "Send troops. Lure our guests to the dragon's chamber."
Ogha noticed the pattern after several clashes. The Orcs were not eager to engage. Each time the Redmanes moved toward a certain way, a mass of Orcs spilled out there, while fewer appeared elsewhere.
Deliberate channeling.
He cleft an Orc in two and glanced at a knot of creatures who ran only a short way, then peeked back to see whether the Redmanes followed. His sneer sharpened.
Where in the Mountain do you want us, Azog? Hard to guess, is it not?
A Redmane began, "Lord Ogha, these Or…"
Ogha raised a hand and cut him off. "Lord Radahn read it perfectly. Stay on them as planned."
"Yes."
In Smaug's lair, the dragon who had dozed atop his coin-mountain felt the incursion as well. Orc and Man squabbles did not interest him.
Dwarves would have been another matter.
The scuffle drew nearer. Even Smaug could not sleep through it.
He raised his head. Dangerous light entered his gaze. His voice came with an amused lilt. "Azog, you think I do not see through you."
At once the treasury door banged open. Chatting and jittery Orcs poured through.
Moments later, Ogha led the Redmanes in their wake.
Gold and gems rose in peaks to the dome. Every coin reflected the great dragon coiled upon the summit.
Centuries of Dwarven wealth blazed so fiercely it hurt the eyes.
Even Ogha and his hardened Redmanes were stunned for an instant.
The Orcs, having baited the Redmanes in, dove to hide, terrified of the dragon's gaze.
Ogha's purpose did not waver. He watched the black chest rise and fall and signaled the men to spread out.
Grouping before a dragon is the most foolish way to die.
Silent as cats, the Redmanes climbed the gold. Crossbows came up. Every quarrel leveled at Smaug.
The dragon chuckled.
He wanted words with the leader, to learn a name and bind a soul. "Little ant."
His throat's growl shook the coin-fall to a whispering rain. Dragon-tongue thickened the air to honey.
Ice-cold pressure probed Ogha's skull. Thoughts turned sluggish.
Kneel. Give thy name and be graced to lick the dragon's claw.
His temples hammered. The command thrummed in his mind and tugged his name to his tongue.
Inside his helm, his mouth twisted into a cold smile. He flashed the signal to attack.
Crossbow triggers snapped. Ogha drew his great Redmane bow to its full arc.
Bolts screamed. Smaug did not bother to move. Most glanced from the black scale with the clang of iron on iron.
Only Ogha's gravity arrows bit. Each burst into a purple vortex at contact and pried tiny cracks in three chest scales.
The pupils, golden and tall, narrowed to needles.
The last time he had felt pain was an age ago, when an uppity human lord struck him with bolts of wind.
Vermin.
Smaug's roar heaved the sea of gold. Redmanes clung behind coin-crests and fought not to be avalanched.
Ogha jammed his greatsword into a stone pillar and anchored himself. He spat out a coin and bellowed, "Second volley. Aim for the cracks."
Smaug's chest swelled. The air around him seemed sucked dry. A red glow flared in his maw. Fire fountained out.
Hotter than Ogha had reckoned.
The first breath burned near white. Gold liquefied in its path. Sapphires sublimed to smoke.
In seconds, the coin-hill that sheltered the Redmanes slumped from solid to molten. Two soldiers leapt with shields to buy time.
Their shields ran like iron in five seconds. Before a sound escaped their throats, dragonfire wrapped them. Their bodies powdered black before they hit the ground.
Their five seconds saved the rest. Every other man dove clear of the scything flame.
The second breath dimmed to dark red. It taunted them.
Smaug slowed his sweep and drew the breath across Ogha's ridge, savoring men swallowed by fire and the torment of flesh and soul.
Fortune turned. The breath swung across the places the Orcs had chosen to hide.
They bolted. Too late.
Smaug did not relent. He had no plan to spare these nap disturbers. Were it not for his pact with Sauron, he would have burned the pale Orc as well once he finished with these skittering gnats.
Orcs fleeing cover lit one by one and ran like torches in a tide of fire.
In the gap between breaths, Ogha saw the opening. It was the gold under Smaug.
While the dragon's gaze fixed on the screaming Orcs, Ogha drew and loosed three gravity arrows. He did not aim at Smaug. He aimed at the coin-pile beneath him.
They burrowed, detonated, and slumped the hoard. Smaug slipped and lost balance.
A century of sloth left him slow. For a heartbeat he forgot to spread his wings.
"Back the way we came."
Ogha seized the chance and roared the order.
The last Redmane had just hurled himself into the treasury passage when Smaug's next breath surged down it.
Listening to Orc screams reverberate through the tunnel, and feeling the Dwarven halls shudder around him, Ogha knew the unlucky Orcs were now the outlet for a very angry dragon.