The campaign stretched across several days of methodical destruction.
Every tunnel, every hidden chamber, and every secret passage of Goblin-town received the army's thorough attention. The vast majority of the goblin population met their end on human steel, while only a scattered handful managed to flee northward into the wasteland. Some limped toward the distant fortress of Mount Gundabad; others vanished into the mountain peaks like smoke.
Regardless of where they sought refuge, one truth remained crystal clear. Their threat to the region had been broken forever. No longer would travelers on the mountain roads need to fear goblin raids or midnight ambushes.
Dale's combined forces had achieved something approaching the miraculous in their maiden campaign. Every metric of success had been not merely met, but shattered. Their deployment speed, tactical coordination, and sheer efficiency had rewritten the military records of Middle-earth.
All accomplished without a single mount among their ranks.
"Not one soul remained in those depths," Bard mused, watching soldiers emerge from the tunnels bearing chests overflowing with recovered treasures. His voice held a note of wonder that bordered on disbelief.
"I never suspected you possessed such tactical genius."
He studied Levi with new appreciation. "How did you memorize every twist and turn of those passages with such perfect clarity?"
"Natural talent, perhaps," Levi replied with shameless confidence. "Any path I've walked becomes etched in memory forever."
"Quite fortunately, I passed through this place once before. During the pursuit of the Goblin King, I spent considerable time wandering those underground mazes. The experience left quite an impression."
"Very well."
Bard accepted this explanation readily enough. People contained hidden depths, after all. View them from different angles, and entirely new facets might be revealed.
"What shall we do with this mountain of plunder?"
The question accompanied Bard's gesture toward the glittering hoard that now covered the main road. Precious metals, gems, jewelry, and artifacts of every description formed gleaming hills beneath the afternoon sun.
"Handle it however you see fit."
Levi wandered over to examine the nearest pile, fishing out an ornate silver serving platter. Elegant script along its rim proclaimed "Crafted in Rivendell."
"How would goblins possess such refined elven work? Did they dare raid Rivendell itself?"
The question provoked immediate silence from the nearby dwarves, who suddenly discovered urgent business elsewhere, whistling innocently while studying the sky with intense interest.
Thorin's jaw muscles twitched visibly.
"Ahem." His cough drew both men's attention with deliberate force.
"If you're amenable, I would like to purchase all the tableware, candlesticks, and decorative pieces bearing Rivendell's mark."
"Indeed?" Bard's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "What use does the Dwarf King of Erebor have for elven craftsmanship?"
"I intend to return them to the elves of Rivendell."
The declaration left Bard speechless for several heartbeats.
Did my ears deceive me? A dwarf voluntarily giving gifts to elves?
"How extraordinarily noble of you..."
He stepped forward and offered a formal bow. "Your magnanimity as a king among dwarves commands my deepest respect."
Thorin met his gaze steadily and accepted the praise without false modesty.
"Legitimately acquired..." one dwarf muttered under his breath, earning a swift kick from his companion.
The comment died immediately.
"Unnecessary," Levi interjected with a dismissive wave. "Since your heart moves in that direction, simply take what you wish. We have no shortage of such things, and your contribution to this campaign earned you whatever spoils you desire."
With Levi's permission secured, Thorin wheeled toward his kinsmen with an expression of granite severity.
"You can identify which pieces originated in Rivendell, I trust?"
"Begin searching. Now."
Several dwarves felt arctic wind suddenly blowing down their spines.
"Immediately, Your Majesty!"
They scattered like startled rabbits.
Young Gimli watched his uncles' frantic activity with profound confusion, scratching his bearded chin.
"Such learned dwarves, recognizing elven handicraft so readily."
Thorin's hand fell on the youngster's shoulder with paternal weight. "Remember always to be an honest dwarf, Gimli. Never claim what doesn't rightfully belong to you."
Though the context remained mysterious, receiving personal wisdom from his king set Gimli's heart soaring. He struck his chest in salute.
"I swear it upon my honor!"
The victorious army returned to a hero's welcome that shook both cities to their foundations.
Soldiers maintained disciplined formations as they marched through streets lined with cheering crowds. Flowers rained from windows while voices rose in celebration that echoed off the mountainsides.
This day witnessed unprecedented jubilation. From dawn until deep into the night, laughter and music filled every corner of Dale and Lake-town. Even dwarves descended from Erebor to join the festivities, turning the celebration into a festival that spanned cultures and races.
"They've returned?"
In Erebor's council chamber, Balin paused in his endless administrative duties as distant sounds of celebration penetrated the mountain halls. His head tilted like a hunting hound catching a scent.
Moments later, official documents scattered across the stone table as he surged to his feet and stormed toward the exit.
"Why did no one think to inform me?" he bellowed, his gray beard quivering with indignation.
While some celebrated, others contemplated darker implications.
Several hundred miles southeast of Minas Tirith, in the cursed city of Minas Morgul where the Nazgûl held dominion, the Witch-king gazed northward through shadows that seemed to writhe with malevolent life.
Through the eyes of his aerial spy, the reality was laid bare. A viaduct of impossible proportions stretched across the landscape, at least a hundred meters wide and suspended in defiance of earthly limitations. It hung in the sky like a bridge built by gods, bypassing every obstacle and potential chokepoint, connecting Lake-town directly to Goblin-town in the Misty Mountains.
That elite human army had utilized this obviously incomplete roadway to traverse vast distances in mere days. Such mobility represented a strategic revolution that sent ice through even his undead heart.
"My lord," an orc approached with visible terror, "latest intelligence confirms it. Goblin-town has ceased to exist."
"I witnessed its destruction myself."
The harsh voice emerged from within his armor like wind through a cemetery.
The Witch-king paced the length of his dark hall, radiating the restless energy of a caged predator. That incomplete road represented a threat beyond calculation.
Once finished, it would forge an unbreakable link between the eastern and western lands of the north. An iron wall that no army could breach, no strategy could circumvent.
Any hope of Angmar's resurrection would be severed permanently by this single stroke of engineering.
Such a construction demanded a response. Either destroy it utterly or seize control of it.
But...
The final images transmitted by his bat spy flashed through his consciousness. An arrow launched with impossible precision into cave depths. Most especially, the archer who had released it.
Either option seemed beyond reach.
Could they simply watch and do nothing?
Impossible.
If the eastern approach proved unassailable, perhaps the western front offered opportunities. Though Angmar had fallen long ago, scattered orcs and hill-men still haunted that blighted landscape. The Ettenmoors harbored substantial troll populations. Combined with the barrow-wights that stirred in ancient burial mounds, they might assemble some semblance of an army.
Yet that region teemed with hostile forces. Lindon, Rivendell, the Rangers, nearby human settlements, even the hobbits. Each would resist any move toward rebuilding Angmar's power.
The approach promised failure regardless of tactics employed.
While the Witch-king wrestled with these impossibilities, another shadow materialized within his stronghold.
A fellow Nazgûl bearer of dark tidings.
"Our Master perceives your thoughts."
The hollow voice carried absolute authority. "Make no rash moves. Remain hidden for now."
"I hear and obey."
Relief flooded through the Witch-king as the burden of decision lifted from his shoulders.
The pressure now rested squarely upon Sauron himself.
Beneath Mordor's poisoned earth, flames danced higher as the Dark Lord contemplated this new chess piece that had appeared upon his board.
"What manner of creature is this?"
In the desolate wasteland east of the Misty Mountains, west of Mirkwood's shadow, uncomfortably close to Dol Guldur's malign influence, Gandalf the Grey reined in his horse and studied a peculiar figure moving across the barren landscape.
His eyes narrowed as he focused on the distinctly unsettling creature that scuttled across the earth on all fours.
"Some manner of being I've never encountered before."
After several minutes of observation, he shook his head and urged his mount forward.
"Doubtless nothing that concerns me."