Deep within the shadows of Dol Guldur, where the sun never truly penetrates the gloom.
"Tell Azog to come before me at once," Sauron commanded from within the swirling black mist. His voice brooked no argument.
Within moments, a squad of Orcs on warg-back tore out of the fortress gates, racing toward the scent of the Defiler.
Under the setting sun, Gandalf and the Dwarves found a small clearing to set up camp. As night fell, not far behind them, Azog the Defiler sat atop his pale warg, sniffing the air with a predatory intensity.
"We are close. I can smell their filth," Azog growled to his hunters. "Do not slow down! After them!"
He pointed his mace toward the Southeast—directly at the flickers of Gandalf's campfire.
By the middle of the night, Azog reached a high ridge overlooking the valley. He spotted the dying embers of the fire and bared his teeth in a jagged grin. "Found you. There is no escape."
His hatred for the Line of Durin burned hot, and he was ready to strike immediately. However, looking back at his pack, he saw that the wargs were foaming at the mouth and his Orcs were swaying with exhaustion. Realizing a forced march would leave them too weak for a proper slaughter, he held up a hand.
"The Dwarves are found. Rest here. At dawn, we take their heads!"
Dawn broke, the golden sun spilling across the hills. Gandalf's party, blissfully unaware of the blade at their throats, began a leisurely breakfast. Meanwhile, Azog's pack, refreshed by sleep, began their final push.
At this rate, the Defiler would catch them in two days.
By the evening of the third day, Azog was only hours away from the kill. But fate, or rather, the Dark Lord, intervened. The messengers from Dol Guldur arrived.
"Azog! The King commands your immediate return!" the lead Orc shouted.
Azog was livid. The Dwarves were right there. He could almost hear their breathing. "The King wants what? I have them! I am about to end the Line of Durin!"
"I do not know the reason," the messenger replied. "The King only said: Return now."
Azog stood in a silent, murderous rage, his chest heaving. He looked toward the Dwarven camp, then toward the dark spire of Dol Guldur. He couldn't defy Sauron. Not yet.
"Continue the hunt!" he bellowed at his subordinates. "But do not kill them! If a single head is taken before I return, I will flay you all! Stay back, keep the distance, and watch them!"
With a snarl of frustration, he wheeled his pale warg around and bolted back toward the South.
The summer heat was oppressive, but out in the Wild, the mountain winds provided some relief. Gandalf's party continued their journey on foot—a slow, methodical pace that only a Dwarf would call a "quest."
Bilbo Baggins was suffering. He had no shoes, and the heat of the rocks was making his feet ache. He was drenched in sweat, gasping for air, and his mind was a carousel of memories of Bag End.
Bag End... where it's always spring. Where the pantry is full of fresh greens and the beds are soft.
A voice in the back of his mind told him he had gone far enough. That he should turn back. What was the point of a mountain?
"Gandalf," Bilbo wheezed, catching up to the Wizard. "How much further to the Mountain?"
Gandalf, puffing on his pipe, looked down at the Hobbit. "At this pace? Two or three months, I should think."
"Tired, are we?" Gandalf asked with a gentle smile.
Bilbo wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded honestly.
"Hold on a little longer," Gandalf urged. "We've come so far. You wouldn't want to give up when the end is in sight, would you?"
Bilbo sighed. He considered the math. Two more months... the heat would fade soon as autumn approached. He could survive that. "Fine," he agreed.
Thorin, who had a habit of eavesdropping, let out a snort of derision. "If Master Baggins cannot handle the road, let him go home. He's a burden we don't need."
Gandalf's gaze sharpened. "Thorin, Bilbo is here by my invitation. Hold your tongue and keep walking."
Thorin glowered but said nothing.
As they walked, a Raven spiraled down from the clouds. Gandalf recognized the aura immediately. Smaug... what is he doing here?
The bird settled on Bilbo's shoulder. The Hobbit was delighted. "It's you! You found us again!"
Smaug-as-Raven nodded. Bilbo, his mood instantly lifted, pulled a piece of dried fruit from his pocket and offered it to the bird.
Gandalf watched the scene with a dry, internal chuckle. If Bilbo ever finds out he's feeding the Terror of the North like a pet parakeet, he'll never sleep again.
At midday, as the party rested, Gandalf stepped away to a private grove and signaled the bird. He cast a quick spell of silence to keep Thorin from listening in.
"Exalted Smaug," Gandalf said, his tone respectful. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your company? I trust you aren't here to harass Thorin again?"
"Good to see you, Gandalf," Smaug replied with a caw-like laugh. "Don't worry. I'm just passing through. I saw you lot and decided to drop in. I'm on a business trip."
"I see. Safe travels, then," Gandalf said, relieved.
"Hah! Don't be so quick to shoo me away. I brought you a gift. Look toward the ridge to the North. There's a pack of dozens of Orcs tracking you."
"I've been watching them. It's odd—they've found you, but they aren't attacking. They're just following, keeping their distance. Almost as if they're waiting for something."
Gandalf's heart skipped a beat. He looked where the bird pointed but saw nothing. Yet, he knew Smaug's eyes were better than his. "My thanks for the warning."
"You're welcome. I have a long flight ahead of me, so I'll be off. But first, I have to say goodbye to the Hobbit."
"I visited Bag End before I first met you lot. It's a lovely place. Bilbo is a good soul, Gandalf. See that you protect him."
"I will," Gandalf promised, slightly surprised by the dragon's sentiment.
The Raven fluttered back to Bilbo for a brief farewell, then took to the sky, shifting into an Eagle and banking hard toward Isengard—or as Smaug liked to call it, "Asgard."
Smaug didn't like Saruman. The White Wizard was an arrogant "sand-shifter" who thought he was the smartest person in the room. Smaug looked forward to playing with him.
But the real goal was the Ents.
He wanted to move the tree-shepherds to the forest around Erebor. Thranduil was already planting the trees, but for the forest to be a true fortress, it needed guardians. And he knew exactly how to convince them.
The Entwives.
If he could find even one lead on the lost Entwives, the Ents would follow him to the ends of the earth.
...
Azog burst into the main hall of the ruin, his pale warg skidding to a halt. He stormed toward the black mist where the fire of Sauron flickered.
"I am here!" he bellowed. "I was a heartbeat away from the Dwarves' throats! What could be more important than their blood?"
The shadow of Sauron loomed over him. "The Dwarves will die in time, Azog. I have a more urgent task for you."
"I have felt my Ring. It has surfaced near the Lonely Mountain."
Azog's anger evaporated. He knew that the Ring was the key to Sauron's full resurrection.
"The Orcs in Mordor have excavated a massive haul of gold. I want you to take that gold to Erebor. Find Smaug. Buy his cooperation. I want information on the Ring's location."
"Once we have it, we take it back by any means necessary. If the dragon knows where it is, pay him whatever he asks. For now... we play the part of the ally."