The Dark Lord Sauron's power had grown significantly, yet he was still not strong enough to manifest the Nazgûl. Had he been able to field the Nine, finding the One Ring would have been simple; the resonance between their rings and his soul-fragment would have acted like a beacon.
Lacking his Wraiths, Sauron relied on the physical. Azog received his orders and did not linger. He mounted his pale warg and bolted toward Mordor to retrieve the gold shipment. Simultaneously, the spirit-shadow of Sauron retreated into the East.
The ruins of Dol Guldur fell into a heavy, watchful silence.
On the road to the North, the tension within Thorin's Company had reached a fever pitch. Knowing a pack of Orcs was breathing down their necks, Gandalf pushed them relentlessly. They changed course, zig-zagging through the foothills, desperate to shake the pursuit.
It wasn't working.
Gandalf knew why. The scent of Dwarves was pungent and persistent; the wargs could follow it through a gale. He also understood the strange behavior of their pursuers—why they tracked but did not strike. The order had come from Azog the Defiler. The Orc wanted the glory of the kill for himself. He was coming, and when he arrived, he would bring a slaughter.
"Gandalf, stop!" Thorin Oakenshield barked, skidding to a halt. His face was flushed with exertion and rage. "At this rate, we'll be too exhausted to lift our axes when they finally close in. I say we turn and end them now!"
Gandalf looked at the prince. He had considered the same thing, but the numbers were against them. A frontal assault on open ground was suicide—a lesson they had barely survived near Rivendell.
"Keep moving for now," Gandalf ordered, his voice grave. "We need more than just courage; we need an advantage."
He looked toward a jagged peak rising to their left. "We head up. If we can find a narrow pass or a steep ridge, we can turn the terrain into our weapon. We ambush them there."
Thorin didn't argue. The party adjusted their course once more, scrambling up the rocky slopes.
Fangorn Forest
Under a brilliant morning sun, the ancient Fangorn Forest—peaceful for thousands of years—received a visitor.
Smaug, in his Eagle form, glided over the canopy before settling on a branch. He shifted into a Squirrel and began his search.
Finding an Ent was no easy feat. Like the Stone Giants, they were masters of stillness, often sleeping for centuries until they became indistinguishable from the trees they herded. Smaug spent ten hours darting through the mossy depths before his patience was rewarded.
He didn't find an Ent first; he found the White Wizard, Saruman.
Smaug watched from a nearby oak as Saruman, leaning on his black staff, approached a particularly ancient-looking tree. The Wizard offered a polite, practiced smile. "My old friend. It has been some time. I trust the forest is well?"
The "tree" groaned. Its canopy tilted downward, two large, liquid eyes opening within the bark. "Oh, Saruman. All is... well... mostly."
The two engaged in a slow, meandering conversation. Smaug remained perfectly still, a silent observer. Eventually, Saruman bid the Ent farewell and began the trek back to his tower of Orthanc.
Once the Wizard was out of sight, Smaug scurried through the branches and landed directly on the Ent's massive, mossy shoulder. The Ent didn't flinch; he was used to the small creatures of the wood.
"A pleasure to meet you," Smaug said politely.
The Ent's head creaked as he turned to look at the squirrel. "Hoom... a squirrel that speaks the tongue of Men. That is a rare thing indeed."
His voice was like the low vibration of a cello, calm and ancient.
"I am not truly a squirrel," Smaug replied. "My name is Smaug. Perhaps the name rings a bell?"
The Ent paused, his brow (which was a thick layer of lichen) furrowing. "I... think I have heard it... and yet... I think I have not. Perhaps I have simply forgotten."
He began to walk, his massive roots pulling out of the earth with a rhythmic thud. Smaug stayed perched on his shoulder. "And what is your name, Master Tree?"
"My name..." the Ent mused. "I have forgotten much of it... but most call me Treebeard. I am the oldest thing here."
Smaug felt a spark of triumph. Treebeard! The Shepherd of the Trees himself. He was lucky—or perhaps it wasn't luck at all. Saruman wouldn't waste his breath on a lesser Ent. He would only "consult" with the leader.
"It is a great honor, Master Treebeard," Smaug said.
"I am no master. I simply live here," Treebeard corrected him. He paused, looking back at his guest. "You said you are no squirrel. What are you, then?"
Smaug considered his options. Treebeard had lived through the First Age. He had seen the Great War. He knew what a dragon was. If Smaug lied now, he'd lose all credibility later.
"I am a Dragon," Smaug stated.
Treebeard stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his creaky neck, peering intensely at the small, furry creature on his shoulder. "A dragon?"
"Yes. A Dragon."
Treebeard was silent for a long time, his ancient eyes searching the squirrel's face. Finally, he spoke, his voice a low, skeptical rumble.
"I... remember... dragons. They... do... not... look... like... that."