"Scatter!"
"Kili! Shoot!"
Under the moonlight, on a mountain path far too narrow for comfort, Thorin Oakenshield screamed as a pack of Orcs surged toward them.
The distance was still significant, which meant the burden of defense fell to Kili. The young archer didn't hesitate, drawing his bow and letting fly in a rapid blur of movement.
Twang—whish—!
Kili's aim was true. In the blink of an eye, three Orcs were pinned to the rocks and a warg tumbled into the abyss. But it wasn't enough. Dozens more Orcs and their snarling mounts were closing in, their blades glinting in the cold light.
"Prepare for impact!" Thorin roared, his sword gripped tight. Bilbo Baggins stood at the back, his small Elven blade trembling in his hand, his mind a whirlwind of "why did I leave my armchair?"
BOOM!
Gandalf unleashed a blinding flare of white light, the magical shockwave shoving the Orcs back. But the Wizard's brow was slick with sweat. His "mana" wasn't infinite; he couldn't keep this up forever.
The gap between the two forces vanished. Steel met steel in a desperate, grinding melee. Even Gandalf was forced to draw Glamdring, his longsword singing as it cut through Orcish hide.
On the ridge above, Smaug watched the scene with a bored, clinical interest. He mused on the fact that without constant "miracles," this "Quest" would have ended in a ditch weeks ago. The protagonist's luck is a powerful thing, he thought, but tonight, I'm the luck.
The Dwarves were losing. Within thirty seconds, the superior numbers of the Orcs were pinning them against the rock face. Unless a miracle happened, they'd be vulture meat in minutes.
Smaug let out a long, theatrical sigh. "Oh, dear. Why must you noisy things disturb my slumber?"
The voice, deep and resonant as shifting tectonic plates, froze both sides in their tracks.
From the ledge above, a Small Stone Giant—barely ten meters tall—leaped down. He landed directly on a warg, crushing it into a rug.
"Ugly Orcs. I don't like them," Smaug rumbled, affecting a slow, dim-witted giant persona. He swept his massive rocky leg out, punting a cluster of Orcs off the path like they were pebbles.
He turned his gaze toward the Dwarves. "Stupid Dwarves. I don't like them either."
He raised his foot again, aiming for the Orcs. The remaining hunters were baffled. You don't like Dwarves? Then why are you kicking us?!
"Too much noise. Everyone dies," Smaug grunted, lumbering toward the Orc pack.
"Curse it! Retreat! Fall back!" the Orc captain shrieked. Faced with a living mountain, the pack broke and fled.
Smaug didn't let them go easily. He scooped up a massive boulder from the slope and hurled it. The rock struck the fleeing line, turning several Orcs and wargs into a dark smear on the mountain path.
He turned back to the Dwarves. Thorin, ever the defiant fool, raised Orcrist, ready to hack at the giant's shins.
"Thorin! Run!" Gandalf bellowed. The Wizard had already deduced that this "Giant" was just Smaug having a laugh. He knew that if they stayed, Smaug would escalate the "game."
Gandalf grabbed Bilbo and bolted down the path, the Dwarves following in a blind panic.
"What... what was that thing?" Bilbo wheezed as they put some distance between themselves and the fight.
"A Stone Giant," a Dwarf panted. "I thought they were myths!"
"Who cares if it's a myth? It's slow! Keep moving!" Gandalf urged.
Smaug watched them go. As a Stone Giant, he was indeed too slow to give chase. He waited until they were a mile away, then shifted into a Raven and flew ahead, looping around the mountain.
The Dwarves finally slowed down, their lungs burning.
"Enough... we're far enough," one of them gasped.
Thorin looked back. The path was empty. "We can't stop. We walk for ten minutes, then we double our pace! The Orcs might still be out there!"
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a rhythmic THUD—THUD—THUD echoed from the rocks behind them.
"I smell Dwarf-stink! I HATE DWARVES!" a new voice roared.
Smaug had manifested as a different, slightly larger Stone Giant just a few hundred yards behind them.
"Another one?!"
"Did we walk into a nest?"
"Why are we so unlucky?!"
Gandalf hid a groan. He knew exactly what was happening. "Don't talk! Run!"
Smaug repeated the trick twice more throughout the night, popping up in different "Giant" skins whenever the Company tried to rest. He didn't stop until the Dwarves were literally unable to stand, their legs feeling like lead.
Finally satisfied, Smaug shifted into his Raven form and glided down, settling gently on Bilbo's shoulder just as the Hobbit collapsed in exhaustion.
"Oh... you're back," Bilbo wheezed, his chest heaving. "Nice... to see... a friendly... face..."
Beside them, Gandalf leaned on his staff, looking at the "Raven" with a mix of amusement and sheer disbelief. The legendary Terror of the North... playing tag with Dwarves in the middle of the night.What happened to the majestic, fire-breathing nightmare of Erebor? Gandalf wondered. I think I liked the old Smaug better. At least he was predictable.