hobbit

wildly up between the arms of the Mountain, seeking for the foe. Their banners were
countless, black and red, and they came on like a tide in fury and disorder.
It was a terrible battle. The most dreadful of all Bilbo's experiences, and the one which at
the time he hated most - which is to say it was the one he was most proud of, and most
fond of recalling long afterwards, although he was quite unimportant in it. Actually I must
say he put on his ring early in the business, and vanished from sight, if not from all
danger. A magic ring of that sort is not a complete protection in a goblin charge, nor
does it stop flying arrows and wild spears; but it does help in getting out of the way, and
it prevents your head from being specially chosen for a sweeping stroke by a goblin
swordsman.
The elves were the first to charge. Their hatred for the goblins is cold and bitter. Their
spears and swords shone in the gloom with a gleam of chill flame, so deadly was the
wrath of the hands that held them. As soon as the host of their enemies was dense in
the valley, they sent against it a shower of arrows, and each flickered as it fled as if with
stinging fire. Behind the arrows a thousand of their spearmen leapt down and charged.
The yells were deafening. The rocks were stained black with goblin blood. Just as the
goblins were recovering from the onslaught and the elf-charge was halted, there rosen
from across the valley a deep-throated roar. With cries of "Moria!" and "Dain, Dain!" the
dwarves of the Iron Hills plunged in, wielding their mattocks, upon the other side; and
beside them came the men of the Lake with long swords.
Panic came upon the Goblins; and even as they turned to meet this new attack, the
elves charged again with renewed numbers. Already many of the goblins were flying
back down the river to escape from the trap: and many of their own wolves were turning
upon them and rending the dead and the wounded. Victory seemed at hand, when a cry
rang out on the heights above.
Goblins had scaled the Mountain from the other side and already many were on the
slopes above the Gate, and others were streaming down recklessly, heedless of those
that fell screaming from cliff and precipice, to attack the spurs from above. Each of these
could be reached by paths that ran down from the main mass of the Mountain in the
centre; and the defenders had too few to bar the way for long. Victory now vanished
from hope. They had only stemmed the first onslaught of the black tide.
Day drew on. The goblins gathered again in the valley. There a host of Wargs came
ravening and with them came the bodyguard of Bolg, goblins of huge size with scimitars
of steel. Soon actual darkness was coming into a stormy sky; while still the great bats
swirled about the heads and ears of elves and men, or fastened vampire-like on the
stricken. Now Bard was fighting to defend the Eastern spur, and yet giving slowly back;
and the elf-lords were at bay about their king upon the southern arm, near to the watchpost
on Ravenhill.
Suddenly there was a great shout, and from the Gate came a trumpet call.
They had forgotten Thorin! Part of the wall, moved by levers, fell outward with a crash
into the pool. Out leapt the King under the Mountain, and his companions followed him.
Hood and cloak were gone; they were in shining armour, and red light leapt from their
eyes. In the gloom the great dwarf gleamed like gold in a dying fire.
Rocks were buried down from on high by the goblins above; but they held on leapt down
to the falls' foot, and rushed forward to battle. Wolf and rider fell or fled before them.
Thorin wielded his axe with mighty strokes, and nothing seemed to harm him.
"To me! To me! Elves and Men! To me! O my kinsfolk!" he cried, and his voice shook
like a horn in the valley.
Down, heedless of order, rushed all the dwarves of Dain to his help. Down too came
many of the Lake-men, for Bard could not restrain them; and out upon the other side
came many of the spearmen of the elves. Once again the goblins were stricken in the