Shrill sounds of bone and metal began to echo, clashing in a twisted, grotesque melody that spread through the entire underground city. On one of the platforms, a goblin band blew into hollow horns and beat on crude drums, producing a noise as chaotic as it was unsettling. To the goblins, this was music; to everyone else, it only deepened the sense of being trapped in a nightmare.
The company was herded onto a great bridge, the main one leading to their destination. As they advanced, a thunderous chant grew clearer—harsh and grating, unpleasant in both its lyrics and the guttural voice that carried it.
The bridge led them to a massive circular platform, so vast it could hold not just the company, but dozens more besides. Miquella noticed it at once: it resembled nothing from the movie he remembered, though by now he was no longer surprised. Everything here felt different—raw… terrifying.
Around the edge of the platform, equidistant from one another, stood hulking goblins, far taller than the average. Their torsos and heads were clad in the best their kind could wrench from rust and ruin: jagged scraps of armor, poorly patched mail, warped shields. They brandished long spears and held their formation rigidly, acting as a royal guard.
And there, at the far end, leaning against a colossal stalagmite that served as a central pillar, loomed a grotesque throne. Seated upon it was a monstrous goblin—enormous, grotesquely obese, with a sagging jowl and a scepter fashioned from a club topped with the skull of some beast. On his brow glimmered a makeshift crown, a crude mix of gold and carved bone.
With a cavernous, mocking voice, he sang the final verses:
"…Round and round, far underground,
Below, my lad!…
Down, down, down in Goblin-town!"
The grotesque Goblin King ended his song with relish, licking his lips as though he had just performed a masterpiece. His eyes lingered on his victims as they were herded before him. Armed to the teeth though they were, not for an instant did he appear intimidated.
"At last… my guests are here," he said, his tone dripping with mocking servility. "What did you think of my song? I composed it especially for you."
"That barely qualified as a song…" muttered a dwarf, unable to hold his tongue.
"Seems not everyone knows how to appreciate fine music," the king sneered, scratching at his jowls before slumping heavily back onto his throne. "Tell me… did you enjoy my little welcome party up above?" he added with malice.
At that moment, the company understood the truth: the earlier attack had not been chance, nor some unfortunate accident. It had been planned in advance… though the sudden arrival of the stone giants had clearly not been part of the Goblin King's designs.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" he jeered, basking in his arrogance. "What is it, wizard? Gandalf the Grey… Thorin, son of Thráin, king under the mountain—though with neither mountain nor kingdom. And the rest of you, strange and unknown guests… why don't you answer?"
"It was… quite the gesture," Gandalf replied, stepping forward with a cordial smile, as though they weren't discussing a deadly ambush. Yet while he spoke, his eyes never stopped moving, searching the chamber for possible escape routes. He knew this hall was nothing more than a tomb disguised as an audience chamber.
The Goblin King bellowed a low, revolting laugh, a sound like the grinding of wet stones.
"Hehehe… when I was told of your coming, I thought long and hard about how best to rid myself of you. Flaying you alive… beheading you… perhaps leaving you as feed for the rats…" he listed with delight, driving his scepter into the ground with a dull thud. Then he reached to the side of his throne, searching for something hidden in the shadows.
The dwarves and Elden tightened their grip on their weapons, knuckles white, ready to spring into a fight to the death at any instant. That the goblins had known of their arrival—and had prepared for it—was a dire omen. Even Gandalf straightened, holding his staff firmly: he was ready to unleash the plan he had kept in reserve. He meant to conjure a blinding flash of light, like the sun itself, feared and loathed by goblins, and use those precious seconds of confusion to break through and escape.
"There are those who want you dead… and if my master demands blood, it is my duty to give it to him…" growled the Goblin King. In his hand, now raised, he brandished a massive log, more than two meters long and as thick as a man's neck. Near one end, a cracked iron band was set into the wood, glowing with red fissures as though live embers burned within. The goblin smacked the weapon against his open palm, like an executioner displaying his tool.
"Well, all I can say is…" began Gandalf, raising his staff decisively.
But before he could unleash his light, the Goblin King moved with unnatural speed, as though he had foreseen it. The log descended like a thunderbolt. Gandalf barely managed to raise his staff, confident as ever that he could repel the blow, perhaps even turn it to the confusion they so desperately needed.
The impact came.
*swoooosh*
Reality shattered in an instant. All eyes widened in horror as Gandalf's body was flung like a cannonball, crashing through the ranks of eldens and dwarves, even bowling over goblins along the way, before vanishing into the darkness beyond.
Every head turned back to the Goblin King, who now stroked the glowing band on his weapon with cruel delight.
"A marvelous gift…" he purred. "Now… who's next?"
His guards—towering goblins clad in the finest scraps their kind could steal or forge—lowered their spears in unison. The company was surrounded.
Fear coiled like venom in every heart… yet none among them was a coward.
"Everyone—attack!!" Thorin roared, pouring the full strength of his lungs into the battle cry, hoping to ignite the courage of his companions.
"AAAAAAHHHHH!!" came the answering roar, voices of dwarves and Elden alike, a war-cry that shook the platform, filled with rage and desperation.
"Upon them!" the Goblin King commanded, pointing at them with scorn. His warriors surged forward like a dark tide.
The goblins, awaiting only that order, hurled themselves in a frenzy, a black wave threatening to consume the small company. They were hundreds against scarcely twenty. Just before the clash, Miquella—who had remained hidden, focusing his power—was lifted by Leda. With hands raised high, he released a burst of golden light that filled the cavern.
*Goblin screams*
Indeed, Miquella had conceived the very same plan as Gandalf. Yet unlike the wizard, he had the perfect moment, sheltered from attack, and was able to channel the full power he needed.
Darkness was torn apart by that solar blaze. Goblins shrieked, ripping off helmets, stumbling over each other like blinded beasts. Some, in their confusion, toppled from bridges and platforms into the abyss. Only a few endured: the royal guards, shielded by their helms, and the Goblin King himself, who merely blinked before rising with a furious roar.
"Another mage… you are mine!" he bellowed, wielding both scepter and club as he charged like a runaway beast.
The entire platform trembled beneath his steps. A mountain of flesh and rage, moving with impossible speed. The loyal Elden threw themselves in his path to shield their lord, but with a single sweep of the club he flung them aside like rag dolls, battered by a force no less terrifying than the blow that had felled Gandalf.
Miquella could scarcely believe it: this was nothing like the grotesque buffoon from the movie. This was a real enemy—terrifying, relentless—and his power was far more than brute strength.
The Goblin King raised his club high, aiming to crush him. Miquella conjured a golden shield around himself, pouring every last drop of energy into it. The blow thundered like a storm. The barrier cracked at once, collapsing dangerously close to his body, on the verge of shattering.
He felt it in his bones: this was no mere muscle. A darker, burning force infused every strike, pushing the Goblin King beyond natural limits.
The monster did not relent. Seeing the shield falter, he swung again, this time in a brutal horizontal arc, as though to bat Miquella against the cavern wall.
"I can't withstand another like that…" the demigod muttered through clenched teeth, watching as the blow came with no pause.
The club drew back. It was coming in low and wide, aiming to smash him sideways. At that instant, Miquella whistled through his ring and leapt desperately.
The weapon was rushing toward his waist when, between his legs, Torrente appeared. The steed emerged from the very air, landing lightly, placing his hooves upon the club just long enough to spring into a second leap that carried both horse and rider high above the Goblin King.
Mounted once more, Miquella let out a sigh of relief—saved by a breath. With what little power remained, he unleashed a second solar flash, weaker but enough to blind the horde again. Then he spurred Torrente, who bounded from platform to platform in their desperate escape.
"You won't escape me, little weasel!" the Goblin King roared, regaining his sight in barely a blink. Against all reason, he hurled his massive body after them with shocking agility.
He leapt a monstrous distance, landing on the upper walkways, which quaked beneath his weight but held. It made no sense… and yet it was happening.
But there was no time to marvel at the aberration's abilities. The dwarves and Elden cut down goblins as they advanced across the wooden bridges, keeping close to Miquella's path, determined not to be separated. In this cursed cavern, division meant certain death.
Miquella could not fathom why this place was so different, why everything defied his expectations. He had no choice but to press on, using Torrente's speed to flee, hurling spells at the Goblin King to slow his pursuit as much as possible. Torrente was swift, but the goblins had the advantage of terrain—they knew these paths too well.
The unlucky demigod soon found himself running in circles, both lost in the labyrinth and hemmed in by the endless hordes. As his strength waned, he began casting spells on the goblins themselves, slaughtering them and draining their lifeforce through his ring to sustain his power. Fortunately, it was working; without it, his fate would have been sealed.