Gandalf turned and vanished into the darkness of the ruins, his strides heavy with a new resolve.
Whether the stubborn Thorin Oakenshield liked it or not, the Company had to go to Rivendell. Without Lord Elrond to decipher the moon-runes on the map, they were marching toward a closed door. Gandalf's plan was simple: scout the path ahead and find a way to "guide" the Dwarves into the Elven valley by morning, perhaps with a little help from the Orcs he knew were nearby.
Keith, perched as a raven on a high stone arch, watched the Wizard leave. He didn't follow. He had much more interest in the thirteen Dwarves left behind.
He circled the camp and settled onto a branch of a nearby tree. He knew this part of the tale well. He knew that despite Thorin's current bluster about "never accepting Elven help," the prince would sing a different tune when a pack of Wargs was snapping at his heels.
Keith waited as night fell. The Dwarves gathered around the fire, their bellies full of travel-rations and their spirits buoyed by ale. A Dwarf without ale, after all, was a Dwarf without a soul.
Seeing the moment was right, Keith flapped his wings and glided down, landing softly upon the shoulder of Bilbo Baggins.
Since leaving the Shire, Bilbo had felt like a ghost in his own adventure. Thorin treated him like a useless burden, and while the other twelve were kind enough, they followed their prince's lead. Bilbo sat alone, missing the warmth of his hearth.
"Oh! Where did you come from?" Bilbo gasped, startled by the weight on his shoulder.
"Ravens are spiritual creatures," Balin, the eldest Dwarf, remarked with a kind smile. "They don't often approach Men or Hobbits. It seems he's taken a liking to you, Master Baggins."
"Is that so?" Bilbo turned his head slightly to look at the bird. "Are you hungry, little one?"
Keith had barely eaten a proper meal in his avian form. He nodded his head solemnly.
"He understands me!" Bilbo whispered in awe. He tore off a piece of his travel bread and offered it to the raven's beak. Keith accepted it, and for a moment, the two shared a quiet, unlikely bond.
As the night wore on, Thorin ordered the brothers Fili and Kili to take the first watch. The rest of the Dwarves curled up in their bedrolls and were soon snoring. Gandalf was still absent, and the threat of Orcs loomed in the back of Bilbo's mind, but eventually, exhaustion claimed him too.
Keith hopped back to his tree. He looked down at the sleeping form of Thorin Oakenshield. He could, right now, descend and breathe a single gout of fire, ending the "reclamation of Erebor" before it truly began.
But where was the fun in that? Tomorrow, he intended to shapeshift into a Warg just to see the look on the "Prince's" face. With a silent, bird-like chuckle, Keith tucked his head under his wing and slept.
Under the cold light of the moon, Dol Guldur received an uninvited guest.
Radagast the Brown crept across the ancient bridge, his staff clutched in a trembling hand. The fortress was eerily silent, devoid of the orc-legions that would soon fill it, but the weight of its history was enough to freeze the blood.
Radagast moved slowly. Suddenly, a stone statue near the inner gate twitched.
The Wizard froze, a cold sweat breaking across his brow. He turned slowly. A spectral wraith—a shade of a long-dead king—surged from the stone, a short blade gleaming with a sickly light.
Radagast was a master of the wild, a shepherd of beasts, not a warrior of the line. He fumbled with his spells, barely managing to deflect the wraith's strikes. Eventually, the shade dissipated, leaving behind its weapon.
It was a blade that did not belong to this age.
Radagast's heart sank as he recognized the Morgul-blade. The situation was far worse than he had feared. He reached out to take the weapon, but a sudden surge of black mist erupted from the courtyard.
It was merely a fragment of shadow—Sauron did not fully manifest—but the sheer malice of it sent Radagast into a blind panic. The Brown Wizard didn't wait to see more; he turned and fled across the bridge, racing back to his rabbit-sled.
The black mist did not pursue.
In the darkness of Mordor, the mind of Sauron contemplated the intrusion. Was Radagast's arrival a coincidence? Or had the dragon already leaked the secret of the fortress?
He reasoned it was a coincidence. If Smaug had truly spoken, the White Council would have sent more than a bird-brained wizard on a sled. "I must move faster," the Shadow thought. The secret of Dol Guldur would not remain hidden much longer.
In the small hours of the morning, Fili and Kili heard a disturbance in the woods. They signaled to each other and crept toward the sound.
Keith heard it too. He opened his eyes and took to the air.
He found them quickly: three Trolls—Tom, Bert, and William—clumping around a massive fire. They were arguing over the taste of a horse they had just snatched from the Dwarves' picket line, entirely unaware of the dragon watching from above.
Keith circled back to the camp. He landed once more on Bilbo's shoulder and gave the Hobbit's neck a sharp, insistent peck.
Bilbo woke with a start. "What is it? Are you hungry again?"
Keith shook his head, frantically turning his beak toward the direction of the Troll-fire.
Bilbo didn't understand at first, but the raven's persistence was undeniable. "Is there something over there? Orcs?"
Keith shook his head.
"Not Orcs? Is it Gandalf?"
As a raven, Keith couldn't speak without breaking his cover. Explaining the concept of "Trolls" through pantomime was proving impossible. He simply took flight, hovering a few feet away and beckoning the Hobbit to follow.
Bilbo, heart hammering, followed. He first woke Balin, knowing the elder Dwarf would listen with a cool head.
Minutes later, the entire Company was awake, including a very irritated Thorin.
"The bird told me there's something out there," Bilbo whispered, pointing into the dark.
Thorin Oakenshield let out a dry, mocking laugh. "The bird? Did it speak to you, Master Hobbit? Did it give you its formal report in Westron?"