In LOTR with Harry Potter system

Hearing the Orc's answer, Gandalf and Sylas exchanged a look.

The news had caught them both off guard.

They had expected scattered Orc retaliation after Azog's death, but for his son, Bolg, to rise to power so swiftly, and take full command of his father's forces was alarming.

The Orcs were not known for dynastic succession. Leadership passed not through blood, but strength. If Bolg had seized command so quickly, it meant his power was at least equal to Azog's, if not greater.

Sylas narrowed his eyes. "Did Bolg send you to hunt us personally? Is he trying to avenge his father?"

The Orc nodded without hesitation.

"Partially. Bolg is furious over Azog's death. He has placed bounties on the heads of both Thorin Oakenshield and the Black-Robed Wizard."

Sylas gave a humorless smile. "So I'm famous now."

Gandalf frowned, his thoughts racing. "I understand placing a price on Sylas. He killed Azog. But why Thorin?"

The Orc's gaze remained blank under the Imperius Curse.

"Because Bolg does not want Thorin to become the King Under the Mountain. He plans to take the Lonely Mountain for himself. From there, he will open a path through the North, into the ruins of Angmar. Once that is secure, the Orcs will bypass the Misty Mountains and strike directly west."

Gandalf's expression darkened with alarm.

"Why would Bolg believe he could take Erebor?" he asked slowly. "Surely he knows a dragon still sleeps beneath the mountain?"

Then a more dreadful thought crossed his mind.

"Unless… he's made a deal with the dragon?"

The Orc leader responded without pause.

"Yes. The dragon has awakened. Bolg has already reached an agreement with him. If Thorin and the Dwarves are stopped from reclaiming the mountain, the dragon will allow Bolg's forces to enter the North and retake Angmar."

Gandalf staggered back a step.

Smaug was awake.

The implications struck him like a thunderclap.

"No… this cannot happen. If Thorin reaches Erebor now, it will be a suicide mission."

Sylas remained silent, troubled.

This wasn't how events were meant to unfold.

He remembered clearly hat Smaug had never allied with Orcs. The dragon was proud, arrogant, and solitary. But now, because of Azog's premature death, the timeline had fractured. Bolg and Smaug had formed an alliance far earlier than expected.

And that changed everything.

Sylas glanced at Gandalf, who was already preparing to move. The wizard's concern was plain.

But Sylas hesitated.

He knew Thorin.

That Dwarf's heart burned with obsession. The Lonely Mountain had become more than a goal to him, it was a destiny, a curse, a crown he could never walk away from. Even if they told him Smaug was awake, Thorin would not turn back.

"Gandalf, there's still time before Durin's Day," Sylas said calmly. "We should be able to catch up to them in Lake-town. Let's settle things with this Orc first."

Gandalf gave a small nod, then turned his attention back to the captive.

The two continued to question the Orc Leader thoroughly, pressing for every detail about Bolg's forces, their movements, allies, and tactics. When it was clear the creature knew no more, Gandalf finally stepped back and drew his sword.

"That's all I need to know," he said. "Sylas, do you have anything else to ask? If not, we should dispose of him and head for Lake-town at once."

But Sylas reached out, halting Gandalf with a gentle gesture. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Not yet. He's still useful."

Gandalf blinked, confused. "Useful?"

"He's still under the Imperius Curse," Sylas explained. "That means he'll follow only my commands. We're going to release him, but not to escape."

Gandalf narrowed his eyes slightly.

Sylas continued. "He'll return to Bolg's ranks and stay close. And from there, he'll feed us information. If the opportunity arises… he could even strike Bolg down when his guard is lowered."

Gandalf's eyes lit up at the idea, but he quickly frowned again. "But what if he breaks free? Or Bolg senses something is wrong? If this goes wrong, we may tip our hand too early."

Sylas remained confident.

"Imperio has no direct counter-curse. Unless the target has a particularly strong will, or they're exposed to someone with greater magical force, like Sauron himself, the spell won't break. More importantly, unless someone is looking for it, it's nearly impossible to detect."

After a brief silence, Gandalf slowly sheathed his sword.

"Very well. But we must watch carefully. If anything seems off, we cut the connection."

Sylas nodded. "Agreed."

He turned to the Orc and gave new commands in a flat tone. "Return to Bolg's side. Remain hidden. Report back to me when ordered. If the chance arises, and Bolg is vulnerable, eliminate him."

The Orc nodded slowly, his face blank, and then shuffled away into the forest, soon disappearing into the mist.

Sylas and Gandalf returned to their small wooden boat and resumed their journey, slipping across the surface of Long Lake beneath the grey morning haze.

The water was still, save for the ripples around their boat. Mist drifted along the surface, thin and ghostly, hiding the distant outlines of the island ahead.

Guided by Sylas's wand, which emitted a faint glow to point the way, they rowed in silence.

At last, the shrouded silhouette of Lake-town appeared before them.

Built on wooden stilts and linked by piers and boardwalks, the town sat atop the lake like a spider's web of timber and smoke. The buildings were dark and damp, many of them sagging slightly, patched by age and lake rot. Boats drifted lazily through narrow water-channels between homes.

Most of the townsfolk lived by fishing or trading. The wealthier residents, who controlled the commerce between Lake-town and the Woodland Realm, rarely mingled with the common people. Chief among them was the Master of Lake-town, a merchant more politician than leader.

Sylas and Gandalf steered their small vessel toward the main dock, only to be stopped before they could pass.

"Hold there!"

A sharp voice rang out from the wooden port house. A middle-aged man with a stained brown coat and a patched hat stepped forward, eyeing them warily.

"State your names," he demanded, arms folded across his chest. "What's your business here?"

Sylas glanced at Gandalf.

It was his turn to handle the introductions.

"Good evening," Gandalf said with a warm smile. "We're travelers from the West. We hope to rest here for a few days."

The man in the patched coat eyed them both suspiciously, his arms still crossed.

"Travelers, huh? Got any documents? Any goods for trade?"

Gandalf spread his hands, his robe sleeves fluttering.

"None. Just a boat and a bit of curiosity."

The man gave the small wooden boat behind them a glance, then squinted. Nothing valuable was visible onboard.

"No goods means no customs declaration," he muttered, relaxing slightly. "But docking still costs a fee."

"How much?" Gandalf asked.

"One silver coin."

Gandalf looked helplessly at Sylas. Being a wizard, and not one prone to carrying a purse, he didn't even bother checking his pockets.

Sylas smirked slightly and reached into his belt pouch. Without hesitation, he flipped two silver coins toward the man.

The coins flew through the air with a clink, and the dock official caught them with practiced ease. His eyes widened slightly at the extra coin. His tone shifted immediately.

"Anything else I can do for you gentlemen?"

"We're looking for someone," Sylas said. "Have any strangers arrived before us?"

The man didn't even pause. For the price of a silver coin, he was more than happy to speak.

"Just before you came, a group of Dwarves arrived by barrel. Caused quite a stir. The town guards took them to Bard's home near the eastern quay. Not sure what business they have, but I reckon that's what you're after, eh?"

Gandalf and Sylas exchanged a glance.

They had found them at last.

"Thank you," Gandalf said. "That's exactly what we needed."

The man gave them a small salute and stepped aside. With a creak, the dock gate opened, allowing them to steer their boat into the mist-shrouded canals of Lake-town.

—

Meanwhile, in a quiet house on the eastern edge of town, tension filled Bard's home.

The Dwarves were gathered anxiously around Kíli, who lay pale and sweating on a straw bed.

His leg had been struck by a Morgul arrow. Though the shaft had been removed quickly, the black magic had already seeped into his blood. His breathing was shallow, and the color had drained from his face.

Only his Dwarvish constitution kept him from succumbing outright.

An ordinary man would have died hours ago.

Luckily, help had come from an unexpected source.

Tauriel, the Wood Elf who had been tracking the Dwarves through the woods, had arrived not long after them. Seeing Kíli's condition, she immediately recognized the effects of Morgul poison. With steady hands, she had crushed athelas, King's Foil, and used its healing properties to slow the spread of the darkness.

Now, Kíli rested, his breathing steadier, though the danger had not entirely passed.

Around him, the Dwarves spoke in hushed tones.

"We'll need new weapons before we leave," said Dwalin, his voice like a growl. "The Elves took everything."

"Weapons are one thing," Thorin replied. "But we need allies in this town. And gold to buy their silence."

Their murmurs were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Everyone stiffened.

Bard stood up, hand drifting toward the small blade at his side. He stepped forward, quietly opening the door.

Outside stood a familiar figure in grey, his eyes twinkling beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

And beside him, the black-robed wizard with sharp eyes and a silent smile.

"It seems," Gandalf said lightly, "we've arrived just in time."

"Gandalf!" Bilbo cried in delight.

"Sylas!"

The Dwarves followed quickly, surprised and overjoyed.