A shrill screech sent the people into a panicked mob. The Nazgul swooped over the city of Dale, killing the villagers. Archers scattered as the fellbeasts dove in for another shot at them. Yells and screams filled the air. Goblins flooded from the mountains, killing as they went. Trolls followed the goblins, battering people and buildings whenever they could. Before too long Dale had been reduced to a ruin, dead bodies scattered amongst the rubble.

Just beyond Dale, built into the mountain, lay Erebor. Dale had been the last defence of the Dwarven city, and the remaining villagers, and soldiers had retreated to find the Dwarves. Then they would make their stand.

"We can and will defeat this enemy, but we will need reinforcements, from our friends. Send a messenger to our Dwarven friends in the Iron Hills, there we may find aid." barked King Dain, trying to instil confidence in his downhearted troops. In truth, he did not believe they could conquer their foes, but Dwarven pride stopped him admitting it.

A huge crash was followed by the main gate of Erebor falling into the halls beyond. Trolls and goblins flooded through the gap. Dwarves stood their ground, and fought with whatever they could.