Two and a half days later.
Under Smaug's relentless psychological "guidance," Thorin Oakenshield and his company finally stumbled out of the suffocating gloom of the Mirkwood. They collapsed onto the riverbank, gasping as the actual sun hit their faces for the first time in an Age.
From their position, the spires of Thranduil's halls were visible, but not a single Dwarf had the energy to look. They were hollowed-out husks of men. For seventy-two hours, they had been chased by whispers, shadows, and that wretched, half-rotted monkey creature.
"I swear by the Seven Fathers!" one Dwarf wheezed, his face caked in dirt. "If I ever set foot in that forest again, just kill me and save the trouble!"
"I'm with you," another groaned. "I'd rather face an army of Orcs than another night in those trees."
Only Gandalf looked relatively composed, though his robes were stained and his eyes were weary. He took a long drag from his pipe. "Whatever the case, we have survived. Follow this river to its end, and you will find the Long Lake. Across those waters lies our destination: Erebor."
"Do we rest here, or push on?" the Wizard asked.
"Move!" Thorin barked, forcing himself to his feet with a groan of pure agony. "I want that forest at my back. We can rest on the water!"
Driven by a collective desire to be away from the shadows, the thirteen Dwarves and one very bedraggled Hobbit hobbled toward the lake.
By sunset, they reached a small pier. To their shock, a wide-bottomed boat sat tied to the dock, empty and ready for use.
"What luck!" Fili cried out, nearly falling into the hull in relief.
Gandalf watched them board with a faint, knowing smile. He didn't believe in luck—not this kind. He knew Smaug had visited Thranduil. He knew the dragon was "refining" the Company. This boat was a taxi service provided by the Terror of the North.
"Board the vessel," Thorin ordered. "We'll spend the night on the water. It's safer than the shore."
The lake was calm. As the moon rose, the party shared a meager meal of dried meat and lake water. One by one, they succumbed to a deep, dreamless exhaustion. Gandalf remained awake at the bow, watching the jagged, dark silhouette of the Lonely Mountain in the distance.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow the game ends. Or truly begins.
In the Lord's Manor of Dale, Smaug was currently occupying a chair on the terrace. He had shifted into a Small Tree-Ent, about the size of a man, and was casually puffing on a pipe. The sight was surreal—a walking tree breathing smoke into the night air.
Bard sat opposite him, looking exhausted. Over the months, he had grown accustomed to the dragon's presence, but he still lived in a state of permanent tension.
"The flavor of this leaf is quite remarkable," Smaug mused, exhaling a perfect smoke ring. "A tree smoking a tree. How meta."
"Why are you here, Smaug?" Bard asked, his voice flat.
"Why so serious, Bard? Don't you enjoy the new life? The grain is high, the people are fat, and the city is rebuilt."
"That has nothing to do with my question," Bard replied.
Smaug let out a wooden chuckle. "Fine. Business. I know about the Wind-lance you brought from Lake-town. I know it's hidden in your cellar. And I know you have a single Black Arrow tucked away like a precious secret."
Bard's heart didn't just skip a beat; it hammered against his ribs. He sat bolt upright, his pupils dilating. He wanted to reach for a blade, but he knew it was useless.
"Don't look so terrified," Smaug said, leaning back. "I understand perfectly. Every man needs a 'Plan B.' You need the hope that I can be killed. It keeps you sane."
"But tomorrow, your hope gets complicated. Tomorrow, Thorin Oakenshield, the Prince of the Line of Durin, will cross the lake and step onto these shores."
"At dawn, you will go to the water and greet them."
"And then, Lord Bard, you will have to make a choice. Do you join them? Do you hand over the Black Arrow and try to assassinate me to restore a Dwarven King who doesn't care if your children starve? Or do you value the life you've built here?"
"Think very carefully, Bard. This isn't a threat—it's a career advisory. If you choose the Arrow, there won't be a second chance for Dale."
Bard stared at the Tree-Ent, his mind a whirlwind of ancestral duty and modern survival. He glanced at the dragon's chest, even though this wooden form had no old wound.
"I understand," Bard whispered.
"Good. Thanks for the smoke," Smaug replied. He shifted back into an Eagle and took to the sky.
Smaug returned to his gold. He settled beside the large, translucent Ice Dragon Egg. It was pulsing now, a cold, blue light radiating from the shell. Faint cracks were beginning to web across the surface.
Any day now, Smaug thought, his eyes glinting. Welcome home, Thorin. I've got a real surprise waiting for you.