Chapter 43 ~ The Affairs of Wizards IV

Preparations for the dragon’s rampage began immediately.  The people were warned of the danger and the most vulnerable were moved into the caverns.  The soldiers were put on alert, and the Dragon Watch stood ready to sound the alarm.  Great stores of provisions were gathered and packed into easily-accessible bundles to be quickly taken wherever they may be needed.  Everything was ready before Thorin and his Dwarves had even left the comforts of Esgaroth, as Thranduil learned from his spies.  The King under the Mountain had enjoyed the hospitality of the Master for a full fortnight before finally continuing his quest.  The delay was at once welcomed and resented; if they were to face a ruinous disaster, there was some feeling that it would be best to end the agony of suspense sooner rather than later.  Still, the news gave Thranduil some mirthless satisfaction as he imagined the expense the Master must have endured in the keeping of them.  

All was quiet for yet another fortnight, and some began to wonder if the dragon was alive at all.  It had been a considerable count of years since he had been seen.  Then strange flashes of light were observed on the slopes of Erebor in the deepest hours of the night, sending a new wave of grim expectation coursing through the capital.  The Dragon Watch hesitated to sound the alarm, but the King was called, and he observed the intermittent lights with them until dawn.  Nothing seemed to come of them, but the alert was not lessened.

“I want them to remain at the ready,” Thranduil was saying to Legolas as they returned into the caverns that evening.  They were both clad in the armored scales of the woodland scouts, armed for battle after a tense day spent organizing the army.  Thranduil wore Orcrist at his hip in the forlorn hope that the ancient blade which saw service against Balrogs could perhaps be effective against a dragon.  “Rotate them often, but I want everyone prepared to move at a moment’s notice.  This waiting is beginning to take its toll on everyone.”

“Yes, my lord,” Legolas replied.  “Would every three hours be sufficient?”

“Yes, quite,” Thranduil agreed.  “And see that they issue an extra half ration of wine.”  He slowed to a weary stop, the tread of his armored boots sounding uncharacteristically heavy in the corridor.  The servants were parading into the dining hall with the evening’s fare, and inside a harpist had begun to play a soothing melody.  Thranduil was indeed hungry, but neither of them was dressed appropriately, and the thought of shedding their arms and armor for a formal dinner seemed unnecessarily daunting.  He turned to Legolas with the ghost of a smile.  “Would you fancy supper in the open air?” he asked.

Legolas returned his smile with a knowing gleam in his eye.  “Perhaps somewhere with a view of the mountain?” he suggested.

Thranduil strode into the golden light of the hall and immediately commanded the attention of the entire room.  “Take all this,” he said, “and follow me.  We shall take our meal with the Night Watch.”  He turned to go, but paused to point out the harpist.  “You too.”

Darkness was already falling as the impromptu procession ascended the hill, for autumn was deepening.  The moon had not yet risen, but the sky was clear and the cold light of the stars illuminated their way.  All the Guardsmen assigned to the Dragon and Night Watches leapt to attention as both the King and the Prince unexpectedly appeared out of the gloom.

“As you were,” Thranduil bid them, putting them at ease.  “We bring no ill tidings, merely companionship and refreshment.”

Their grim demeanor lightened noticeably despite their renowned discipline, and a rumble of appreciation greeted the King’s laden entourage.  Thranduil threw more wood onto the modest fire and took his place on the uncut stones of his throne as the harpist again struck up his tune.  The servants lay down their platters and returned as they had come, leaving the King and his soldiers to their vigil.

Thranduil knew his Guardsmen had recently been required to expend a great deal of extra effort in the performance of their duties, and he was not sorry to share the bounties of his table with them as a timely reward.  A strong comradery existed among the King’s Guard, the most formidable soldiers in all the wood, a comradery the King himself shared as much as the difference in rank allowed.  He knew their names, their families, and certainly considered them friends.  They were bonded in spirit if not in blood, though it was no small thing to bleed together as often as they had.  

“Lancaeron, how fare your sons?” Thranduil asked as they lingered over their wine.  They had allowed the fire to fade into glowing embers to better acclimate their eyes to the darkness.  The Watch was still on duty after all.  “It has been some time since you have given me news of them.”

“The eldest has completed the apprenticeship you arranged with Anglos the smith, my lord,” Lancaeron answered proudly.  “He always was more a craftsman than a soldier.  The youngest, however, is still keen to join our number someday.”

“Tell him to apply himself well,” Thranduil said, “and that I await word of his progress.”  He turned to another of his favorites.  “Neldorín, I understand your son is no longer a babe in arms.  Where are his interests inclined?” 

“Until now, he has most aspired to be you, my lord,” Neldorín laughed.  “Now, as a child of twenty, he is beginning to have more realistic ambitions.  I expect he will likely pursue a military career, but he has time yet to explore many possibilities.”

“Indeed,” Thranduil agreed.  “I see we have our new recruits among us tonight.”  Only days before, he had officially inducted the three candidates he had been considering.  “Roscallon, Baroval, and Dramegor,” he said, pointing them out and committing their names to memory.  “No doubt we shall all know you better in days to come.”

“My lord!” Tavoron shouted urgently from the dark.  “The lights again!”

They were all on their feet at once, all frivolity forgotten.  Thranduil blinked the last of the firelight out of his eyes and joined the others of the Dragon Watch on the eastern crest of the hill.  Tavoron immediately surrendered his field glass to the King so that he might see the drama more clearly, but there was little to be seen.

“I saw the light on the slopes,” Tavoron explained, “much like last night.”

Thranduil sighed, wearied of the tease.  “It seems it has disappeared again.  What is that wretched beast playing at?”

They stood in brittle silence, all eyes trained on the mountain.  The moon had begun to rise, shedding silvery light in the dark places of the valley, glinting off the Long Lake.  Only a cold breeze disturbed the stillness.  

“There!” Ascaron yelped suddenly, though they had all seen it.  “In the valley!”

Thranduil grimly lifted the field glass again, training it on the fiery glow that had appeared on the northern shore of the lake.  Smaug had left the mountain at last and was bearing down on Esgaroth, exactly as he had feared.  They were powerless to do more than watch as the Lake-men prepared their meager defense.  

Tavoron blew the horn call which signaled the dragon’s sighting, and the forest beneath them began to stir with frenetic activity.  Lancaeron lay a hand on the King’s arm.  “My lord, you must return to the caverns.”

Thranduil shrugged him off.  “No,” he said.  “Not yet.”  

It was a heroic and tragic stand.  Esgaroth’s bridge was thrown down as the town prepared to withstand a fiery siege.  Smaug swept over it spewing a shower of withering flame, pelted by impotent arrows.  He wheeled about in midair for another pass, blasting the town with dragon fire again and again while the citizens stubbornly threw water on the worst conflagrations.  

“They have no defense,” Legolas said miserably.  “What weapon could pierce that dragon?”

“It is nobly done,” Thranduil replied, his voice heavy, “however futile it may be.  It may soon be our part to do the same.”

The battle could not endure for long.  It was difficult to watch as the fires grew beyond all control, as desperate people crowded into boats, as the archers gave up their hopeless efforts and dove into the water.  The monster was impervious, destroying the town at will.  Doubtless he would take the fleeing boats as well in his own time.  Thranduil felt sick at heart, sorry to see the waste of so many innocent lives, fearing his own people would face the same fate.  Again he cursed Thorin, all his paternity, and the greed which had twice brought this ruin upon them.

There was a sudden intake of breath from the whole company as Smaug’s flight was violently checked.  The beast peeled away from the burning town, climbing into the sky with frantic beats of his enormous wings.  

“What is happening?”

“Has he been wounded?”

“How?”

Thranduil did not answer, hardly able to believe his own eyes.  The dragon’s jarring scream finally reached them on the air as his body stalled in its flight, his fire failed, and what remained of him fell onto the burning ruin of Esgaroth with a tremendous crash.  A great steam went up and rolled over the surface of the lake, an eerie fog in the sudden stillness.

They were all stricken dumb by the sight, waiting as if they expected Smaug to climb out of the wreck and continue his attack.  It was too incredible.

“It appears there are some worthy bowmen in Esgaroth,” Thranduil finally said, lowering the field glass with a grim smile.  “That must have been a mighty shot!  I would like to meet the one who loosed that arrow, if indeed he has survived his victory.”

“I imagine none of this bodes well for the King under the Mountain,” Legolas observed.

Thranduil sighed.  “No.  I fear we have heard the last of Thorin Oakenshield and his company.  He would have done better to have remained my guest.  It is an ill wind, all the same, that blows no one any good.  Again it falls to us to contain the damage.”

“Will you march on Erebor?” Legolas asked, though it seemed he already expected the answer.

“I cannot see that we have a choice,” Thranduil confirmed, turning away from the smoldering spectacle to take the new challenge in hand.  “As Mithrandir is wont to remind us, we are tasked with keeping order in this region.  No one has forgotten the fabled wealth of Thrór, and now his hoard lies naked to all comers.  We will march in force to secure it for the rightful heirs lest it become a den of thieves and villains overnight.”

“Can we not instead hold it for Eryn Galen, my lord?” Dramegor asked, an aggressive glint in his eye. 

Thranduil frowned at him.  His loyalty and skill were beyond question, but clearly the young Guardsman had a great deal yet to learn of the world.  “Why?” he asked flatly.  “I have no desire to hold Erebor, nor have I any claim upon it, and you are a fool if you imagine Thrór’s kinsmen in the Iron Hills will tolerate any challenge for his throne.”  He surveyed them all severely, dampening all thoughts of plunder before they had a chance to seriously consider them.  “It is perilous to stand between the Dwarves and anything they consider their own,” he added, remembering Doriath.  “I had the misfortune to do so once.  I will not do it again, particularly not when it would risk the safety of my own realm.”

It seemed they had taken his point.  Truthfully, Thranduil had not given up all hope of sharing in the spoils of Smaug’s downfall, but the danger in dragon treasure came in the claiming of it.  Thrór’s heirs may yet be constrained by the demands of honor to make some offer of compensation to the aggrieved Lake-men and to the Elves who held the Mountain in trust for them.  If not, Thranduil may be obliged to put his army to use exerting a bit of coercion on behalf of the dragon-slayers at least.  Some Dwarf-lords could be gracious enough, but it was no good taking manners for granted when such a fabulous hoard was concerned.

“Come then,” he said, satisfied that he had made himself clear.  “We have at most a day to prepare.  I want to march before the next dawn.”

---

The soldiers standing at the capital were quickly mustered into marching order.  Thranduil chose to bring a considerable number of spearmen and archers, wanting to make an impressive show of force if necessary, but by no means his entire army.  The provisions which had been gathered against a possible dragon attack were easily transferred to the baggage carts, and the whole mass of them was ready to march before the sunrise as the King wished.

Thranduil went mounted on his great dappled war horse, Espalass, wearing his crown and a mantle of gray and crimson over his gleaming plate armor.  He was still armed with Orcrist, his own sword strapped to his saddle.  His soldiers were also impressively arrayed, as all of them had been ordered to take a moment to polish the scales on their armored tunics.  A superfluous number of green banners and pennons fluttered on burnished lances above the ranks, and the King’s silvery wolves walked among them.  They were a formidable sight as they left the trees and entered the open plains in the cold moonlight, the first rosy hint of dawn glinting on a thousand spears.  

The King led the other mounted members of his entourage, among them Lord Galadhmir and the senior Guardsmen.  He had left Legolas to reign in his stead, anticipating they would not be gone longer than a fortnight, perhaps a month at most.  No doubt news of Smaug’s death had already spread widely through the land, and the Dwarves from the Iron Hills may not require any message from him to begin their march.  The crows had certainly noted the recent upheavals, and flocks of them gathered above the army in hopes of claiming the bloody spoils of war.

They followed the course of the river until it turned southeast, then halted for the night to rest their horses and distribute rations.  In the morning they would leave the river and strike out directly toward Erebor in the northeast.  

They reformed the ranks with the sunrise and were on the march again within the hour.  But they had not left the river far behind before a messenger ran forward from the rear and overtook the King in the vanguard.  “Stay, my lord!” he cried, bounding to a stop in the way of the horses.  

Thranduil raised a hand, calling a halt lest they all pile up on one another.  “Why have we stopped, captain?” he asked, his tolerant tone masking an annoyance which awaited a satisfactory answer.

“Messengers have arrived on the river from Esgaroth, my lord,” the captain explained.  “They beg an audience with you.  They are sent by the dragon-slayer.”

Thranduil was immediately intrigued.  “Very well.  I shall hear them.”  He turned his horse out of the vanguard, signaling his mounted Guardsmen to follow.  They rode to the rear of the column and were met by eight bedraggled Men standing beside four boats on the riverbank.

“My lord!” the first among them greeted the King.  They all bowed as he reined Espalass to a halt before them.  “It is fortunate beyond hope that we find you here!  We are sent by Bard the bowman, of the house of Girion, the dragon-slayer.  Lake-town is destroyed and its people are left destitute.  He remembers the many kindnesses you have shown the Lake-men in the past, and he prays that you pity them once again lest many more perish.”

Thranduil recognized the name of Girion, the final ill-fated Lord of Dale.  “I am grieved to hear of your adversity,” he said.  “I suspected that those who survived the fire would require aid, and I have already arranged that some be sent.  It was our purpose to march at once to secure the Mountain against plunderers, but I may consider changing our course if the need is dire.”

“The need is dire, my lord,” the messenger confirmed.  “Your boats were received with gratitude as we set out, but they will not suffice.  I fear many will soon succumb to their suffering if more food and better shelter cannot be found.”

Thranduil scowled and considered the situation.  The delay was irksome, but he could not leave the innocents of Esgaroth to starve and freeze in the elements.  “You may tell Bard the dragon-slayer that I remember the friendship of Esgaroth and of Dale,” he said, “and that I would not have his people starve in the wilds.  You may return now with whatever your boats may carry, but it may be some days before my army may arrive at the Lake.  The marshes will complicate our passing.”

The Lake-men thanked him effusively.  Thranduil sent Tavoron with them to manage the loading of their boats out of the army’s stores.  “Neldorín,” he said, turning to another of his mounted Guardsmen, “go at once and inform Prince Legolas and Lord Linhir of Bard’s need.  Tell them to replenish our provisions by boat to Esgaroth, and to send also timber and tools that shelters may be built for the survivors.  Return with them and rejoin us at the Lake.”

Neldorín nodded.  “Yes, my lord.”  He turned his horse and galloped back the way they had come.  Thranduil turned in the opposite direction and rode back to the head of the column to reorient the vanguard.  

“I do not fancy a ride through the marshes,” Lord Galadhmir grumbled when Thranduil explained the change of plans.

“Nor do I,” Thranduil confessed, “but I cannot see another way.  We shall skirt the edge as near as we dare.”

The next two days were cold and wet and miserable, though the weather could not be blamed for it.  The marshes had grown well beyond their former borders, and it was no easy feat for an army to pick its way through in good order.  The Elves were lightfooted, but there was only so much anyone could do against a mire like that.  It was fortunate that they had sent most of their provisions ahead in the boats, or else the baggage carts would not have made the crossing.

When they finally arrived within sight of Esgaroth’s ruin, their once resplendent soldiers were knee-deep in mud.  The horses were particularly foul.  Thranduil’s gray charger was caked in it from hooves to hocks, and his great white tail was a horror.  The King had been obliged to tie it up lest the tetchy stallion continue to swat him with muck.  

Despite their frightful appearance, they were enthusiastically welcomed.  A grim-faced Man rushed out to meet them, bowing his head and opening his arms in greeting.  “My Lord Thranduil!” he said.  “Your generosity has saved us again!  Our messengers returned yesterday before all hope.  I am Bard, who sent them to you, and I am most gratified to welcome you to what remains Lake-town.”

“We are gratified to be of service to you,” Thranduil replied graciously, though in a dispassionate tone which betrayed his worn patience.  “The route was rather out of our way, but we could not deny succor to the dragon-slayer who spared us the fire.”

Bard bowed again, acknowledging the Elvenking’s recognition.  “Fortune smiled upon me that night,” he said simply.  “It was my honor to finish the work begun by our fathers in the days of Dale’s fall.”  

Thranduil dismounted and gave his horse to his attendants.  Already the work of unpacking and erecting the pavilions had begun behind him.  “Tell me, Master Bowman, son of the line of Girion,” he said, leaving to walk with Bard, “whose authority rules this remnant, yours or the Master’s?  I must know who I am dealing with.”

“That is still a point of some contention,” Bard admitted wearily.  “The people are divided between us.”

“That is not a matter to be left in dispute,” Thranduil said.  “Is the Master well?”

“Well enough,” Bard scoffed.  “He is cold and uncomfortable, but unhurt.”

“Summon him here, and any other representatives the people have chosen for themselves.”

Thranduil waited while the informal council slowly coalesced around him.  Many curious onlookers had gathered by the time Bard returned with Master and a handful of dour individuals Thranduil assumed to be the most outspoken citizens.  Thranduil looked them over with a stern eye, recognizing the cold courage of men who had come alive through a cataclysm.  The Master was the only exception.  He looked bitter and resentful, still damp and shivering beneath a blanket.

“We must settle the matter of local jurisdiction before all else,” Thranduil said.  “Who would claim it?”

“I am still Master here,” the Master insisted, “duly elected and vested with the only legitimate authority in Lake-town.”

“We would have Bard,” the others insisted.  “Away with the old money-counters.”

“They have no right to depose me!” the Master countered.  “The Elvenking will not be party to this treachery.  He will uphold the old law.”

“That remains to be seen,” Thranduil said flatly, taking some umbrage at being told how he would behave.  “What has Bard to say for himself?”

Bard sighed.  “My fathers were lords of Dale,” he said at last, clear enough for all to hear, “a broken realm of days long past.  The Master is correct to say I have no claim upon Esgaroth, and I will not challenge him.  Still,” he continued in a voice intended only for close company, “I suspect his vehemence is inspired less by a conviction to do his duty than by a desire to preserve the privilege to which he is accustomed and to avoid what he calls ‘the rule of mere fighting men.’”

Thranduil was offended by the comment, which had surely been Bard’s intention in repeating it.  He turned a dark look upon the Master, who shrank farther into his blanket.  From his earliest years and throughout all the upheaval of his life, Thranduil’s deepest identity had been that of a warrior before all else, and he shared Bard’s obvious frustration with small men of numbers who had little regard for soldiers and yet proved themselves useless in crisis.  He took a menacing step forward in all his mud-crusted regalia.  “Do not be so quick to dismiss the wisdom of the fighting men, my lord,” he advised the Master.  “There are many lessons to be learned on the battlefield which cannot be found in your counting houses or libraries.”  

He prolonged the awkward moment a while longer before turning again to the rest of the assembly.  “Very well,” he said.  “Bard does not wish to claim the lordship of Esgaroth, so the Master will retain his rank and its attendant duties henceforth.  First among those will be to arrange for the comfort and well-being of his subjects.”  He pointed the Master back toward the bustling Elvish host.  “Address yourself to Lord Galadhmir, my lord, and he will supply your needs.”

The Master looked as though he might object, and would no doubt have preferred to retreat back into the negligible warmth of his shelter, but Thranduil’s baleful expression convinced him to attend his neglected duties instead. 

There was a great deal left to be done before sunset, but by the time the darkness swept a deeper chill over the valley all the displaced citizens of Esgaroth had found somewhere to shelter.  The Elves largely went without, better able to withstand the ravages of the wind and weather than the women and children of the Lake, though they kindled many fires along the shore for cheer and comfort.  Their singing helped to lighten the dismal atmosphere of the camp, so near the place of the dragon’s destruction.  

Thranduil was taking a moment to collect himself in the warm lamplight of his pavilion, finally reasonably comfortable after the tiresome trek across the marshes.  It was remarkable how much a simple change of clothes could improve his mood.  Gwaelas had done him the service of rinsing the mud off his armor, and now Thranduil was taking the trouble to polish it himself, exactly as he expected the rest of his soldiers to be attending their own gear.  His magnificent cloak had also been washed, and hung outside in the wind to dry.  

The cold ground had been overlaid with woven carpets, providing as much luxury as could be expected while on the march.  Two of the dogs lay in the corner, watching him with benign disinterest, hoping to soon be fed.  Thranduil had learned to appreciate small moments of peace where he could find them.  They would likely remain there for several days while they waited to be resupplied, and in the meantime he intended to acquaint himself with the important personages emerging from the new order of things.  The Bowman was particularly intriguing.  

Commander Dorthaer ducked briefly inside.  “He has come, my lord,” he said.

Thranduil smiled to himself.  “Show him in.”

Bard entered the pavilion without escort, looking apprehensive and out of place.  The wolves rose and growled, but sank back down with a huff when they were reprimanded.  “You sent for me, my lord?”

“I did,” Thranduil said.  He did not rise from his cushion, but rather indicated that Bard should seat himself opposite him.  “I would know you better, Master Bowman.  Tell me about yourself.”

Bard hesitated, apparently bemused by the request.  

Thranduil looked up from polishing his armor.  “Ancestors, children, aspirations?” he suggested amicably.  

“Oh.”  Bard reoriented himself.  “You already know the most interesting particulars of my ancestry, my lord.  I was born in Lake-town, I lived there all my life.  I was a small child when the city burned and you rode to our aid the first time.”  A brief hint of a smile soon faded.  “Why do you care, my lord?”

Thranduil smiled.  He set his armor aside, stood, and poured two cups of wine.  “It behooves me to know all I can of the lords with whom I share this corner of the world,” he said, offering one to Bard.  “Esgaroth is destroyed, the dragon is dead, the Dwarves will soon return to Erebor.  Have you no wish to see Dale rebuilt?”

A light was kindled in Bard’s dark eyes as he recognized Thranduil’s tacit support.  He accepted the cup with new ease.  “I confess I have thought of it,” he said, “though there has been little time in these days for fanciful hopes.”

“I would hardly call it a fanciful hope now,” Thranduil said, resuming his seat.  “I would almost call it a certainty.  The worst is over.  Winter will pass and spring will bring new opportunities.  Dale will rise again with the wildflowers.”  

“I pray you are right, my lord,” Bard agreed with growing enthusiasm.  “I have a son, Bain, and I would be very glad to build a better future for him, to reclaim his birthright, to see the city of my fathers renewed.”

“I believe you will,” Thranduil said.  “The dragon-slayer deserves no less.”