"What's going on? What happened?!"
The Mayor of Lake-town had barely rubbed the sleep from his eyes when the world seemed to be falling apart. Outside, the townsfolk were frantically packing their belongings. Some even had carts loaded with barrels and blankets.
Had something terrible happened while he was snoring?
He grabbed the cold remains of a buttery mushroom-stuffed ram egg off the table and chomped down. A swig of fire-brandy followed, then a greasy wipe of the hands on his already-soiled tunic.
"Alfrid!" he bellowed, mouth still half full. "Where is everyone?!"
He shoved open the door and charged outside, grabbing the first citizen he saw. "You there! What's the panic?"
"The orcs are coming! We're heading to the Lonely Mountain!" the man blurted out, brushing off the Mayor's clammy grip with a grimace and rushing away.
"What orcs? What Lonely Mountain? What are you all on about?!"
The Mayor's voice rang out across the street. "Why was I not informed of something this important?!"
"If you've got even a shred of sense left, start packing," a familiar voice muttered nearby.
"Bard?" the Mayor squinted. "You? Weren't you in the dungeons? So you've escaped? You dare break out of my jail?"
He turned and howled, "Guards! Where are the guards? Arrest him immediately!"
A few guards appeared, clearly confused and hesitant. One leaned close and quickly whispered a summary of the current events. The Mayor's expression stiffened. He fell silent, squinting suspiciously at Bard.
Dragons. Orcs. Angry mobs. None of that really mattered to him. What mattered was how he could continue living comfortably.
A dragonslayer in town might be just the thing to revive business.
"Mayor," a warm voice interjected.
He turned to find a grey-robed old man standing politely beside him.
The Mayor recoiled, yanking out a perfumed kerchief to cover his nose. "Who let this stinking beggar in?"
"I'm no beggar," the man replied calmly. "I'm Gandalf the Grey, a wizard. Wizards bring news, advice, and—"
"I don't care if you're a wizard or a warlock. Get out of my way! I don't have time for nonsense."
He shoved Gandalf aside and barked at the guards, "Stop gawking! Come help me carry my gold!"
The guards looked at Bard, then back at the Mayor, clearly unsure whom to obey.
Gandalf's knuckles tightened around his staff.
Bard gave him a quiet nod.
The Mayor went down like a felled tree, the crack of wood on skull echoing through the street as he collapsed into a pile of crates.
"Help the townsfolk," Gandalf said plainly, and the guards scattered without a second's hesitation.
A few onlookers clapped, half in awe, half in amusement.
Under the guidance of the dragonslayer and the wizard, the citizens quickly pulled together. They gathered what they could carry and set out in the direction of the Lonely Mountain.
Bard, drenched in sweat and stress, moved tirelessly among the people, coordinating carts, calming fears, and urging them forward.
The Mayor and his sniveling assistant, both somehow struck down by "mysterious fainting spells," were left behind, conveniently unable to lead. Bard, by default, had taken command.
He wasn't trained for this. His life until now had been quiet, local. Fishing. Archery. Occasional monster sightings.
Now he was managing an entire town on the move.
Thankfully, Gandalf walked beside him, offering the sort of guidance only a wizard could.
They marched in silence for much of the day. Mealtimes were short, food cold and dry. No one complained. Not really. They just kept moving.
A shout from one of the scouts snapped everyone to attention.
Ahead, far off, something massive loomed through the mist.
Gasps of disbelief spread through the crowd.
Gandalf squinted toward the distant structure. "If I'm not mistaken... that's Dale. Or where Dale used to be."
"It is Dale," Bard confirmed. "I know that valley better than anyone."
"But that city was destroyed," another murmured.
A firework suddenly shot into the sky from beyond the towering walls.
Gandalf chuckled. "Ah. Then I suppose I'm not mistaken. We don't need to keep heading for Erebor after all. Let's visit what's left of Dale."
"That doesn't look like ruins," Bard muttered, eyes wide. "I passed through there just two days ago. It was rubble."
"Then let's see what kind of miracle has happened," Gandalf said with a smile.
Bard gave a slow nod. He didn't really understand what a wizard was, but he trusted this one—partly because he showed up in tales involving Eric, the odd young man who had a knack for making impossible things happen.
"Hello up there!" Gandalf called once they reached the gates.
One by one, three massive iron doors lifted with a deep groan of gears and chains.
A head popped up on the top of the wall.
"Eric," Gandalf replied, smiling up at him. "I had a feeling you were behind this."
He rapped the wall with his knuckles. "Six meters thick. Solid stone. Easily thirty meters tall."
But oddly... there were no battlements. No watchtowers. Just plain stone slabs stacked together in a strange, almost unnatural uniformity. It looked less like a built wall and more like the land had simply grown it overnight.
Something about the ground near the gate felt warm too, as if something beneath was giving off heat.
"Don't just stand there gawking!" Eric called. "Come on in!"
With a nod from Gandalf, Bard ordered the townsfolk to move forward.
The people stared in amazement at the towering wall, some even reaching out to touch the cool stone as they passed. Within moments, they began to settle on the open ground inside, unpacking their gear and setting up camp.
"Light the fires. Cook what you can. We rest here for now."
Bard saw to his family, then joined Gandalf and approached the wall where Eric waited.
"So... this is what you meant by building a wall?" Bard said, still staring up at the structure. "I thought you were going to patch up Erebor, not build a fortress."
"What's the point in fixing Erebor's walls? They're not even broken."
Eric slapped a few blocks into place, forming a makeshift staircase, and motioned for them to climb.
The three of them ascended, reaching the top of the wall where they could survey the valley.
Dale—or what was once Dale—was nestled between two ridges of the Lonely Mountain. Only one side was exposed to the outside world.
Which meant, strategically, you only needed one wall.
A fact Eric had clearly taken advantage of.
"I started on this before your people even arrived," Eric explained. "Laid the foundation, added traps and pits. Anyone trying to climb up will find themselves falling into lava before they get a chance to knock."
Gandalf took a long puff of his pipe, looking impressed.
"This wall isn't just strong," he muttered. "It's flawless. No mortar lines. No gaps. As if it was carved from a single giant boulder."
"Wait, what?" Bard looked back and forth between them. "You mean this wall was just built? Now?"
"That's impossible! Even with all of Lake-town helping, with full supplies and no sleep, building something would take years."
"You'd be surprised what's possible," Gandalf said with a sly grin, blowing a smoke ring that drifted into the sky.
Bard's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. He finally gave up and just stared.
Gandalf turned to Eric. "Speaking of which... if you can build this, can you also create more of those constructs?"
"But... your pumpkin field down there—" Gandalf pointed at a large patch of farmland near the base of the wall. "I remember you saying you needed pumpkins for the spellwork."
"Exactly," Eric said with a smirk. "I said not now. I didn't say never."
"What are you planning?" Gandalf asked.
Eric turned, leaned in close to Bard, and said in a voice that made the hairs on the man's neck stand up, "Let's just say... it depends on whether the heir of Dale wants to protect his people."
Bard blinked. "I... what?"
Eric smiled, far too innocently.
"You wouldn't want to see your people suffer, would you, Lord Bard?"