Daughter of Starlight

Chapter Twelve: The Weasel

As we were carried closer and closer to the town on the lake, the temperature seemed to drop lower and lower. By the time we had reached the stone ruins outside of Lake-town, there were large chunks of ice clustered around the barge and I was downright freezing, being the only member of the company who didn't have at least some long sleeves to keep myself warm. I was fighting to keep my teeth from chattering and I could feel prominent goosebumps on my arms as I hugged myself to conserve warmth. To help me out, Kili and Fili had taken seats on either side of me, sitting close to me in an attempt to share body heat.

The mist that hovered above the water and around our heads was thick, and we could barely see our surroundings. A stone ruin suddenly reared up in front of us, and we were about to crash into it.

"Watch out!" Bofur cried, and the bargeman, who Bilbo and I had learned was called Bard, skillfully steered us away from an imminent shipwreck.

"What are you trying to do, drown us?" Thorin demanded of Bard.

"I was born and bred on these waters, Master Dwarf. If I wanted to drown you, I would not do it here," Bard replied darkly.

"I've had enough of this lippy Lakeman," Dwalin grumbled from where he leaned against the side of the boat. "I say we throw him over the side and be done with it."

"Oh, Bard," Bilbo said. "His name's Bard."

"How do you know?" Bofur asked.

"Uh, I asked him," Bilbo replied, as if it were obvious, which it was.

"I don't care what he calls himself. I don't like him," Dwalin continued to harbor hostility.

"We do not have to like him," I heard Balin say. He sat in front of a square wooden crate, counting coins. "We simply have to pay him. Come on now, lads. Turn out your pockets."

If I had any money I would have given it up to help pay Bard. The dwarves, however, were true to their nature and, I hate to say it, tended to hoard their money. Particularly one among us.

"We're ten coins short," Balin reported once he had finished counting the money he had collected from the company.

Thorin sighed and crossed his arms. Like everyone else, he knew who hadn't contributed their fair share. "Gloin."

We all looked to Gloin, who put on an innocent face, but Thorin wasn't buying it. "Come on. Give us what you have."

Gloin feigned offense at being accused of not donating to the cause. "Don't look to me! I have been bled dry by this venture. And what have I seen for my investment? Nought but misery and grief and . . ." He stopped speaking when he noticed every member of the company, including me, had stood up and directed their attention away from him. We all stared at the horizon, seeing the triangular shape looming on the horizon through the mist.

For the first time in little more than half a century, the dwarves of Erebor laid their eyes upon the Lonely Mountain.

There was no doubt in my mind that the mountain symbolized one thing to all of us: home. The only difference was that to the dwarves, it meant returning to their homeland. To me, it meant a way to return to my own homeland. Either way, every single one of us stared in awe at the mountain, our joy going unspoken as we realized we were finally close to getting there.

"Bless my beard," Gloin gasped, fumbling for his small sack of coins. He gave it to Balin, saying, "Take it. Take all of it."

Bard abruptly approached us, holding out his hand. "The money. Give it to me. Quick."

"We will pay you when you get our provisions, not before," Thorin said almost contemptuously.

"If you value your freedom you'll do as I say," Bard told Thorin, looking across the water. "There are guards ahead."