At the door, the dwarves pulled him out gasping. “Il tesoro?” Thorin demanded.
“Laketown sleeps,” whispered his eldest, Bain, handing him a leather waterskin. “But the Mountain never does.”
Below, Smaug spread his wings. The great gates of Erebor exploded outward. Laketown’s lookouts saw a second dawn rise over the mountain—a red, hungry light.
Smaug the Magnificent. Il Terribile . His scales were old rubies and rust, his belly pale as a drowned moon, studded with jewels that had melted into his flesh over centuries. One eye—a slit of molten amber—opened.
Bard did not answer. For three nights he had seen it: a flicker of wings, too vast for any bird, circling the peak. The old songs called it Smaug , il Calamità di Fuoco . The Desolation.
