Chapter 1
The date was November 1, T.A. 2941, nearing one hundred and seventy-one years since Smaug the Terrible, the last great fire drake, descended on the great dwarven kingdom of Erebor. The dwarrows attracted the dragon's covetous eye with their gold hoard that could not be rivaled by any kingdom on Middle Earth, dwarven or otherwise.
The beast flew in from the North with one purpose and one purpose only; to sit himself on the gold hoard and become King Under the Mountain forevermore.
The trees cracked and the winds blew, and amidst it all only one, Thorin son of Thrain, had the sense to scream an eloquent warning of, "Dragon!", before the sky rained fire.
The dragon turned his wrath to the city of Men, Esgaroth, that sat at the southern face of Erebor. His roar shook the ground and there was no shelter from his burning breath. The dwarrows of Erebor could only look on in horror as their allies burned and the dragon powered through the smoke and ash sky.
Thrain, Crown Prince of Erebor and son of King Thror, rallied his dwarven comrades and braced the front gate. For an hour, the only sounds were the screams of Men and the taunting of a fire drake. Then, the Mountain shook and the dragon burst through the gate of iron and steel.
The dwarrows of Erebor fought valiantly, but it was to no avail. The dragon's hide could not be pierced by even the strongest blade or spear. His great rumbling laugh was the only reward for their useless attempts to kill him. The Line of Durin was on the verge of retreating in order to salvage what was left of their people when a great horn sounded from Dale.
The dragon, intrigued by the resilience of Men, slithered his way from the Mountain he was so near overtaking with a rumble that could only be described as delighted. He took to the sky and descended once more on Esgaroth. Searching for the horn blower, he was soon rewarded with a most amusing sight.
Girion, Lord of Dale, had taken to the highest post of Esgaroth. The horn was nowhere in sight, but the large bow aimed at the quickly approaching dragon was rather hard to miss. The bow had been readied with a black arrow, forged by Thror himself, and was one of four of its like. Smaug gave a hearty chuckle followed by another storm of fire on the once great city.
"Do you really think you can kill me, bowman?," the fire drake growled lowly with a great display of his teeth of swords. Girion did not rise to his mocking growls and instead fired his first shot. The black arrow cut through fire and ash and ping'd against the impenetrable scales of the dragon's neck. Smaug smiled a terrible smile as the flames began building in his breast. He let loose a mighty breath and flew lowly over the city, a river of fire following behind. Girion had readied the second arrow when Smaug circled back round to the post. He fired and the second arrow did not much better than the first. As he readied the third arrow, Girion was nearly overwhelmed by the mass of the fire drake. No army of Men, elves, or dwarrows could have stood against this beast and lived to tell the tale. It was with this thought that Girion fired the third arrow.
The arrow soared in the night sky and there was the sound of wrenching metal as it hit the flesh just beneath the right wing of Smaug the Terrible. The dragon paused his chaos for a moment in confusion before flying higher than he had before. For a moment, Girion thought he had failed once again, but as he watched the third arrow fall to the streets of flame, something caught his eye. There, falling right next to the arrow, was a shimmer. It caught the firelight slightly and shone, just for a moment, a burning red. For Girion, it was a beacon.
"A scale," he said lowly, wary of exclamation that would alert the hidden dragon, "A scale has fallen from the dragon hide."
A moment later, Smaug appeared from the dark sky once more. The heat bubbling in his chest illuminated the smoke as the dragon opened his wings and prepared to end this city of Men and return to his Mountain.
Girion looked beneath the right wing and spotted a dark void where a dragon scale should have been. He turned his bow to the dragon, readied his final arrow, and fired. Smaug the Terrible fell with the flames of his last breath on his tongue.
The morning sun rose, but there was no celebration to be had. The devastation and death had exceeded the count of grief and the night of Smaug the Terrible's demise would never be talked of fondly by any race of Middle Earth.
Though Thror had slowly been descending into madness, the attack on Erebor and the sight of his people dying had shaken him from his haze. Esgaroth was all but completely destroyed and, as a payment to Girion the Dragon Slayer, was rebuilt with a fourteenth share of Erebor's gold hoard. Erebor, too, had to be repaired and Thror was more than generous with the funds required to do so. No help came from the elves of Mirkwood and their King Thranduil, damaging relations even to this day.
The dwarf kingdom of Erebor had taken a terrible blow and their losses could not all be so easily replaced, but with Thror being the great ruler he once was, both Men and dwarrows began to prosper once again.
It was with these thoughts in mind that an old man with grey hood and a large walking stick made his way to the front gates of Erebor. It had been nearly two hundred years since he had set eyes on this great kingdom and even then it had not measured to the sight before him.
The gates gleamed and shined and warm golden light spilled across the desolate land in front of the Mountain. The ever loyal crows cawed and the vigilant guards stood still as the stone they were protecting. Caravans were being led, even in the dark of night, in and out of the great mountain and the faint sound of thousands of dwarrows eating dinner could be heard from within the walls.
Gandalf the Grey remained in the shadows as he soaked in the majesty that was now Erebor. The last time he was here, King Thror had been falling to gold sickness and there was nothing Gandalf could do to help. He remembers the Crown Prince and young Thorin Thrainson being rather put out the grey wizard and, if he recalls correctly, they did not part of the best of terms. Gandalf could only hope that time would have improved their relations seeing as the dwarrows of Erebor were his last hope.
Gandalf was wary of just walking in the front door because he would be asked to state his business and his business was too delicate to state to just any dwarf that crossed his path. Gandalf huffed at himself. He was a wizard for Eru's sake! When had he let a few stubborn dwarrows stand in the way of his tasks?
"You are Gandalf the Grey and you must get a hold of yourself!," he whispered to himself as if he were berating a Took of the Shire. "You have been given this task by a very dear friend and you mustn't stop now." A yawn punctuated his words at just the right moment. Looking up from his place in Gandalf's arm, the fauntling yawned once more and hazy blue eyes blinked sluggishly at the wizard. Gandalf's eyes softened and his resolve hardened.
"You just wait, my lad. Our journey is almost over and you are closer than you have ever been to the hospitality of dwarrows. You need not harbor fear within these walls, for no harm shall come to you here, Frodo Baggins." With these words left to be heard by the quiet of night and a hobbit child's ears, Gandalf began his purposeful stride up to the gates of Erebor.