A/N: You are all lovely wonderful reviewers. I love you guys. Seriously. Thanks for all the support. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter.

Legolas' sensitive ears picked up the delicate whispers of movement through the trees as a doe slowly picked her way through the undergrowth, her gait cautious and wary. His ears also picked up the faint chirping of insects, whizzing about through the branches.

But what he was straining to hear were the low murmurs of men's voices, carried by the wind. He knew there were still patrols combing the woodlands on the outskirts of Laketown.

And he was doing his best to avoid them.

Gazing from his perch high in the trees, he peered down the slow sloping hill and fancied he could see the dark shapes of men as they lumbered through the undergrowth. And then, the soft murmurs he'd been hoping to hear were gradually growing in volume.

The men, The Master's men, were making their way up the mountain.

Undoubtedly in search of the Bowman's son.

As well as himself.

They had been witnesses to The Master's dirty work after all.

A small shifting movement on the branch he was crouched on, alerted Legolas that Tauriel had returned.

"What news," He murmured, never taking his eyes from the growing shapes.

"Twenty at least," Tauriel's lilting voice hummed through the air, "Though we can't be certain of how many more men are up the river on patrols."

Legolas could feel the tension radiating from her form as understanding raced through his mind.

This was going to be tricky.

"Then we best get moving," Legolas sighed shooting the she-elf a look of resigned determination. "You and the archers will head South-East, bypassing the group coming up the mountain. I'll be taking the rest North-East towards the lip of the lake, where we'll meet up with Bard and make our way down towards the banquet hall. By then my father will have made it and, Aule willing, he will have created a sufficient distraction so that we may slip in relatively unnoticed."

"And what of these forest-combers?" Tauriel questioned warily, casting her gaze down towards the shadows who were still a league away, "How are we to bypass them?"

"We'll stay upwind of them if we can help it—travel a few leagues before heading down. But," His brows knit together, "If you run into any trouble making your way to the lake, you know that we cannot allow anyone to sound the alarm. Make sure your spotters are alert."

A low whistle, disguised as a birdsong, pricked at Legolas' ears, making them twitch. Two low, long pitchy reverberations rolled through the air. It was familiar.

And two whistles signaled they were a league upstream.

"Time to move," he muttered.


Thranduil kept his face pulled into a frown as he spied the first wave of men patrolling the forests near the docks leading towards Esgaroth. His guard stayed close at hand, encircling the elf king at every angle to ensure his safety.

He knew that even in the trees, scouts observed the activities below, their mistrust on high alert.

They would not allow harm to come to him, should anyone attack their party.

Thranduil's sharp eyesight caught a glimpse of the banquet hall, situated right on the shoreline. It was the first building that you passed by as you entered Laketown and one of the only buildings to actually rest on solid ground.

It was the only place large enough to house the children beneath it.

And though Thranduil trusted Gandalf, trusted his son's judgment, and trusted the truthfulness of the young boy, Bain, a shred of doubt still flickered in his brain. Or rather he had HOPED it wasn't true. For who would wish such wickedness upon a people?

Yet the closer to he came to the town of men, the more he could feel the crushing weight of evil spreading before him, increasing in strength and size. Such news to his heart, made him frown in contemplation.

He had missed all the signs, all the warnings.

He had been too consumed by the evil to prevent it.

His gaze hardened has they approached the a trio of guards, who appeared wary and surprised to see them. He noted the way their grips tightened around their weapons as their eyes narrowed.

Thranduil came to a halt and stood staring.

Waiting.

"What brings a convoy of Elves to Esgaroth?" One man, a bearded fellow with bright red hair and narrow, pinched eyes stepped forward, challenging the elves that stood before him.

Thranduil was not impressed.

"I am Thranduil, king of the woodland realm, the great halls of Mirkwood. And I come," He remarked coldly, "in search of my son."

A spark of recognition lit the eyes of the man before him and a low murmur of curiosity overtook the other two members of their group as they watched the elves with interest and a predatory gleam.

Thranduil suspected their thoughts, but feigned ignorance. Cleaving, instead, to the anger and the discontent his senses had be awash in a few short days ago. Until a little hobbit…

It felt like a lifetime had passed since then.

"And why are you travelling towards Esgaroth then? What suspicions do you have of our town?"

The same red haired man frowned at the elf king challenging him, trying to bait him. He wanted an excuse to attack.

But Thranduil was thinking clearly now and would nto fall for such a trap. No, he had his own game to play.

The elf smirked derisively. "Because he was taken down river, trying to assist a small hobbit and her dwarven companions out of my halls a fortnight ago. I have not seen him since then."

The man's weapon came up and pointed towards Thranduil's throat as his companions raised their weapons.

Thranduil's guard brought forth their own weapons and aimed their arrows, their bows pulled taut. Waiting for the enemy to make the first move.

"If your son," the man spat, "is in league with those dwarves then you, by association are considered criminal."

Ah. There is was. The perfect excuse for the men of Esgaroth to wage war against the elves.

Thranduil snorted at the thought of being in league with Thorin Oakenshield. He raised his brow in challenge to the man's accusation.

"I can assure you, that I am not privy to my son's thoughts and motivations. Nor did I encourage the dwarves' escape from my halls." He frowned narrowing his eyes at the man, challenging him as well.

He wanted to assure him, that he thought little of the affairs of the dwarves and that he did not suspect the wickedness engulfing the town.

"I simply desire to see my son. And, if the dwarves," He spat the word, "ARE held somewhere within the confines of your town, I'd hope to have them returned to my halls. They were captured for trespassing, I wish to exact justice upon them."

The man's gaze was still narrowed, suspicious and assessing, hoping to find a flaw or flinch in the elf's gaze.

But Thranduil was stoic, a statue in expression. He kept his gaze stiff, frown firmly in place.

The man's own gaze faltered and his eyes shifted between his small group and Thranduil's well-equipped guard.

He sighed and lowered his weapon. "Come, then. I'm sure The Master will wish to speak with you concerning the dwarves and your son's hand in their troublesome appearance."

"Indeed," Thranduil muttered, stepping forward to accompany the man and the rest of the guard that were closer to the borders of the lake.

He hoped that this would serve as enough distraction.

Overhead a low rumble of thunder echoed through the skies.


Bard's glance strayed, every few moments, towards the shoreline as he picked his way through the undergrowth. The longer he traveled the more of Laketown he was able to behold and the more his heart hammered in his chest as worry gnawed at his stomach, setting him on edge.

Only resting for a few hours during the night, he was anxious to make it to the northern shoreline, where Legolas was supposedly (hopefully) waiting and where they would take a wide arching route towards the banquet hall.

He wasn't so anxious, though to become careless in where he walked. He marched ever closer towards Esgaroth, well hidden in the tree line, wary of patrols.

He had a task to fulfill and he could not hope to accomplish that if he were lax.

The time he took, carefully marking his steps, did give his companion a chance to converse with him.

A small thrush fluttered near his head, its whispers tickling his ears.

Since he was young, his mother had taught him of the gift his family held:

They could communicate with the ancient race of thrushes that inhabited the area surrounding Dale. The first time he realized that he could understand these species of bird, and the fact that they WILLINGLY listened to his remarks or requests, sent a thrill down Bard's spine. And since then, he'd used the birds to his advantage, spying and gathering information.

It was certainly a handy little advantage to hold. And, it gave him a scout who would signal whenever danger lurked by.

So far it had worked. Every few minutes, the bird would fly on ahead, circle the area and quickly return to report any findings.

He'd managed to avoid two small patrol groups because of it, though it surprised him that patrols were up this far.

Doubt tickled his brain. Did The Master suspect?

"Anything ahead?" he murmured quietly as the thrush, whirred past his ear, the soft flutter of its wings blowing air in Bard's face. A series of low chirps whistled through the air, sounding ordinary to anyone listening.

But to the bowman, the phrase was as clear as the water from long lake, lapping against the smoothed rocks of the shoreline.

'Nothing yet. No guards. But crows. Many crows. Be careful.'

Bard nodded his head in thanks and continued to gaze about warily. He could feel danger lurking in the shadows, the whispers of a nameless fear sending shudders down his spine.

But of course, he was bound to encounter some sort of trouble. That's how evil worked, wasn't it? Always hiding in the most unlikely places, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And even if his little thrush was a sharp-sighted creature, there were undoubtedly times when even his spotter missed something.

Like now.

A strange unease had settled in his stomach as the world around him fell into silence.

A silence that blotted out the noises of all other life.

The birds.

The rustling of wind.

The insects that hummed.

All of it was gone, in a flash, except for the soft flaps of the thrush.

Bard stopped walking and pulled out his bow, his eyes narrowing. He forced his breathing to slow, the erratic beating of his heart to ease.

He willed the panic back down and waited, straining his ears, listening for any sort of sign, movement, rustling.

But only silence remained. An eerie foreboding silence.

And then a twig snapped, a few meters away.

"Go," he whispered into the air, "Go and find the hobbit and bring me word. Be wary of the dragon."

The little thrush, twittering around his head circled once and then with a loud 'chirp' fluttered away as Bard brought forth an arrow and notched it into his bow, aiming it carefully towards the trees to his right.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the thrush's small form growing ever smaller.

"Hurry," he whispered as the high-pitched cries started to echo in the skies as clouds billowed overhead.

A trio of hideous orcs burst from the trees, battle-axes raised, snarling and shrieking at Bard as they charged.

And overhead crows, dozens of crows, cawed and flapped around the bowman's head, diving towards him, pecking at his flesh.

Bard released the arrow he was holding notched in his bow and impaled the one of the snarling beasts' throats, cutting off the angry cry.

'Hurry' he thought again as he notched another arrow in his bow.


They'd reached the outskirts of the city of Dale when Lyla heard it:

The low rumble of thunder as the ground shook.

She raised her hand to shield her eyes and gazed upward, marveling at the storm clouds rolling forth, like massive billows of smoke. She felt her heart start to hammer and her chest tightened. And overhead more thunder rumbled.