From The Hobbit:
"Very soon there was a fine commotion in the village by the riverside; but Bilbo escaped into the woods carrying a loaf and a leather bottle of wine and a pie that did not belong to him."
Chapter 9, Barrels Out of Bond
The mist rising from the river had a rosy hue; there was a storm passing off to the southeast. The sun was just rising above the rim of the eastern horizon and its first rays were illuminating the distant but view-dominating solitary peak of the Lonely Mountain. As ever, and like every living creature within sight of the landmark, Nendir explored the skies for the tell-tale silhouette of the dragon, but he saw only one long thin crimson-tinted cloud that was a streak of color across the morning sky.
As the sky grew lighter, the birds twittered and chirped out their first songs of the day. A pair of doves cooed to each other lovingly. Thin lines of smoke were rising from the roofs of the huts and Nendir could just discern the rising morning breezes now, which fluttered the leaves and bent and turned the chimney smoke into dancing swirls. He had volunteered to stand guard for the last few hours before dawn, but wished he could have been in his hut with Siriel.
It had been an unsettling night in their usually quiet village; there was evidence that there had been a mischievous creature about with large wet feet and an even larger appetite. He, or it, had made off with a loaf of bread and a pie. But the most loudly grieved theft of all was a leather bottle of wine. It had been an especially fine container that was tooled by hand by its owner during the storms of the winter before last, when they were idle for many days.
All that the elves found during the resultant searches for the burglar were some footprints made by what were apparently thoroughly wet and unusually large bare feet. No one had seen or heard anything of the dripping wet thief except damp spots here and there and occasionally a loud sneeze, which was confounding. There was no plausible way that the thefts could have been related to the dwarves, even if they had sprouted wings after they had escaped the dungeons and flown there. And furthermore, why would they come to their tiny village if they could fly? But even if they could have gotten there so quickly, there was no possible way that a dwarf could have escaped detection in a small area filled with alert elves. Unless they had some sorcery about them to keep them hidden?
But dwarves did not have feet that large nor did they normally go without boots. And why was the thieving creature soaking wet? Was it perhaps some type of otter or bear that had swum there from the Long Lake and was not at all connected to the fugitive dwarves? Irregardless of all their guesswork, in the morning, the sneaking thief seemed to have moved along and his tracks led to the water's edge near the barrels.
Still, Nendir hated leaving Siriel even though there were plenty of other ellyn, well-armed and handy in a fight, staying there to guard the village. More crows had come to report that the dwarves were still on the loose, but she had insisted that he go when she came to the shoreline to send him away with a flask of miruvor and some lembas wafers, carefully packed for travel.
With deep affection in her eyes, Siriel bade him farewell with a kiss, and then stood on the windswept beach to watch him depart. The elves pushed the raft with poles out to the current which carried it around the outjutting of rock, and then half-towed, half-steered the unwieldy craft made out of the collection of wine casks and food barrels to Lake-town.
Their destination was the town of Men close to the point where the river flowed into the Long Lake. It would take all day to get there, and usually they sang to pass the time, as all elves will do when they gather together in some common labor. Their collection of songs was different from those of the wood-elves in the forest or even the palace elves in the caves, as the lyrics were mostly about the river, its water and its currents, and about the barrel-rafts.
Today they speculated about the whereabouts of the escaped dwarves, the identity of the sneezing, swimming sneak thief who raided their village, and the likelihood that they were all being spied on by the Elvenking's crows, which flew overhead in small, dark clouds. Every once in a while, one of the black birds would land on the raft to give them the latest news about the missing dwarves, mostly that they were still missing, but they were not very helpful otherwise.
"Why do you think they follow the river so close?" Nendir asked his brother while he watched another small cloud of crows fly overhead. "It seems more likely that the stunted folk are lost on some dead-end path or false trail in the forest."
"This river is the only road," answered Nenchir, "besides the Old Forest Road many leagues south of us, that follows all the way through the woodland and leads anyone out to the other side without a guide. If the fugitives have any hope at all of escaping the borders of our king, this is the only way they could use where they might have any chance of success." He added that, of course, they would never get past the raftmen's village by boat. They all wondered what the bounty for each escapee would be, for their king was known for rewarding his subjects for their good deeds.
For a while after, the elves discussed the troublesome times they had in keeping this watery road open for boat traffic, what with the occasional landslides, which clogged the river with fallen boulders, or the winter storms with their gale-force winds, which toppled the trees that grew along the banks into the water. If not for their efforts, there would be no other direct route to or from the Elvenking's caves.
Finally, at sunset, the river reached the lake, and the raftmen drew their barrels around a promontory of rock and into a sort of bay. The town of men was built there out over the water on piers. At one end of the odd municipality was a wide circle of quiet water surrounded by the tall piles on which were built the greater houses, and by long wooden quays with many steps and ladders going down to the beach. This is where the barrels were delivered and they were met there by men in boats.
From: The Hobbit:
"In the meanwhile the barrels were left afloat while the elves of the raft and the boatmen went to feast in Lake-town.
They would have been surprised, if they could have seen what happened down by the shore, after they had gone and the shades of night had fallen. First of all a barrel was cut loose by Bilbo and pushed to the shore and opened. Groans came from inside, and out crept a most unhappy dwarf. Wet straw was in his draggled beard; he was so sore and stiff, so bruised and buffeted he could hardly stand or stumble through the shallow water to lie groaning on the shore."
Ch 10, A Warm Welcome
As was traditional, the raftmen attended a dinner held for them at one particular establishment, called the Gate Stream Inn, which served both elves and men. It was hosted by the Town Master, a genial man. There was passable food and wine and even some singing, but it was otherwise not an eventful evening at the inn, until the first dwarf appeared.
With a loud 'slam!' from the inn's front doors being flung open hard enough to hit the walls behind them, he stood in the doorway and announced that he was Thorin Oakenshield the son of Thrain, son of Thror, the last king of Durin's Folk, and he had returned to claim the throne under the Lonely Mountain. He was followed closely by the Lake-town's chief gate guard, who was providing escort, and three others: two full-grown dwarves and what the townsfolk at first assumed was a dwarf boy child. This last person was shorter than the Longbeards, but did not seem to resemble them in any other way; he was quiet, and beardless, and had large, fur-covered feet. When the citizens learned his ridiculous name, Bilbo Baggins, they laughed, and he was ignored.
The river elves rose up, astonished, and Nendir, his brother, and the others, immediately approached the Town Master to inform him that these dwarves had to be the same ones that had escaped from the king's dungeons and should be turned over to their custody on the spot.
Thorin Oakenshield roared in response to their charges, "It was a mercy that we got out alive!" He threw back his torn cloak, revealing his golden belt and necklace, and then drew up the sleeves of his tattered, stained tunic to show fresh scrapes and bruises on his elbows and forearms. "But it takes more than locks and bars and a magic gate to prevent this rightful king from taking back his throne!"
The dwarf then stood up on a bench and went on to exclaim how he and his companions had crossed the Misty Mountains, and had fought off armies of trolls, goblins, and spiders along the way, and without assistance, only to be wrongfully detained in the Mirkwood caves during their homeward journey by the hostile Elvenking. There was an uncomfortable silence in the room at the charge, but then Thorin laughed heartily while spreading his arms wide and said that his very presence among them showed how the legends of old had at last come to pass.
"We defeated yon king's sly plans to prevent us from regaining our inherited glory, after all, or we would not be here before you, despite his every effort to delay us along our way, and that alone is proof of our claim!" He beamed with delight at his logic.
For a moment, everybody seemed to be speechless in shock, and then pandemonium broke loose. If the King under the Mountain had returned through such trials as were described, then he must be telling the truth. Long forgotten words were recalled of how when the King returned, Erebor would flourish once again as it had in the days of yore. Maybe all of their bad fortune would be reversed! The idea caught on like flames on a dry grassy plain, and within moments a new party was going on to celebrate the happy event. And in the chaos, few cared how the dwarves had arrived, let alone about their temporary imprisonment in the Elvenking's caves.
Nendir was horrified by the spectacle. These dwarves were no better than common criminals and instead of being bound over into the local jail they were being treated as guests of honor, while their tale of abuse at the hands of the Mirkwood elves was repeated as if it was the truth. He searched through the room for a friendly face amongst the townsfolk and used his ears as well.
Some of the townsfolk did not believe a word of it, he was relieved to note. Even though her voice was low, he could hear one woman, her anger apparent beneath her harshly whispered words, scolding someone else for not putting a stop to the nonsense. Nendir craned his neck to see her, and saw a couple standing near the doorway, as if they had just arrived.
He recognized the man as an elf-friend, and an expert bowman, who frequently visited the forest to hunt or came upriver by boat to visit the village. His name was Bard and the young woman beside him must be his sister. They did not live on the rickety piers but instead had a house on dry land some distance away from the Lake-town. Their forefathers were refugees from Dale, important folk, too, but their former family fortune had never recovered and Bard hunted and traded pelts to earn a living.
Women did not usually attend the raucous feasting at the Gate Stream Inn but, when she was younger, Bard's sister had accompanied him on boat trips to visit the raftmen. It had been many years since Nendir had seen her last, and it was always startling to the elves how quickly these mortal children grew into full maturity; it seemed in a blink of an eye they went from childhood to adulthood. But he was sure it was she because her eyes were the same vivid blue and her hair the same glossy black as Bard's. She was very angry.
Oh, she could see the bearded folk with her own eyes, she declared in a husky whisper that she thought was only heard by her brother, so it was not a matter of her doubting their existence. However, she refused to accept their version of their treatment at the hands of the wood-elves. As far as she knew, the good people of the woodland were more likely to provide assistance, than deny it, to those who wandered astray in their forest. If these dwarves had been mistreated then she figured that they had deserved it, or it would not have happened. Nendir took heart from her words and felt less alone.
"You are a stubborn one," said Bard back to her, but with an affectionate tone.
"Do you believe what they say?"
"They have the bruises," he pointed out, "and they look very battered."
"They don't look too bruised to me," she said, although she admitted that there was not enough light in the large smoky hall for her to see them clearly. Nonetheless, it was obvious to her, she added, that in an effort to gain sympathy and toss off suspicion about the truthfulness of their claim, the dwarves might exaggerate their version of events. As Nendir listened to her, she reminded him of his wife, Siriel, and the way she could see through the slightest subterfuge, sometimes to his mortification.
"Did you ask of them over there?" As Bard's sister asked, she turned toward where the raftmen were standing and seemed to look Nendir right in the eyes. He smiled with gratitude at her, but she quickly looked away, her cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment, as if she had not expected to be noticed. There were few other allies in the inn that the elf could find, however, and among most of the Lake-town denizens, the Longbeards not only had an audience for their unbelievably absurd tale of dire misfortune, but the enthusiastic people seemed ready to crown the dwarf named Thorin King of the Lake in their foolishness.
"Stand back!" shouted a man who suddenly stood in the doorway, "stand back for the Lake-town Councilmen!" The noisy townsfolk barely paid attention as their civil leaders crowded into the inn to have a look at the so-called King of the Dwarves. They had hurriedly dressed in their official Lake-town magisterial robes in an effort to flaunt their authority in this time of crisis, presenting a united front. No one seemed to notice. Instead there was a loud squeal near the windows.
"Here come some more of them!" This was directed at the appearance of a few more bedraggled dwarves who came staggering in as if by an awaited signal. Nenchir, taking his position as crew-chief seriously, again approached the Town Master to plead with him on behalf of the Elvenking, and reminded the man how these dwarves had recently escaped from the Mirkwood dungeons and should be returned there immediately.
"I ask for the last time that you help, or at least not hinder, my brother and me while we take custody of these dwarves," he said, adding, "Our king has many legitimate complaints against them, besides the trespassing, such as being a public nuisance and general stiff-neckedness and other behaviors deemed offensive to us or against our laws."
"Stiff-neckedness?" The Town Master kept his well-known and oft-voiced opinion about the stiff neck of the Elvenking to himself but his grinning councilors barely stifled their chuckles until he turned and glared at them. Then he placed his hand upon his chest and spoke with courteous solemnity.
"My good friends," he said, "I have made a sworn oath to protect the best interests of the people of Lake-town, and I would pray that you understand my predicament. Although I neither condone lawbreaking nor seek to alienate such good neighbors as you and your lord, the people of my town seem to have spoken and their wishes are my chief priority. I am afraid the charges you state against the dwarves are meaningless outside of Thranduil's borders." The Councilmen nodded.
"Then so be it," replied Nenchir scornfully, "and you harbor those fugitives at your own peril. Perhaps you will come to regret your decision before long." He shook his head as if he pitied the hapless townsfolk in the thrall of the Longbeards. But he said nothing more.
Unfortunately, the raftmen were ill-prepared to counter the dwarves' clever ability to manipulate public opinion in their favor. They were not interested in causing any trouble and quietly left the inn. When they reached the place where their boat was tied, the first thing the elves noticed were a group of barrels that had been cut free from the raft and carried onto the shore. As the others wondered out loud at the sight, Nendir swore softly under his breath when he counted them; there were exactly thirteen. He and his brothers did not have to think fast to realize who the occupants had been.
This shockingly unexpected outcome of their day's labor humbled the raftmen, who fell silent as their unwitting complicity in the escape came clear. The king's crows had already flown on ahead, carrying the news of the dwarves' whereabouts to the Elvenking, but the elves knew not if their part to play in the whole affair had been discovered.
But no elf feels downhearted for very long and the glittering stars above, the fresh breeze on the river, and a few sips from the flask of miruvor, lifted the raftmen's spirits. They found some solace in the fact that their king's magic gates had not been defeated by the dwarves, after all, and that they had been paid generously for the barrels they delivered, empty or not. Before long they were laughing at themselves for having been well-fooled and they counted their silver while singing snatches of favorite songs as they happily headed for home.
From The Hobbit:
"I have never heard what happened to the chief of the guards and the butler. Nothing of course was ever said about keys or barrels while the dwarves stayed in Lake-town, and Bilbo was careful never to become invisible. Still, I daresay, more was guessed than was known, though doubtless Mr. Baggins remained a bit of a mystery. In any case the king knew now the dwarves' errand, or thought he did, and he said to himself:
'Very well! We'll see! No treasure will come back through Mirkwood without my having something to say in the matter. But I expect they will all come to a bad end, and serve them right!'"
Ch 10, A Warm Welcome
To be continued, but not right away!
A/N: Just a few explanations about liberties taken with Tolkien's universe. The term Glaur (golden light) was invented by my Beta and the event was invented by me. As far as I know, the Mirkwood crows can count higher than twelve if they can count at all.