The Whirlwind 7: Bard
There was no place on the lake stable enough to hold a large gathering, so the people of Lake-town had trudged over the bridge and convened on the Fishermen's beach.
Not all could come; some were bound to their beds for the coming days, others lay buried over the Creek, never to rise again. But those injured who could still walk made the short journey to the shore, resting now on washed-up logs.
"More than one third of our houses collapsed, or should be helped to. There isn't enough roof for all our heads and winter is almost upon us."
Alfrid seemed only in the middle of his speech, the Master nodding sagely behind his weaselly aide, and Bard dearly wished they would get to the point of it. He rather suspected he knew where all this was going.
"We need provisions to rebuild and we need gold to buy them. Luck shines upon us on the morn of such devastation, though, for there's a horde of treasure all abandoned by the dragon, waiting for those fastest to grab it."
Bard was actually quite surprised the Master wasn't already halfway up the Mountain, with all his guards to carry back as much gold as possible. It appeared that there was still some caution left in the Master's greedy body.
"Aren't there Dwarves up the mountain?" Jarl's hoarse voice shouted from the crowd.
"All of them most probably dead by now," Alfrid quickly retorted. "The dragon wouldn't have left his lair with them still breathing inside. And if they by any chance survived, well, then it'll be well within our rights to demand reparations for our damaged property—as it was surely them who woke the dragon!"
"Haven't met a Dwarf yet who would part with his gold easily," Old Jorn's widow grumbled loud enough to carry across the beach. "They won't hand over their coins just like that."
"Well, should they prove to be unreasonable, it would be their own loss. After all, there were how many of them—ten, or fifteen at most, when they passed through the town?"
Alfrid's eyes found Bard then, followed by many others as the weasel paused in his speech leadingly. Bard took a long, shuddering breath, knowing he could no longer stay silent.
"No matter how many Dwarves are in the Mountain right now, breathing or not, there will be hundreds of them in a few weeks' time. Iron Hills lie just a seven days ride from here—Iron Hills, where half of our trade comes from, if you all pause to remember. The Dwarves will come to reclaim their city; how do you think they would take it if we were to plunder it first?"
"Who speaks of plundering? We'd only be taking what we're rightly owed as-"
"There'll be no stealing from the Mountain!"
The Master stood at Bard's interruption, raising from the chair he'd had his guards brought to the beach. "And by whose authority are you to give orders, Bard, the bargeman?"
Bard stared at the opulent man, searching for the words that could change the man's mind, and found none. He wasn't the one Bard needed to convince.
He turned to face the crowd. "Erebor will once again become our closest neighbour, and the most important ally for many years to come. We ought to treat them fairly."
"What would you have us do, then? We lost our homes!"
"I would have you rebuild them. But we'll need timber, time and able men for that, not stolen Dwarven gold. If coin's needed, we'll trade or borrow."
A wave of grumbling swept through the assembled crowd. And yet, Barn thought he could hear reluctant agreement in there. This was a town of fishermen after all, not warriors. No one fancied a fight with the fierce Dwarves.
"It'll be a bloody drafty winter on the lake, what with half of our walls missing," someone's voice carried over the others, and Bard recognised this as the right moment to lay the rest of his plans out.
A shot of fear halted his tongue, though, the weight of the responsibility landing on his shoulders with sudden ferocity. If he's wrong, lots of these people might starve.
His eyes unwittingly found Harry in the crowd. The lad was already looking at Bard, an understanding smile on his face. Upon meeting Bard's gaze, Harry raised his chin and, holding his eyes, resolutely nodded.
Bard understood the message. He sent a quick prayer to all the Valar who deigned to listen that Harry was right, that the ruins were indeed salvageable and they could survive there even through the harsh season.
"We don't have to spend winter on the lake. There are other homes that we could rebuild instead," he spoke slowly, waiting for his neighbours to catch his meaning. "Erebor is not the only city that suddenly found itself without a dragon guarding it."
"Dale? It lies in ruins!"
"Aye, it does, now. So does a part of Lake-town. As I see it, we have harsh months in front of us either way. But, I'd rather put my efforts into rebuilding a proper home, a city that has the chance to prosper again once the Dwarves return to the Mountain."
"How do you know what state it's in? That it can even be rebuilt? No one has stepped foot inside in almost two hundred years!"
"We scouted it," Bard said, careful not to look at Harry. No matter how unfair Bard found it, Harry was right that the news would be better received if he wasn't revealed as the source. "It's possible. The first few mounts will be difficult, but so would winter on the lake—in Dale, at least, there'll be no more stench of fish oil and tar. No more damp. Nor draft."
No more Master and his grabby guards. Although he didn't need to say that last bit out loud.
He caught some of their attention, he was sure he had. He straightened his spine to deliver his decision. "Tomorrow morning, my family is leaving for Dale. Anyone's welcome to join us."
He turned to leave after that, although his traitorous ears strained to listen for the reactions. The crowd was hushed at first, until a female's voice, gruff enough to be Inge's, spoke over the whispers. "Well, I'm with the Dragonslayer. If he says it can be done, it'll be done."
Bard suppressed a twitch at the new title. He suspected he would have hated it even had it been true. Now, it was almost unbearable to hear.
His eyes once again slipped towards Harry. Bard wondered if he would one day grow to hate his friend for making a liar out of him.
Four mornings later found Bard once again hard at work long before the rest of his family rose from their beds, his erratic thoughts not allowing for sleep more than a few hours past midnight.
The granary would have to come next. People would grumble, complain about not patching up enough homes first, but there was no point in scrambling for provisions if they had nowhere dry to keep them.
People would come to see the necessity. They'd survived the first three nights crammed together in close quarters, they would survive a few more. Besides, fewer homes, fewer hearths. Less burnt firewood.
Wood was another worry on Bard's long list of items they had in short supply, with very little idea of how to go about acquiring more. Not only firewood, but also timber, to replace the old and rotting roof trusses. Unlike other materials they could pilfer from houses collapsed beyond saving, the old timber in the city was all long decayed, hardly suitable for reuse.
In days of old, they would have rafted logs down the river from the hills, but Bard did not have the luxury of time to let the wood dry. Neither there were any trees growing up on the peaks, not since Smaug had laid waste to this land. His only option, however expensive it would most probably prove, would be to barter for some timber from Lake-town, at least for this winter if not-
"So this is where you've been hiding. Tilda said you left long before they woke up."
His thoughts came to an abrupt halt and Bard swore as the chisel slipped on the shingle he'd been cleaning. It scratched his thumb and he watched as blood surged to the surface of the small cut. It wasn't deep, certainly not worth stitching.
He looked up to find Harry standing in the door frame. It had caved in at one point, as had the rest of the house. There wasn't much left of it, especially after yesterday, when Bard and his men had taken apart its roof. It was still clear it used to be a baker's home before the dragon had come, by the two collapsed ovens. Bard now sat on one of them.
"I thought I'd get a headstart." Bard indicated the neat pile of clean roof tiles, next to the much bigger heap of shingles still covered in crumbling mortar. He returned to the tile in his lap, keeping his eyes on the chisel as it cut off the coat of old plaster bit by bit. Perhaps, Harry would understand he was not yet up for a conversation.
He heard the lad let out a soft sigh. Next, Harry was stepping inside and taking a seat on a pile of rotten beams. It settled beneath his weight, leaning on one side precariously. Without the roof, the inside was covered with morning dew; Bard could feel its chill seeping through his coat and he saw Harry slip on the wet surface of the wood. He made to catch him, but Harry managed to righten himself before Bard's arm reached him.
With his seat secured, Harry frowned at the chisel in Bard's hands. "Maybe you should give the wonders of delegation a try."
Bard knew it was meant mainly in a jest, but in his current disposition, he couldn't help but feel it as plain reproof. The new settlement was struggling, they had three hard days behind them and only harder ones to look forward to. And all that kept gnawing at Bard's mind throughout those three days, through all his worrying, through the people's complaints, all the mistakes made and shortcomings revealed, was that it shouldn't be him leading, that his people were putting their faith in a wrong person, an imposter, and that if Harry had only stepped forward with the truth, he would have done a better job of taking care of them.
This latest jab was just another painful reminder on an already long list of cases when Harry had proven to come forward with a better suggestion.
But Bard swallowed the bitterness, knowing it wouldn't lead anywhere if he acted on it. He'd given Harry his word, and that was that.
"I can't sit idle for long. Keeping my hands busy helps my thoughts move along, too," he said instead.
"I understand that."
Bard could believe that. The weight of experience in Harry's eyes just now did not suit the rest of his youthful face and not for the first time, Bard wondered what sort of being his friend really was.
"I'm here with a suggestion."
Bard carried on with the chiselling but he dipped his chin to show he was listening.
"I overheard you talking with Inge and Jarl- about Dale being too far away from the closest farmers."
That was another worry on Bard's long list. The farmers south of the Lake used to make the journey to Lake-town's market twice a week, if the weather permitted. Even by the Mountain River, Dale was more than another half a day of vigorous rowing further, which, Bard knew, would discourage most of them from making the journey. When the snow and ice came, the river would turn too treacherous to traverse altogether.
They'd need to set up a trading post on the lake, or just send people shopping to Lake-town's market. He could already see the outrageous fees the Master would impose. But the other option was winter with no dairy. Bard's pride as a fisherman was not such as to blind him to the disadvantages of a season on a strictly fish diet.
Bard finished cleaning the shingle and reached for another one. "What's your idea?"
"I was thinking I could leave and buy us some goats. A trip or two, maybe."
Bard stopped his chiselling. "Most of the spring doelings have been butchered this late into the year, and no one's going to sell you their breeders. You'll have to search far and wide to get more than a few goats and the paths are quickly turning treacherous with ice."
"Then I'll do that. Distance isn't really an issue. I could be at the Iron Mountains before lunch."
Bard's brows rose at the impossibility of such a feat, at least for the feet of Men or hooves of horses. "What of the journey back? You'd have to shepherd the goats."
"I'm perfectly able to herd a pack of dumb animals, icy paths or not."
In face of Harry's confidence, Bard paused to seriously think over the suggestion. "We'll need hay to feed them through winter."
"Then I'll buy hay, too."
"What will you pay with, though? We can barely scrape enough for wheat, let alone livestock."
Harry cautiously shook his head. "I still have some savings left. I'll be happy to use it."
Bard easily recognised Harry's hesitation for the fear that his generosity wouldn't be well received. Bard was over such delicacies. Everyone who wanted to live in the city was welcome to make an investment. Bard knew the time would come when Dale would be able to pay back. If that wouldn't happen fast enough, he could perhaps ask Thorin for a loan.
He was still doubtful of Harry's latest idea, though. "It'll take you days before you shepherd the goats back, maybe even a couple of weeks. Are you sure it's a good idea to leave for such a long time?"
Bard truly hoped it didn't sound as the pleading he partly felt it was. After all, it was Harry who gave him the confidence to start with this venture.
Harry sighed and leaned to rest his back against the moss covered wall. "I'm doing the best I can to help," he said and Bard did believe him- he'd caught glimpses of the lad working at any time of the day, he'd seen the dirt of a building site behind the lad's fingernails and on the knees of his breeches; the stained look a stark contrast to the lad's odd insistency on cleanliness.
Even now, Bard noticed the green smudges on Harry's neck and forehead, where he hadn't quite managed to wash the dirt away. Bard paused then, and scanned the lad properly, taking in his blushed skin, pink in the chill of the morning, the damp hair and- was that kelp by his ear?
"-but I could be doing a bit more if no one's there to see it," Harry added, intoning carefully.
It took a moment for the meaning to register through Bard's wandering thoughts, but it did and with it resurfaced the bitterness at Harry's secrecy. Bard steeled his mind against such sour thoughts and pledged not to let them leak through his faith that Harry had a good reason for keeping his abilities hidden. "Very well. When would you be leaving?"
"Right after I pack, if that's not a problem."
Bard nodded.
"Have you just gone swimming?" he asked to confirm his startling suspicion, before he let the lad go.
Harry grimaced, sheer repulsion scrunching up his face. "You really don't want to know."
Once again, Bard chose to trust him.
He put down his chisel and leaned towards his friend. Grasping his forearm, he squeezed it tightly. "Be safe. And say a proper goodbye to Tilda before you leave."
Harry rolled his eyes, for once showing the same youthful petulance Bard's children tended to demonstrate. He strode away without another word, leaving Bard alone again with his pile of shingles and his mangle of thoughts.
It didn't take long for his early morning peace to get interrupted again. He'd managed to chisel off mortar from only ten more tiles or so, when another boy appeared in the doorframe. Bard recognised him as Eryka's youngest, Axel- or Apsel.
"Bard, there's- there's an army of Elves marching at the city."
Several hours and two audiences with two equally maddening Kings later left Bard in a truly poor mood.
He only barely managed to restrain his anger until the moment when he was no longer within Thranduil's hearing, escaping into one of the many ruins atop Dale's hill to hide away from anyone's sight.
Although- who knew how sensitive the pointy ears really were? He realised he cared very little, as he grabbed the nearest thing and threw it against the wall. He watched as the rusty tray dented the crumbling walls, fell to the ground and rolled into a stop beneath a frameless window. It offered a view of the Lonely Mountain and the newly barred gate into the Dwarven kingdom. Much closer, it showed the walls of Dale, currently brimming with the gold of the Elven army.
"Greedy, hypocritical kings," Bard hissed through his teeth. "The both of them!"
He startled at the sound of loose rubble slipping, followed by footsteps. He spun around to see a figure approaching, not from the entrance, but from further inside the house, where it lay open to the elements with one entire wall collapsed.
He felt his heart lighten with relief when he recognised Harry. "You came back!"
Harry nodded. "I flew right back when I saw the Elves arriving."
"You were here the entire day? Why haven't you shown yourself? I could have used your help with Thranduil- and also with Thorin."
"You've done just fine, more than fine, actually. I'm of more use to you observing from afar."
"Well, what have you observed, then? What should I do?"
Harry's brows were furrowed and Bard was glad to see the worry in the eyes below them, as opposed to the ignorant and awed-filled gazes his other neighbours kept bestowing at their Elven visitors.
"You've done well not to be placated by Thranduil's gifts," Harry said. "Accepting his charity does not make you indebted or obliged to ignore his transgressions."
Bard let out a soft sigh at hearing someone else voice his reasoning. He felt gratitude towards Thranduil for his caravan of food, he truly did, but he also refused to let it blind him to Thranduil's greed and his plans to attack the Dwarves, unprovoked.
Still, he frowned. "What difference does my decision make, though? We're just a couple of hundreds strong, Thranduil has brought thousands. If he truly marches at the Mountain, there's very little I can do to stop him."
"You can either condone or condemn his actions. If nothing else, that makes a huge difference in the long run."
"But in the meantime, we end up alienating one of our two most important neighbours."
"True. But right now, you're still a friend to both. You need to stop this insanity."
"How? There's no talking to Thranduil, not when he feels he has such an upper hand. And Thorin- Did you follow me to the Mountain? Did you listen as we spoke?" At Harry's sharp nod, Bard continued. "That was not the same Dwarf we met a few days ago."
Bard watched as Harry turned towards the window that showed Erebor's gates, eyes narrowed in contemplation. It took the lad a while to speak up again. "Remind the Elf king what happens when Dwarven halls lie abandoned. Would he rather have Dwarves or Orcs for neighbours?"
Bard blanched at that prospect. Harry wasn't done talking, though. "As for Thorin—something must have happened. A few days ago, he was willing to offer the Elves anything in that mountain in exchange for healing his nephew. Now, though-"
A commotion outside made them both fall silent and listen to the frantic hooves and a booming voice that echoed through the streets of the hill and rose over the other noises of the busy afternoon. "Let me through, let me through! Who's in charge here?"
Bard let out a sigh, steeling himself against another complication. From his right, he heard a rustling of fabric and when he turned, Harry wasn't standing there anymore. Instead, his eyes caught the tail feathers of a grey bird disappearing through the window.
Bard took in a deep breath and hoped his friend wouldn't actually let him face the day truly alone. He stepped out onto the street and looked for the horse and its loud rider.
That was how Bard met a Wizard for the first time in his life.
And—as Bard would later learn to be the theme—Gandalf brought grave tidings with him.
An hour or so later, dusk was almost upon them and all three occupants of the lavish tent recognised that this conversation was not leading anywhere. At least Bard was very much aware of it. His frustration made him pace the length of the plush Elvish rug hiding the city rubble underneath, but he was yet unwilling to stride off entirely and leave their plans unfinished. If there really was an army of Orcs advancing on the city, as the Wizard claimed, then Bard couldn't let Thranduil just brush the matter aside-
He stopped his frantic pacing when he heard Bain's voice from outside of the tent. "Da."
His eyebrows rising, Bard beckoned the guard to let his son through. Bain's eyes swept nervously over the imposing figure of the Elvenking, to the dishevelled robes of the Wizard, before finally settling on Bard.
"The scouts have returned, Da," Bain intoned carefully.
Bard frowned at his son in confusion. They hadn't sent off anyone to scout, at least he hadn't given any such orders- but Bain kept staring intently into his eyes, as if imploring him to understand the rather simple message- and then Bard did.
He swiftly made to leave before remembering the Elvenking and the Grey Pilgrim in the tent with him. "I'll be only a moment," he said hastily and then strode away on Bain's heels without waiting for their leave.
Bain didn't lead him far away, just three houses down the street. Harry was sitting on a windowsill, his back to the twilight sky.
"There's really an army of Orcs marching towards us," he said in lieu of a greeting.
It stopped Bard in his tracks. His arm reached for his son almost on its own accord, squeezing Bain's shoulder. "How far?"
Harry frowned. "They are just south of the Lake Hills ridge. I don't know how quickly an army can cross through the mountain paths, but they might get here as early as sundown tomorrow, if they don't rest much over the night."
Bard shook his head slowly. "They won't. No Orc sleeps the eve before a promise of a battle. How many?"
"They'll cover the valley twice over, Bard."
Bard felt his eyes close, but there was no hiding before the truth. Quite on the contrary, in the dark behind the lids, his head quickly filled up with images of Orcs surging in waves at the city. He quickly opened his eyes again, his gaze unerringly finding Harry's. "Dale is not defendable, not with the walls as they are. We need to get our people out of here."
Harry nodded but frowned a moment later. "Bard- it's not the only army heading this way. Dwarves from the Iron Hills are marching, too—with their wargoats and chariots and whatnot. Even if they rest for the night, they could be here by mid-morning."
Bard's first reaction was to let out another tired sigh at yet another complication, before he stopped himself and looked at Harry sharply. "Will it be enough? The Elves and the Dwarves and our men—could we stop the Orcs?"
Harry looked like he was about to give a swift answer, before suddenly deflating and shrugging his shoulders. "What do I know? I've never seen a Dwarf or Elf fight, nor an Orc for the matter. They'd still outnumber us, three to one maybe, and they seem to have trolls bigger than this house trudging along. I think I saw catapults harnessed to some of those trolls, too."
Bard idly wondered at Harry's claim of never having seen an Orc fight—how many people were this lucky? Especially people like Harry, who seemed to have enough experience not to hesitate or squirm when piercing a sword through a dragon's eye. But the bigger part of his mind was already occupied with forming vague plans.
"If I were to get Thranduil and Gandalf—and probably even the Master of Lake-town," Bard added with a frown of distaste, "talking about a battle plan, do you think- could you get the Dwarves to join?"
Bard made sure to stare into Harry's eyes, trying to impose the message that he was not talking about Harry's skills in diplomacy. He recognised the moment when his meaning must have registered, for Harry's shoulders dropped and he averted his eyes.
"I can't promise anything," Harry said at last. "I've no idea what's at play at that mountain. But I'll try my best."
Bard was aware how little he knew of Harry's abilities, but he was beginning to understand that Harry's promise for his best could indeed be a truly valuable thing to hold. "Let's plan for a council tomorrow, with first light. Halfway between Dale and Erebor."
Harry tilted his head before he spoke up. "Better schedule it for tonight. The Elves are planning to march against the Dwarves in the morning. Let's not give them any more time bracing up for the wrong fight."
"The Dwarves would suspect treachery if we set up the meeting in the dark."
"The Dwarves will be able to see much better than any Elf or Man. The timing will actually be to their advantage."
Bard could easily concede that point. "Two chimes from sundown then."
One leg almost out the door, Bard only waited for Harry's confirmation.
Instead, Harry beckoned him back.
"Bain, could you fetch us a quill and some parchment? I'll need that invitation in writing, Bard."
A/N: If you thought the sequence of Bard's thoughts on the matter of timber and shingles and goats was too long, I let you know it could have been much worse—because I absolutely love survival stories and their like. Luckily, you've been spared, as the scenes in this first act are supposed to be short and snappish and this chapter was already dragging.
However, if you're up for a good HP survival story, I cannot recommend enough
Island of Fire by esama.
It's a somewhat finished series, an account of how some hundred or so students from Hogwarts, Durmstrang and Beaxbatons got stranded on an island (and in a different world, of course) and built another Atlantis out of it. Harry, naturally, becomes their leader. I reread it every two years, like clockwork.
.
(I'd like to give something back to the authors that have directly or indirectly inspired me in my own writing. At the end of my chapters, I'll be mentioning stories that I'm more than happy to recommend for your further reading)
