Bard was frustrated, but he still needed answers. The appearance of orcs in the city was no minor incident; it was an omen. Something dark was moving, and he could not afford to ignore it.
After calming the neighbors who had seen the creatures, he organized patrols, ordered reinforced surveillance, and arranged for the surroundings to be searched. Though he had not desired it, he was acting as a true leader.
Tired and tense, he returned to the Master's house in search of answers… but he did not expect what he found.
"Father!" Sigrid exclaimed.
He almost collided with her; the young woman was carrying a wicker basket overflowing with vegetables. Upon seeing her father's surprised face, she dropped the basket and took refuge in his arms.
"Is it true about the orcs? Are we in danger?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Sigrid! What are you doing here?" he asked, taking her by the shoulders, as worried as he was confused.
"Did you not send for us?" Sigrid looked at him with genuine confusion. "One of the dwarves arrived at the house saying we had to come. Miquella told us to settle in here... that you had decided this palace would be the safest place for us."
Bard clenched his teeth. The knot in his throat transformed into a dull fury. That child was weaving a web around his family, and he was doing it with a saintly smile.
"Papa!" Bain ran from the end of the hallway upon seeing his father.
Bard hugged his son, but his eyes did not stop scanning the room. At the far end, silhouetted against the glare of a large window, he saw Miquella. He stood with his back turned, observing the lake with imperturbable calm.
"Where is Tilda?" Bard asked, with an urgency that frightened his eldest children.
"I don't know... she left with Miquella as soon as we arrived. I haven't seen her since," Sigrid replied, her voice beginning to shake as she noticed the rigidity in her father's body. "Is something wrong?"
"Stay together. Do not separate," Bard ordered, trying to instill a confidence he did not feel.
He walked with heavy steps toward the blonde figure. He stopped several meters away, his hand instinctively seeking the string of his bow.
"Where is my daughter?" he asked, his voice a warning growl.
"Upstairs, at the very top," Miquella replied without deigning to turn around. "She is exploring the tower and the treasure chamber. I told her if she found anything she liked, she could keep it. She is a restrained child; I doubt she will take anything that does not belong to her. Do not worry, Alfrid is guarding her. I warned him that if Tilda suffered the slightest scratch, he would lose a limb for every drop of blood. She will be fine."
"Why have you brought my children here?" Bard could take no more. He drew his bow and aimed the arrow directly at the back of the demigod's neck.
Miquella turned around slowly. His gaze was serene, almost bored, despite having a steel point aimed between his brows. He ignored the threat with a blood-chilling indifference; he didn't even look at Bard's children, who watched the scene with bated breath.
"You are lucky I sent Leda away," Miquella said softly, "or you would have steel at your neck before you could release that string. Just for the gesture."
Without showing a trace of fear, Miquella walked toward one of the three chairs arranged in the center of the hall and sat down with regal elegance.
"Take a seat, Bard," he invited, extending a hand toward the empty chair in front of him. "We have much to discuss and little time before we get busy."
"Why have you brought my children here?!" Bard repeated, his voice vibrating with contained fury, keeping the bow taut.
"Because I like them?" Miquella replied, shrugging with disconcerting naturalness, as if he himself were discovering the reason at that very moment. "I still hope to taste Sigrid's cooking. And Tilda... she is a charming girl, her joy is a good way to brighten my day. As for Bain, I see in him the seed of a great warrior, a trustworthy leader like you... and he will be the future Lord of Esgaroth. I wish to strengthen ties, Bard. Diplomacy, friendship... let's call it preparing the ground for a prosperous future between our peoples."
Bard listened, but his eyes did not stray a millimeter from the target. After witnessing how Miquella manipulated an entire city with a smile, the words of affection sounded like poisoned honey. He decided to ignore the emotional game and strike the core of the problem.
"The business with the orcs... their attack, the dragon..." Bard paused, measuring his words. "Is all of that true? Or is it another of your stage plays?"
"It is the purest truth you will hear today," Miquella affirmed, nodding with sudden gravity. "Though I do not possess all the technical details, that is the general picture. Why do you think I struggle so much to put you in command? What is approaching is not a simple skirmish; it is an army of shadows that neither elves, nor dwarves, nor men could defeat separately. Not without casualties turning victory into a collective grave."
Miquella interlaced his fingers, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward.
"But if we manage to unite them all under a single will..." he whispered, letting the sentence hang in the air like a promise. "So, how about you stop straining that string, sit down, and we talk like the allies we are destined to be?"
Bard did not move immediately. He studied Miquella's eyes like an eagle analyzing its prey, searching for the slightest trace of doubt, a shadow of deceit, or a nervous tick. He found nothing but absolute serenity, a calm so deep that it was impossible to discern where sincerity ended and stratagem began.
Finally, with a sigh of internal defeat, the tension left his arms. Bard lowered the bow, returned the arrow to the quiver, and, after a moment of hesitation, dropped into the chair opposite the demigod. The fate of Esgaroth had just sat down at the table.
Seeing Bard yield and sit, Miquella smiled and reclined in his chair, making himself comfortable, and turned his gaze to the youths waiting in the shadows.
"Bain, would you do me the favor of calling Thorin? Sigrid... the plan for lunch still stands. I am eager to taste your seasoning once more," he said with a kindness that was baffling given the circumstances.
Both children, who had remained petrified seeing their father aim the bow, visibly relaxed. They looked to Bard for confirmation; he, feeling disarmed by the demigod's cunning, gave a slight nod. Cooperating was, for now, his only way to obtain the truth.
Shortly after, Thorin entered the hall. His eyes scanned the scene—Bard seated, Miquella expectant—and he headed for the last empty chair. Bain, after delivering his message, made a move to withdraw, but Miquella's voice stopped him at the threshold.
"You may stay, Bain. We will say nothing you should not hear. As the future Lord of Esgaroth, it is fitting that you begin to understand how the world moves."
Bard and Thorin exchanged a quick glance but remained silent. The dwarf cared little for a human's education, but he respected Miquella's judgment. Bard, though reluctant to expose his son to such things, accepted that Bain should listen; deep down, he doubted he could protect him from the responsibility falling upon them now that they had to be the "new leaders."
"Well, now that we are all gathered, it is time to organize ourselves," Miquella began, interlacing his hands. "Any questions before we get into details?"
"What exactly do you know about this orc army?" Bard asked, going straight to the fear pressing on his chest.
"What orc army?!" Thorin interrupted, instantly alert.
"I think it is time we all become aware of the magnitude of what is coming," Miquella said, fixing his gaze on both leaders. "Yes, an orc army. A vast legion marches toward the Lonely Mountain under the command of Azog the Defiler. Their goal is not just gold; they want Erebor as a strategic point to dominate the North. The squads we have faced on the road are mere trackers compared to what is coming: thousands of warriors, wargs, war trolls..."
"What?!" both exclaimed, rising from their seats with such violence that Bain, startled behind his father, nearly lost his balance.
"The forces of darkness have prepared a total offensive to claim the Mountain," Miquella repeated with a calm, trying to emulate Gandalf.
"When?!" Bard demanded.
"How can you know such a thing?!" Thorin roared, his hatred for Azog threatening to cloud his judgment.
"The 'when' is soon. The 'how I know'... Trina has told me. She has her means of gathering information." Miquella shrugged. "You may doubt, because you do not know her, but I assure you that you would do well to believe it. Did you think the wood-orcs were the end, Thorin? Azog will not stop until he sees you dead. His hosts are gathering in Dol Guldur, the very place Gandalf is riding toward at this precise moment."
"Since when have you known this?! Why have you said nothing before?!" Thorin exploded, his voice breaking from a mix of fury and a frustration bordering on panic.
The dwarven prince directed his anger toward Miquella, desperately seeking someone to blame. The idea of an orc legion marching toward Erebor, after how difficult it had been to survive simple hunting parties, was terrifying. Thorin refused to accept that his reconquest might be doomed before it even began.
Bard was in no better state. An army of such magnitude, even if its goal was the Mountain, would not let Esgaroth survive. Orcs were a plague that consumed everything. There were no allies nearby, except perhaps the Mirkwood elves, and their willingness to help was, at best, doubtful. However, the only thing keeping Bard anchored to sanity was the supernatural calm of the child in front of him. Miquella showed no trace of worry, which suggested that, on his board, there were still possible moves left.
"What are we going to do?" Bard asked. His tone was no longer confrontational, but rather that of someone searching for a path to survive.
"It is not a situation without an exit," Miquella replied with tranquility, fixing his eyes on Thorin.
The dwarf, after muttering a couple of curses under his breath, caught his wind. The momentary despair was replaced by the coldness of a warrior who has been cornered. He sat down again, waiting.
"What is the plan?" Thorin asked.
"First, let us resolve the obstacle before us," Miquella stated.
"Smaug," Thorin understood instantly.
"Is what you said before true?" Bard intervened. "The orcs seek an alliance with the dragon?"
"I cannot say with absolute certainty, but it is the most logical deduction," Miquella explained, interlacing his fingers. "Gandalf already suspected it. Azog would not have tried to kill us with such tenacity if he planned to wait for us to do the dirty work with Smaug. That army has been gestating for years in the shadows of Dol Guldur... If they move now, it is because they believe they can reach an agreement with the beast. We must eliminate that factor. We will kill Smaug before Azog's vanguards sight the peaks of the Mountain."
Miquella spoke with such confidence that it seemed hunting the dragon was an everyday task. Bard frowned, incredulous, but Thorin simply nodded. Not because it was easy, but because it was the only option they had.
"And after?" the dwarf wanted to know.
"We fortify the Mountain. We prepare," Miquella responded confidently. "You will ask for support from the dwarves of the Iron Hills. I will take care of bringing my own allies. We will wait for Gandalf and turn Erebor into an impregnable bastion. If necessary, we will wage a war of attrition."
Miquella turned toward Bard.
"As for the people of Esgaroth, we will move them. They must take refuge in the Mountain with us and join the defense. Distributing the Master's gold is not just justice; it is the fuel for them to fight with fervor in these dark times."
"I see no other option..." Thorin admitted, recognizing that Miquella's design was the most solid they could hope for.
"But how do you plan to kill the dragon?" Bard interrupted.