The barrels bobbed and spun on the current, carried by the Forest River out of the Elvenking's halls and into the heart of Mirkwood. Inside his cramped prison, Bungo lost all sense of time. It might have been hours, or days, or only minutes—he could not tell. He was cold, wet, bruised, and thoroughly miserable.
Every so often, his barrel would bump against another, and he would hear a muffled groan or a curse from one of the dwarves. At least they were all alive. That was something.
The river wound through the forest, sometimes slow and placid, sometimes swift and turbulent. The barrels spun and crashed against rocks, and Bungo was thrown about like a rag doll. He tried to curl into a ball to protect himself, but there was not enough room. He took the bumps as they came and tried to think of something else—his garden, his pantry, anything but the cold dark water rushing past outside.
At last, after what seemed like an eternity, the river slowed. The barrels drifted into a calm pool, and Bungo felt them bump gently against something solid—a bank, or a dock. He held his breath and listened.
He heard voices. Not elvish voices, but the rough speech of Men. He heard the creak of ropes and the splash of poles in the water. Then he heard a great crashing and splintering, and the barrel above him was broken open.
"By my beard!" cried a voice. "It's a dwarf!"
"Dwarves!" cried another. "There's dwarves in the barrels!"
Bungo's own barrel was seized and broken open, and he tumbled out onto the dock, gasping and shivering. He looked up to find himself surrounded by Men—tall, rough-looking fellows with axes and poles, staring at him in amazement.
Around him, the other dwarves were emerging from their barrels, soaked and bedraggled but very much alive. They drew themselves up and tried to look dignified, which was difficult when you were dripping wet and covered in river weeds.
"Who are you?" demanded one of the Men, a big fellow with a bushy beard and a scar across his cheek. "And what are you doing in our barrels?"
"I might ask you the same question," said Thorin, with as much dignity as he could muster. "These are our barrels. We were... shipping ourselves."
The Men stared at him. Then one of them burst out laughing, and soon they were all roaring with laughter, slapping their knees and wiping their eyes.
"Shipping yourselves!" cried the scarred man. "In barrels! That's the best thing I've heard in years. Where are you from, master dwarf? And where are you going?"
Thorin drew himself up to his full height. "I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain. We are going to reclaim our homeland from the dragon Smaug."
The laughter stopped. The Men looked at each other, then back at the dwarves, with new respect—and a little fear.
"The dragon," said the scarred man slowly. "You're going to fight the dragon?"
"We are going to try," said Thorin.
The Men were silent for a moment. Then the scarred man stepped forward and held out his hand.
"I am Bard," he said. "Welcome to Lake-town."