The passage was dark—darker than anything Bungo had ever experienced. It was not merely the absence of light; it was a thick, pressing darkness that seemed to have weight and substance. Bungo could feel it against his skin, could taste it in the air. He crept forward, one hand on the wall, the other clutching his little elven knife.
Behind him, he could hear the dwarves breathing, waiting at the entrance. They had wanted to come with him, but Gandalf's words had been clear: the hobbit was to go first. He was small and quiet, and the dragon would not hear him—not if he was careful.
Bungo was not sure he felt careful. He felt terrified. But he kept moving, one step at a time, deeper into the Mountain.
The passage sloped downward, then levelled out. Bungo's outstretched hand touched emptiness, and he realised he had reached a larger space—a chamber, or a hall. He stood still, listening.
He heard it then: a sound like a great bellows, slow and deep. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. It was the dragon, sleeping.
Bungo's heart pounded so loudly he was sure it would wake the beast. He forced himself to breathe slowly, to calm down. Then he crept forward again, feeling his way along the wall.
A faint light appeared ahead—a red glow, pulsing like a dying fire. It came from around a corner, and Bungo knew it was the dragon. He approached with infinite caution, pressing himself against the wall, and peered around the edge.
The sight took his breath away.
He was looking into a vast hall, bigger than anything he could have imagined. The ceiling vanished into darkness above, and the floor was piled high with treasure—gold coins, silver cups, gems, jewels, armour, weapons, everything that could be gathered and hoarded. It rose in great mounds, like hills of wealth, glittering in the red light.
And on top of the largest mound lay the dragon.
Smaug was enormous. His body was longer than Bungo's entire hole, coiled around the treasure like a great serpent. His scales were red-gold, gleaming in the light of the fire that burned in his belly. His head rested on his forelegs, his eyes closed, but even in sleep he looked terrible and powerful. Steam rose from his nostrils with each breath, and his claws, each as long as Bungo's arm, were buried in the gold beneath him.
Bungo stared, frozen with fear and wonder. Then he remembered why he was there. He was supposed to find the Arkenstone—the great jewel that Thorin valued above all others. It was said to be buried somewhere in the hoard.
He crept forward, moving from shadow to shadow, his eyes scanning the piles of treasure. Gold and gems winked at him from every side, but he ignored them. He was looking for something special, something that would shine with its own light.
And then he saw it.
It was a white gem, the size of a pigeon's egg, glowing with an inner fire. It lay half-buried in a pile of coins, and even in the dim light, it seemed to pulse with light. The Arkenstone.
Bungo reached for it, his fingers trembling. His hand closed around the gem, cool and smooth. He tucked it into his pocket and began to creep back towards the passage.
But as he moved, his foot struck a golden goblet. It clattered against the coins, the sound echoing in the vast hall like thunder.
The dragon's eyes snapped open.