At the western sewer entrance of Dale, two elite Redmane soldiers pried open a rusted grate with iron hooks, metal screaming against corroded metal.
A fetid stench rushed out like a physical blow, mingling putrid Goblin excrement with the nauseating reek of decaying rats that had been rotting for weeks.
Inside the sewer's black depths, countless gleaming, vicious eyes watched the entry like malevolent stars. Anyone foolish enough to enter would be instantly swarmed, their legs seized and dragged into the suffocating dark by lurking Goblins waiting with razor-sharp claws.
But the Redmane Legion had absolutely no intention of entering such foul places. After years of fighting the dreaded Scarlet Rot, they had witnessed every conceivable trick and developed expert countermeasures, though at the cost of many brave Redmane soldiers who had paid with their lives learning these lessons.
"Fire oil, ready!"
Their knight leader expertly wrapped oil-soaked hemp cord around arrow shafts with practiced precision.
Sensing the soldiers weren't descending into their trap, a scuffling sounded below like rats in the walls. Three desperate Goblins burst from the hole, crude bows drawn to shoot directly at the soldiers' exposed faces.
But poison arrows bounced harmlessly off the Redmane knight's heavy shield like pebbles, clattering onto the scorched ground, where a Redmane soldier calmly stamped them beneath his iron boot.
Flaming arrows were then fired into the tunnels with devastating effect, fire tongues pouring down the branching passages like liquid death and driving twenty or so shrieking Goblins into the open.
These Goblins emerged smoking and charred, some clutching the burning bodies of their fellows as makeshift shields, others feigning death to ambush ankles when soldiers passed by.
"Finishers, forward."
The Redmane knight gave a calm order; the Goblins' desperate tactics were entirely expected and accounted for.
Ten Redmane soldiers advanced with war picks, sweeping the charred street like a methodical comb.
Each pick struck skulls with surgical precision, finishing living and burned Goblins alike with efficient brutality.
In Dale's central square, many Goblin corpses littered the ground, killed with sword and blade. Soldiers turned them over systematically, and some sham dead leapt up only to be promptly riddled by waiting crossbowmen.
Dale had often traded with Dwarves in its prosperous days, so many Dwarves had bought homes there, carving out underground cellars for storing precious ale.
These cellars now posed special problems for complete extermination.
When Redmane soldiers broke open a Goblin-blocked wooden door, they found a dozen famished Goblins gnawing on the roasted limbs of their own kin with animalistic hunger.
These were the lowest slaves of the Goblin underworld, never full, and in Dale had starved for days without relief.
Any food had been claimed by stronger Goblins, so, driven near insanity by hunger, they didn't care whose flesh they ate, feasting ravenously on anything available.
When the Redmane soldiers saw these cannibalistic Goblins, they turned to reveal mouths stuffed with their own kind's flesh and bone fragments.
"Burn it out."
The Redmane knight frowned under his helmet, chilled by memories of similar horrific scenes, coldly gave the order, and walked away without looking back.
The blaze of Redmane firepots erupted behind him, and only the roar of cleansing flames remained.
So the Redmane troops methodically cleared every dry sewer, well, and latrine in Dale, using fire and choking smoke to drive out and slay all Goblins lying in wait for revenge.
After assisting Redmane soldiers with clearing a blood-soaked street, Bard was covered in black soot. Coughing violently, he went to speak with Tarnes.
"You were absolutely right. These soldiers are truly proficient with fire, but they seem almost too eager to use it for everything."
Thorin, who had long been near Tarnes, shrugged with practical wisdom: "Nothing wrong with fire. It cooks food, forges weapons, and can burn our enemies to ash."
Tarnes gave him a wry look: "Clearing Dale will take about a full day. After over a century of abandonment, there are far too many hiding spots for Goblins here. While that's happening, you should have Lake-town's people pack up and get ready to move."
Bard nodded, sighing as he asked with concern: "What about Lake-town? Do we destroy the houses? It's a real shame to just abandon them after so many generations."
Tarnes looked genuinely puzzled: "When did I ever say to abandon Lake-town?"
Bard froze, thinking carefully through their previous conversations. Indeed, Tarnes hadn't said to abandon Lake-town, only suggested bringing people to Dale to avoid Orc attacks.
But if no one lived in Lake-town, wasn't that practically the same as abandoning it?
Bard voiced this logical thought.
Thorin explained for Tarnes with enthusiasm: "Once we Dwarves reclaim the Lonely Mountain, this entire area will revive like spring after winter. I can guarantee that one Dale won't suffice for your future needs. You can build a new road between Lake-town and Dale or merge them into a single prosperous city. Your call entirely. The larger your towns, the more prosperous the Lonely Mountain will be."
So that's the reason, Tarnes silently thought, slightly surprised at Thorin's forward-thinking logic. He had only meant not to waste the old houses, maybe use them as a retreat point.
Bard, halfway through the explanation, realized as much: "I'll go mobilize the townsfolk to move immediately."
By the time Bard returned to Lake-town and had everyone ready to depart, it was noon the next day.
Midday sunshine mingled with lingering charcoal and faint fish odors as Bard stood on the broken dock, watching families loading their precious belongings.
An elderly fisherman gripped his weathered oar, bloodshot eyes locked on the water's reflection with profound sadness.
Once it had reflected his joy at catching a three-foot fish; now only broken ice floated where abundance once lived.
Bard noticed, sighed deeply, and put a comforting hand on the old man's shoulder: "Uncle Tom, it's time."
The old man's throat moved with suppressed emotion, murky tears falling onto frozen knuckles: "I know, but this is my boathouse... my father's nets..."
"We'll come back. I promise," Bard said quietly but firmly.
Many Lake-town residents felt the same. Their homes still held deep attachment when it was time to leave everything behind.
A widow carefully set her two children on a cart. One boy, about eight, broke away from her and ran to the door to retrieve a dirty cloth doll before being pulled back.
A town blacksmith marched at the head with a wheelbarrow full of anvils and hammers, glancing back often at the receding smithy where he'd spent his life.
When Bard led his people to Dale, the town's last wisp of smoke was just fading into memory.
Tarnes and towering Radahn were there, talking; seeing Bard arrive, Tarnes waved: "All the Goblins have been cleared, and the Redmane soldiers and Dwarves readied buildings for your people. Go see Thorin to settle in."
At the wall breach, Bard bowed deeply to Tarnes and Radahn: "Lake-town's people... no, Dale's people will remember this debt."
Radahn nodded calmly, his thoughts fixed not on the humans but on the impending battle with the dragon.
As Tarnes was about to speak, Gandalf hurried over, staff in hand, pipe ash falling.
His brow furrowed with worry. Without greeting, he asked Bard directly: "Bilbo is missing! He was seen this morning fishing at Lake-town's docks! Did you see where he went?"