As expected, at Bard's earnest request, Thranduil did not make too much trouble regarding the dwarves' request to leave his territory.
Though he still mocked Thorin and the dwarves a few times.
Thranduil leaned back in his antlered throne, his slender fingers tapping the armrest, his silver-grey eyes scrutinizing the people below, his silver hair flowing over his shoulders like moonlight.
He asked Bard, "I'd like to hear how you plan to get this group of short dwarves, whose beards aren't even properly concealed, past the Long Lake Town Guards' inspection?"
Bard placed one hand on his chest and bowed, his tone as steady as ever: "I plan to have Thorin Oakenshield and his kin pose as a timber caravan, while Arthur and his companions will register as escorting mercenaries."
"That's a feasible plan."
Thranduil leaned back in his throne, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
He continued, "After all, half of the ships traveling between the Woodland Realm and Lake-town these past few years have been arranged by you. However…"
Thranduil's tone shifted: "However, I know the Master of Lake-town well. An ordinary caravan probably wouldn't be enough to satisfy him and his parasitic cronies, would it?"
Bard maintained his bowing posture: "Therefore, I humbly request, King Thranduil, that you allocate some of the fine wine consumed by the Elves. If you could also bestow upon me some fruit from the Golden Tree Territory, that would be even better. I heard that the twenty cases of special mead shipped to Lake-town last month are safely stored in the Master's mansion's cellar."
Thranduil revealed a cold smile: "If it were just you, I could, for the sake of your ancestor Girion, even give it to you for free. But you want me to give these things for free to these dwarves who are undoubtedly cursing me in their hearts? Don't even think about it. Allowing them to leave my territory is already my greatest mercy. Girion's descendant, Bard, you'll have to figure it out yourself."
However, although the Elven King said this, his gaze fell upon Arthur.
Fruit from the Golden Tree Territory?
Hmm, Thranduil did say before that the fruit from my territory is very popular outside, and the Elves of the Woodland Realm often purchase these fruits at high prices from the humans of Lake-town.
With that look, he couldn't possibly be asking me for some fruit from the Golden Tree Territory, could he?
Arthur felt a bit of a toothache, not because he didn't want to give it, but because he genuinely didn't have any on him right now.
He was quite puzzled as to why Thranduil was so insistent on the Erdtree's fruit. Could it really be that delicious?
If it were just simply delicious fruit, Thranduil naturally wouldn't show such an expression.
However, it was the peculiar golden energy contained within the fruit from the Golden Tree Territory that truly piqued Thranduil's curiosity.
After eating those fruits, Thranduil could clearly feel that the burn on his cheek, which had been unable to heal, was showing signs of gradually recovering.
Arthur also realized at this moment that Thranduil might be interested in the faint Grace contained within the fruit, and felt that he should proactively say something.
However, Thranduil's gaze remained fixed on him, which Bard also noticed, looking over with curiosity.
Bard was unsure why Thranduil was looking at Arthur, but he didn't speak, waiting quietly instead.
Arthur pondered for a moment, then spoke: "King Thranduil, I wish to make a trade with you as the Lord of the Erdtree."
Thranduil immediately nodded: "What kind of trade?"
You were really waiting for me to speak, weren't you?
Arthur silently complained in his heart, then said: "A pendant. I wish to exchange it for the items Bard mentioned, and its value far exceeds what you would give. But I am willing to use it to make a friend of you, to symbolize our friendship."
Then, a pure gold amulet pendant, shaped like a teardrop, appeared in Arthur's hand. Carved on the pendant were hands receiving golden dew drops and a holy grail design.
Thranduil immediately rose from his antlered throne and quickly strode a few steps to stand before Arthur.
"You are actually willing to trade such a treasure to me? In some sense, it is even more precious than the arkenstone the dwarves are searching for." Thranduil immediately sensed the extraordinary nature of this pendant, his tone even showing some surprise.
Arthur nodded, not speaking.
Anyway, he had several of these pendants, and they weren't particularly useful in combat.
But since Thranduil considered it very precious, Arthur felt there was no need to explain too much.
Moreover, if Thranduil still had other opinions, Arthur was truly prepared to let him know that the Bards' descriptions of him were not exaggerated.
"Then I also swear, the Lord of the Erdtree, the mighty and generous wizard Arthur, shall forever be a friend of the Woodland Realm, and my good friend, Thranduil!"
Indeed, Thranduil let out a rare hearty laugh, and even, to the shocked gazes of his Elven guards, stepped forward and gently embraced Arthur.
Bard was equally shocked; he remembered that Elves would not even have physical contact with their blood relatives.
What precious item did Arthur give to Thranduil?
Although Bard desperately wanted to know, he was also very smart not to ask.
Thorin's expression was not good. He knew that for Thranduil to show such happiness, Arthur must have brought out something extraordinary, otherwise it would be impossible to move this Elven King.
As soon as he thought that Arthur was spending so much for his sake, his hatred for Thranduil deepened from the bottom of his heart, and at the same time, he blamed himself for always letting Arthur help him.
Thorin raised his hand and gently patted Arthur's back. When the other looked at him, he said in a low, but sincere and firm voice: "Regarding this pendant, I will compensate you with the corresponding money. You have already done more than enough for me; you must accept this money."
After he finished speaking, he left without waiting for Arthur to say anything.
Because Thorin found Thranduil's laughter too grating.
After obtaining what he needed, Bard quickly disguised Thorin and his dwarves as a dwarf merchant caravan heading to the Iron Hills.
Arthur and Bernal also changed their equipment, as their armor clearly wasn't something normal mercenaries could afford.
Now they were dressed as wandering knights, which at least didn't look out of place within this disguised caravan.
As for Millison and Igon, they didn't need to change their equipment.
Millison's own attire was not extravagant and suited someone who frequently traveled.
As for Igon, with his patchwork armor salvaged from battlefield remnants, it's unlikely anyone in Lake-town would believe him if he claimed to be a mercenary.
And Bilbo, due to his height, was dressed by Bard to resemble a dwarf.
Led by Bard, Arthur and Thorin arrived outside Lake-town as the first rays of sunlight appeared.
"This is practically an isolated city on the water, struggling to survive in the cold and loneliness," Bofur murmured, looking at the outline of Lake-town.
The other dwarves nodded in agreement, thinking Bofur was right.
Arthur squinted, looking at Lake-town.
It was like a rusty bronze armor, heavily floating on the dark lake surface, reflecting the lead-gray clouds in the sky and the dark silhouette of the Lonely Mountain in the distance.
Lake-town seemed to be composed of countless crooked wooden piles, which pierced into the lakebed like the rotten ribs of a giant, supporting the uneven wooden buildings.
These houses, soaked by time, were like inverted fangs, layered and interlocked on the spiderweb-like jetties.
Faded canvas flapped in the cold wind, damp ropes hung down like gallows nooses, and every wooden board groaned under the frost and mist.
The smell of fish and decaying wood drifted through the narrow alleys, and occasionally a hunched figure wrapped in an oilcloth cloak would flash by, their footsteps silently swallowed by the damp air.
Cold lake water seeped through the cracks in the stone bricks of the town square, and sparks from the blacksmith's forge sizzled as they fell into the puddles.
Fishmongers' stalls were piled high with salmon shimmering with an eerie silver light, their scales reflecting the dim oil lamp glow from the tavern.
Several ghostly fishing boats were always moored at the dock, their sails patched upon patched, resembling the ragged clothes of beggars.
But the most striking was the Mayor's pointed-roof mansion, its cedar wood exterior painted with clumsy gold lacquer, and its stained-glass windows oozing a greedy glimmer in the twilight—it was the only building that looked very luxurious, and also the tallest house in Lake-town.
And beneath the lake surface, countless rotten beams were like the hands of drowned men reaching towards the sky.
Women wove fishing nets with frozen fingers, and children passed terrifying nursery rhymes about the Dragon under the thinly iced eaves.
But smoke still rose from the crooked chimneys, and fishermen still cast their nets in the morning mist, as if this floating city would never sink.
"I find it hard to imagine people still living in a place like this," Gloin grumbled, commenting.
Bombur rubbed his plump belly and said, "I'm more curious about the people inside, what do they eat?"
"Perhaps it's smelly fish salvaged from the bottom of the lake, or maybe those green algae that taste unknown," Bofur replied, making a disgusted expression appear on Bombur's face.
Bard heard the dwarves' words and calmly said, "But we not only live here, but have lived for generations. As for what we eat, as long as we don't starve to death, it's fine."
He then moored the small boat in the shadow of the old dock's wreckage, the bow making a faint cracking sound as it touched the three-finger-wide layer of ice on the water.
He lowered his voice and said, "Alright, keep your voices down. There are guards not far ahead, and the Mayor has put a bounty of twenty silver coins on my head, so we'll stop here."
Thorin also said in a low voice, "It sounds like your daughters are worth more than you? After all, they are worth one Black Arrow plus ten gold coins."
Bard nodded as a matter of course: "Of course, my precious darlings are priceless."
The dwarves' breaths condensed into white mist in the cold air, and Kili was about to speak but was elbowed in the ribs by Fili.
From a distance came the dull thud of iron boots on the jetty, and the Long Lake Town Guards' torch swayed in the morning mist like a bloodshot eyeball.
"Remember, you are a caravan transporting fruit and mead to the Iron Hills. I've already told you where my house is; the Black Arrow is on the beam above the dining table in my house."
Bard cut the boat rope with a dagger and watched them step onto the jetty on floating rotten wood, the decaying planks groaning like dying creatures under the dwarves' boots.
Only when Arthur and Thorin and the other dwarves were completely obscured by the mist did he begin to bend down and arrange the anchor.
As Bard finished wrapping the rope around the mooring post for the last time, he heard the creak of boots on the wooden planks behind him, and his heart leaped. When he turned, his right hand was already on the short blade at his waist.
However, he only saw a gray-robed old man standing at the end of the jetty, the red glow of his pipe outlining a weather-beaten face in the morning light.
"The weather is so cold that even pike are frozen stiff, but it's suitable for transporting some special goods."
The old man took off his pointed hat and nodded slightly, speaking gently, his white breath and smoke rings intertwining as they rose.
Bard did not relax his guard; he cautiously looked at the suddenly appearing old man and asked, "Are you looking for a ride?"
Gandalf chuckled and said, "Oh, certainly not. This old man just got off a Great Eagle, and the cold wind has already frozen my bones. If you make me sit on your boat, which offers no shelter from the wind or rain, I don't want to suffer like that again, and it's not on my way."
Then Gandalf said meaningfully, "I heard that even though the dwarves of the Iron Hills and the Elves of Mirkwood don't get along, the dwarves of the Iron Hills still rave about the Elves' mead."
He seemingly casually took a few steps, a position from which he could just see the gap in the guard change at the town entrance.
Bard tapped the empty wooden box with his frozen red knuckles and replied in a desultory manner, "It seems so, which is why I need to set off for the Woodland Realm soon, otherwise those Elves won't open their gates for me at night."
As he spoke, he seemingly inadvertently rubbed the boat planks with the sole of his shoe, actually wiping away the wet footprints Thorin and the others had left on the planks.
Gandalf sighed, facing the wary Bard, and revealed the ceremonial straight sword hanging at his waist from beneath his gray robe, saying, "If you truly know the people you just sent off, then you must be familiar with this sword; the Grace droplet mark on it is unique. In fact, I am not your enemy, boatman. Perhaps you have heard my name, Gandalf, Gandalf the Grey."
Bard frowned tightly, then relaxed—the droplet mark on the sword hilt was identical to the droplet pendant Arthur had given Thranduil yesterday.
And after hearing the old man's name, Bard finally completely relaxed: "I did hear that name last night when the dwarves were chattering and telling stories."
Then he looked at Gandalf with some suspicion: "But I remember those dwarves saying that Gandalf was a very rude, crude, and stubborn old man who couldn't even cook. You don't look much like that."
Gandalf's good mood vanished instantly upon hearing the word "dwarves."
He maintained a proper smile and said to Bard, "Thank you for letting me know what I look like in the dwarves' minds."