The Hobbit

and hissing into the lake. No fireworks you ever imagined equalled the
     sights that night. At the twanging of the bows and the shrilling of the trumpets the dragon’s wrath blazed to its height,
     till he was blind and mad with it. No one had dared to give battle to him for many an age; nor would they have dared now,
     if it had not been for the grim-voiced man (Bard was his name), who ran to and fro cheering on the archers and urging the
     Master to order them to fight to the last arrow.
    Fire leaped from the dragon’s jaws. He circled for a while high in the air above them lighting all the lake; the trees by
     the shores shone like copper and like blood with leaping shadows of dense black at their feet. Then down he swooped straight
     through the arrow-storm, reckless in his rage, taking no heed to turn his scaly sides towards his foes, seeking only to set
     their town ablaze.
    Fire leaped from thatched roofs and wooden beam-ends as he hurtled down and past and round again, though all had been drenched
     with water before he came. Once more water was flung by a hundred hands wherever a spark appeared. Back swirled the dragon. A sweep of
     his tail and the roof of the Great House crumbled and smashed down. Flames unquenchable sprang high into the night. Another
     swoop and another, and another house and then another sprang afire and fell; and still no arrow hindered Smaug or hurt him
     more than a fly from the marshes.
    Already men were jumping into the water on every side. Women and children were being huddled into laden boats in the market-pool.
     Weapons were flung down. There was mourning and weeping, where but a little time ago the old songs of mirth to come had been
     sung about the dwarves. Now men cursed their names. The Master himself was turning to his great gilded boat, hoping to row
     away in the confusion and save himself. Soon all the town would be deserted and burned down to the surface of the lake.
    That was the dragon’s hope. They could all get into boats for all he cared. There he could have fine sport hunting them, or
     they could stop till they starved. Let them try to get to land and he would be ready. Soon he would set all the shoreland
     woods ablaze and wither every field and pasture. Just now he was enjoying the sport of town-baiting more than he had enjoyed
     anything for years.
    But there was still a company of archers that held their ground among the burning houses. Their captain was Bard, grim-voiced
     and grim-faced, whose friends had accused him of prophesying floods and poisoned fish, though they knew his worth and courage. He was a descendant in long line of Girion, Lord of Dale, whose wife and child had escaped down the Running River
     from the ruin long ago. Now he shot with a great yew bow, till all his arrows but one were spent. The flames were near him.
     His companions were leaving him. He bent his bow for the last time.
    Suddenly out of the dark something fluttered to his shoulder. He started—but it was only an old thrush. Unafraid it perched
     by his ear and it brought him news. Marvelling he found he could understand its tongue, for he was of the race of Dale.
    “Wait! Wait!” it said to him. “The moon is rising. Look for the hollow of the left breast as he flies and turns above you!”
     And while Bard paused in wonder it told him of tidings up in the Mountain and of all that it had heard.
    Then Bard drew his bow-string to his ear. The dragon was circling back, flying low, and as he came the moon rose above the
     eastern shore and silvered his great wings.
    “Arrow!” said the bowman. “Black arrow! I have saved you to the last. You have never failed me and always I have recovered
     you. I had you from my father and he from of old. If ever you came from the forges of the true king under the Mountain, go
     now and speed well!”
    The dragon swooped once more lower than ever, and as he turned and dived down his belly glittered white with sparkling fires
     of gems in the moon—but not in one place. The great bow twanged. The black arrow sped straight from the string, straight for
     the hollow by the left breast where the foreleg was flung wide. In it smote and vanished, barb, shaft and feather, so fierce was its flight. With a shriek that deafened men, felled
     trees and split stone, Smaug shot spouting into the air, turned over and crashed down from on high in ruin.
    Full on the town he fell. His last throes splintered it to sparks and gledes. The lake roared