[Kransha]

Smaug, the golden dragon in the sky, swooped gracefully down over Dale, again taking in the sight of his enemies. Already he could feel and hear their chorusing hearts beating faster below him. They would be easy prey for him, and he would relish the coming battle, for he did not need foresight to know who the victor would be. Another cold grin darkened his grimaced jaws and his eyes narrowed ominously, the pale, precise beams that came from them resting at last upon Girion, the mortal man who had the gall to claim lordship over Dale when Smaug himself was clearly the regent of the land, just as he was of Erebor. The people of the Lonely Mountain and Dale had fled, leaving only these meager remnants of defensive troops. There would be no contest between the opposing forces. These men were no more than an irritating thorn in the wyrm’s side, one which he was all too intent to remove promptly. Quietly, Smaug contemplated his strategy as the men on the ground beneath looked up in awe, horror, and rebellious defiance, to Smaug’s great displeasure.

Slowly, wheeling himself around in mid-air, his ever fixed on Girion and his assorted troops Smaug’s winged form looped and swept itself higher and higher into the cloudy, blackened sky above Dale. The clouds consumed him as he watched some of the creatures below who he’d damaged flee, scatter, and route through the streets as the watched the dragon’s monstrous shadow spread over the heavens, the black length of his wings encompassing all of Dale as he dragged himself, his wingspan stretched to its fullest, past the course of the sun, blazoning his silhouette on the earth below. The men below were probably quaking with fear, though Smaug couldn’t tell from such a height above them. Letting his jaw fall open swiftly, a burst of aimless fire burst from his gullet, piercing the clouds with ease and enveloping the wispy mists with thick smog. He surged above the smoke, his monumental roars echoing around him, and then plunged, clearing the clouds in an instant and diving like a bolt of lightning towards his prey.

Suddenly, as he tore downwards, the dragon found that some small objects, sharpened with intention to strike him down, were flying feebly through the air towards him. From down below arrows were let loose, the weak shafts of wood flying up into the air towards the diving dragon. Smaug growled darkly as the minute bounced glanced harmlessly off his scaly hide and his gem-encrusted underbelly which still sparkled in the few slivers of light that had escaped the dense cloak of cloud-cover. As Smaug drew closer to the ground, the amount of arrows that managed to hit him increased, since his gargantuan body was easy enough to hit at close range, but still they did no damage, deflected by his armored skin. He launched himself precisely at the few soldiers and their leader, aiming himself in the fashion of a javelin. Just as he’d anticipated, the men scattered frantically to escape him, but to no avail.

In an instant, great, gleaming talons unfurled beneath Smaug and shot down and forward as the dragon neared the earth. His claws stabbed the ground and, as his flapping wings bore him onward, he ripped the dirt and grass asunder, tearing great gashes in the foundations beneath his routed assailants. He swerved, spreading his arms and legs, dragging his tail through the ground now and opened his scaly palms, aiming his next dive at a number of soldiers, clumped together in retreat. Before they could make it to a safe or sheltered distance from the wyrm, his monstrous talons’ scope devoured them, clawed digits closing around them and their steeds. He managed to maneuver nimbly upward, his wings spreading and stretching further as the beat the air, sending gusts of wind downward. The earth beneath the dragon rippled as disturbed water would, his talons still dragging through it. The undulating ground split and belched forth dust onto the wyrm as he ascended with his enemies in hand. Swinging gracefully around, Smaug glided backwards until he had risen just enough. Without hesitation or care, he opened his claws and let the hapless few constrained by them plummet to their deaths. Laughing a horrible laugh, he swooped down again, his eyes gleaming in the new darkness of the sky.

The streets were empty. From the ruins smog and blackness billowed, wrapping around Smaug as he plunged, searching for further prey. The other soldiers had mostly scattered but Smaug’s beaming eyes fell on a second and final group. The corners of his mouth twisting upward, the dragon’s rushing jaws pulled apart and out came another fiery torrent that swept across the land, the column making its way towards the fleeing enemies and clearing a scorched path behind it. The brunt of the blast hit the earth that the soldiers fled upon, engulfing it in fire. A few gasping shrieks were heard, but they were drowned out by the crackling breath of Smaug and died, fading into nothingness. Bearing himself majestically over the wreckage and trembling ground, Smaug’s eyes peered through the fumes, searching for the man who’d led this dwindled pocket of resistance. At last, he saw a miniscule figure, the last moving being in the area, shrouded by fire-induced mists.

Coughing indignantly to expunge the last of the lingering smoke plumes that wound around his long snout, Smaug veered sideways, worming towards the figure and slowly alighted, planting his claws firmly in the dislodged earth. Smaug’s gaze settled on the figure of the man, atop a horse who now brayed nervously, printing its wild hooves on the scorched field it stood on. The dragon’s wings beat no more and folded neatly into themselves, resting against the wyrm’s sides. The dragon, almost mocking the frightened steed that whinnied nervously before him, roared in his throat, letting loose a fierce guttural snarl that shook the land, combined with the constant stamping of his limbs. He soon became still as the dust that had risen around him settled. Smaug, glowering now, set his cold sights on the unnamed man and his air of command. Suddenly, a voice rose behind his snarl and seeped out sinisterly, like a ocean of venomous spite onto Girion.

“Fool,” he roared, the words dark and full as the resounded like the bursting chimes of thunderclaps, “what power have you to stand in my way? I am Smaug, master of this land,” his wing waved outward, indicating Dale, as if to illustrate the fact, “and you are no more than a mortal whelp with a knife and a ruined town at his back. Join the rest of your people in exile and you may yet escape my fire, for I am invulnerable, invincible, without weakness or fault. The petty tools of men do naught to me though my tail could crush their bones with ease. Those who do not fear me now will soon learn that they must, unless they long for death…” his sour expression changed again, his growling frown manipulated into another ghastly grin. “Is that what you wish for, man?”

Girion looked up, back at Smaug, his horse barely controlled beneath him. His face bore a look of defiance as his grip tightened on his sword, which was pointed at the dragon. “If my death must come,” he said, loud enough for the gargantuan dragon to hear, “you will fall with me. I am no whelp, dragon, I am the King of Dale, Girion, and this is not your land.”

Smaug had waited for his moment, and now it had been long enough. With a mixture of glee and fury, the dragon dove, scrambling across the scorched tendrils of grass. His wings flapped, causing the ground to ripple again, and leapt up, pouncing, cat-like, on the horse and rider. In a flash, Girion and his mount had bolted forward, too fast for the dragon to see or swerve. Unable to turn quickly enough Smaug tore through the air as Girion sped beneath him, dragging his glinting sword along the wyrm’s underbelly. It was ineffective, glancing off each sparkling gem and jutting scale. Smaug at last flipped himself, using his arm as an anchor and burying it in the ground. The device worked and Smaug turned on his wing, fully rotating to face the rear of Girion, now galloping away. Growling with incendiary anger, Smaug dipped, planted each of his four limbs in the earth, tearing into disintegrating plates. The ground sunk and rose as it quaked uncontrollably, the dragon passing over it. He aimed for Girion, but the horse and rider zigzagged around the melting plain, avoiding Smaug’s claws and tail as they unearthed more. Smaug madly fumbled for his foe, but his wings carried him higher and away, up towards the sky, only at a great height could he turn again.

The dragon’s eyes looked down to see Girion, on his horse, at the edge of newly made plateau. He was on a cliff-like mound surrounded by land that had sunk into itself, falling away from the cliff like water and into the shallow abyss below. Smaug smiled again, belching steamy smoke, and dove, his eyes slits of golden-red that gleamed like a terrible blade about to strike. Girion, below, spurred his horse forward and was soon headed full speed towards the edge of the cliff, sword raised high with the wyrm barreling at him. The distance was closed in the span of a second. Smaug’s jaws tore open, ready to close, just as Girion, horse, sword, and all leapt from the cliff at the dragon. The dragon’s cold eyes widened as his jaws met naught but ash and rock. Girion, in mid-air, was beneath him.

Suddenly a terrible pain gripped Smaug, jetting through him like poison. The blade of Girion was in him, the metal drawing his blood. He was awestruck before anything else. A mortal had dealt him damage, caused him pain. His dragon’s brain barely registered the fact. Beneath him, Girion’s sword was buried to the hilt in his gem-encrusted underbelly, Girion still holding onto it. The horse bearing Girion was dislodged and had fallen, alleviating the weight that dragged the man down. The King of Dale clung to his blade in the wyrm’s breast as Smaug, crying in agonized fury, rose higher into the sky. Smaug barely even noticed the mortal latched onto him until Girion’s feet began to scrabble for purchase on his scales. With a murderous blaze in his eyes and fire in his belly, Smaug swatted at the pestilence lodged in him with great talons. Girion, helpless against the dragon in his element, drove his sword in as deep as he could, tugging it back and forth as the hand of Smaug descended on him. A moment later, Girion, former King of Dale, was plummeting to his inevitable doom and disappeared into the foggy shroud that covered the city that was once his.

Smaug sailed on, clawing at his chest. The man had done nothing that he could tell of. It had been a failed attempt, just as Smaug predicted. The dragon’s fiery anger turned to grim satisfaction as he realized that, at last, he was free of the viral people of Dale and Erebor. Never again would those wretched folk pester him or stand in his way. He was the ruler of Dale and the Lonely Mountain, unchallenged, uncontested, and unbeatable. Dwelling on this, his spasmodically beating wings slowed and relax, carrying the worm toward his new home within the mountain. He was victorious, and he could revel in that while perched atop his treasures, the gold of Dwarves and men all for him and him alone. The battle for Dale was over and Smaug could finally rest.

In his haste and arrogance, he did not notice the effect of Girion’s last act. In his left breast was a bare patch, clear of scale or gem, openly visible to anyone who could get close enough to see. But, no one could ever get that close to Smaug the Magnificent if they valued their lives…unless they were, perhaps, invisible…