Bungo crept through the forest, following the torchlight and the sound of elven voices. The wood-elves moved swiftly, their feet making hardly a sound on the forest floor, but Bungo was a hobbit, and hobbits can be very quiet when they want to be. He slipped from tree to tree, keeping always to the shadows, and managed to stay close without being seen.
The elves carried the dwarves bound and gagged, except for Bombur, who still slept his enchanted sleep and had to be carried on a stretcher. Thorin struggled against his bonds, his face dark with fury, but the elves only laughed and tightened his ropes. Bungo's heart ached to see his friends so helpless, but he knew he could do nothing—not yet. He needed to see where they were being taken.
After what seemed like hours of walking, the forest opened into a clearing. Before them rose a great hill, and in the side of that hill was a massive door—the entrance to the Elvenking's halls. The elves dragged the dwarves through it, and the door closed behind them with a sound like stone grinding against stone.
Bungo approached cautiously. The door was huge and smooth, with no handle or keyhole that he could see. He pushed against it, but it did not budge. He walked around the hill, looking for another way in, but found only solid rock and thick forest.
"Well," he said to himself, "this is a fine pickle. The dwarves are in there, and I am out here, and I haven't the faintest idea how to get in."
He sat down against a tree and tried to think. He was hungry, tired, and alone in a dark forest full of unfriendly elves and worse things. He thought of his comfortable hole in Oakenshaw, of his pantry full of good things, of his armchair by the fire. He thought of his dahlias, and wondered if they were blooming without him.
Then he remembered something his mother used to say: When you don't know what to do, do nothing. Wait, and the answer will come.
So Bungo waited. He found a hollow tree and curled up inside it, wrapping his cloak around himself, and fell into an uneasy sleep.
He woke to the sound of singing. It was faint and far away, but it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. It came from inside the hill, he realised—from the Elvenking's halls. The elves were singing, and their music drifted through the stone like light through water.
Bungo crept to the great door and pressed his ear against it. The singing was clearer now, and he could hear other sounds too—the clink of glasses, the murmur of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter. The elves were feasting.
And then he heard something else: the sound of a key turning in a lock.
He jumped back just as the great door swung open. Two elves emerged, carrying empty wine jugs. They walked past Bungo's hiding place without seeing him, heading into the forest to fetch more wine from their stores.
Bungo did not hesitate. As soon as they were out of sight, he slipped through the door and into the Elvenking's halls.
Inside, the halls were vast and beautiful, carved from the living rock and lit by countless lamps that burned with a soft, golden light. Pillars rose to a ceiling lost in shadow, and passages led off in every direction. Bungo could hear the feast continuing somewhere ahead, but he turned away from the sound and began to explore.
He crept down passage after passage, peering into rooms as he went. He saw store-rooms piled high with food and drink, armouries filled with gleaming weapons, libraries full of books written in scripts he could not read. But no sign of the dwarves.
At last, he came to a passage that was darker than the others. No lamps burned here, and the air was cold and damp. He heard a sound—a low moaning, like someone in pain—and his heart leaped.
He followed the sound to a heavy wooden door, bound with iron. A small grating was set into the door at eye level, and through it Bungo could see a cell. Inside, chained to the wall, were the dwarves.
All of them. Even Bombur, who had finally woken and sat in a corner, looking miserable.
"Bungo!" cried Dori when he saw the hobbit's face at the grating. "You're alive!"
"Quiet!" hissed Bungo. "Do you want the whole hall to hear?"
"But how did you get in?" asked Balin. "How did you find us?"
"Never mind that now," said Bungo. "I'm going to get you out. But I need to find the keys."
He left the grating and continued down the passage. At the end, he found a small room where an elf sat sleeping in a chair, a ring of keys hanging from his belt. Bungo crept forward, held his breath, and carefully, carefully lifted the keys from the belt. The elf stirred but did not wake.
Bungo hurried back to the cell and tried key after key in the lock. The dwarves held their breath, listening for footsteps. At last, the lock clicked open.
The dwarves poured out of the cell, stretching their cramped limbs and rubbing their wrists where the chains had bound them. They wanted to run, to fight, to do something—but Bungo held up his hand.
"Wait," he whispered. "We cannot just run out. The halls are full of elves, and the door is guarded. We need a plan."
"What plan?" growled Thorin. "We have no weapons, no food, no way out."
Bungo thought hard. Then he remembered the wine jugs he had seen the elves carrying, and the store-rooms piled high with food and drink. He remembered the river that flowed through the forest, and the boats the elves used to ferry supplies.
"The wine barrels," he said. "The elves send empty barrels down the river to their storehouses. If we can get inside the barrels, they will carry us out of the halls and into the forest."
The dwarves stared at him.
"Inside barrels?" said Bombur. "You want us to get inside barrels?"
"It's the only way," said Bungo. "Trust me."
And so, under Bungo's direction, the dwarves crept through the halls to the store-room where the empty barrels were kept. They were large barrels, big enough for a dwarf to curl up inside—just barely. One by one, they climbed in and pulled the lids over themselves.
Bungo was about to climb into the last barrel when he heard footsteps. The elves were coming. He had no time. He grabbed the lid of the nearest barrel and pulled it over himself, squeezing into a space that was much too small for even a hobbit.
The elves entered the store-room. They were drunk and singing, and they did not notice anything amiss. They began rolling the barrels towards the river, laughing and joking as they worked.
Inside his barrel, Bungo was thrown about like a pea in a pod. He bumped and banged against the sides, and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out. The world spun and tumbled, and he had no idea which way was up or down.
Then came a splash, and cold water seeped through the cracks in the barrel. They were in the river. The current caught them and swept them away, downstream, out of the Elvenking's halls and into the darkness of Mirkwood.
Bungo clung to the inside of his barrel and prayed that the journey would end soon.