The thrush flew faster than any bird had ever flown. It had heard the hobbit's words, understood them, and now it carried the message to Lake-town. It found Bard on the battlements, watching the dragon approach, his bow in his hand.
The thrush perched on the wall and sang. It sang of the bare patch, of the weak spot, of the only place where an arrow could pierce the dragon's hide. Bard listened, and he understood.
He drew his bow—the great black bow of his ancestors, made of yew and horn. He notched his last arrow, the black arrow that had been passed down through generations. He took aim at the dragon, at the bare patch on his left breast, just above the heart.
Smaug saw him. He laughed, opening his mouth to loose his fire.
But Bard was faster. The black arrow flew, straight and true, and struck the dragon in the bare patch. It sank deep, deep into his flesh, and Smaug's laughter turned to a scream of agony.
The dragon fell. He fell from the sky like a burning star, crashing into the lake with a great hiss of steam. And there, in the deep waters, the great dragon Smaug died, and the world was rid of him at last.
Lake-town was burning. The dragon's fire had caught the wooden buildings, and the people were fleeing for their lives. But the dragon was dead, and that was enough. That was everything.