CHAPTER THREE: FALSE AS ALL THE GODS

The Thief did not know how long she'd been running when suddenly she could run no longer. Varna groped out and found a branch in the blackness, hanging onto it for support. Her clothes choked her clammy skin, legs quivering under her. The gash on her head was making everything around her run into one, like smeared paint. The darkness was interrupted by needles of dim light where the canopy brushed fingers above, and the stars watched like eyes. The Trollshaws was whispering; the woodland was never quiet to Varna's ears.

Only tonight the earth and sky spoke to her with another voice. A young voice, full of uncertain gallantry. You saved Thorin's life. I want no part in ending yours. Go.

Her face was still wet and cold, she realised. Varna swatted at it with the back of her hand, peeved. Leave off it, you daft bitch. She didn't understand why she was crying. She were free. She should be happy.

Varna walked on through the darkness, quick as a spider. She knew where she was going. She would have her hollow beneath the hedges soon, and then sleep away all of this. And if some dwarf prince tries to take a piss on my head again, this time I'll kill him good.

Something she had said to Thorin Oakenshield wriggled to the front of her mind. Honour's just some thing you nobles made up, another brick on the wall 'tween you and us. It had to be true. Didn't it? No amount of honour had ever plumped her belly; a knife had done that.

Only that idiot boy Kili would tell her she were wrong. And Thorin Oakenshield, the nuncle noble – him too. He'd condemned her to die, for wanting to live. A long time ago, she'd been a little girl who believed in all the things Thorin Oakenshield loved so well – honour, goodness, valour. But now Varna knew the truth. Only fools trusted in honour. And honour was false, false as all the gods.

False as me.

Suddenly the Thief understood why she was crying.

She could not have said why she spared Thorin his life, when she could've let that troll split him in twine. She'd thought her honour had died with the rest of Varna, that silly virgin...but somehow she couldn't let the dwarf die.

Was it because she were good, after all? Or was it that she wanted to kill him herself, all along?

Varna wiped her eyes again. Would the little princeling have set her free, knowing that? I would've killed him too, given the chance. When they woke and found her gone, he'd be punished for sure. She knew why he'd done it. A man with no eyes could see how Kili adored and idolised the nuncle noble...but love was just the same as honour. Like a malignancy that never leaves the flesh, it would weaken him; kill him, even. Kili was just an idiot boy. This would be the thing to teach him.

All the same, Varna was sorry.

The princeling might have been stupid, but he weren't a monster like that nuncle of his. It were rare a noble genuinely believed in the honour they talked of, and it would soon be taken from him when he realised the world were full of liars. For that, she was sorry.

She was ashamed to be sorry. The Thief could not remember the last time a thing had moved her. She felt she'd learned nothing at all, after all this time– a halfman had been the one to remind her that she still shared a heart with that same soft and stupid girl, Varna. The noble nuncle were right. I am an unlearned child, just like he said.

The Thief felt a dizzying hate, so potent it made her falter.

She stopped walking, shivering. Go back, she thought wildly. Kill them all. The rag that she wore around her face was still in Thorin Oakenshield's clutches, besides. She hated him for being right. But suddenly, it seemed the wrong thing to do – that rag had been Varna's, and Varna had to die as well. Mayhaps when I go back I'll flay their lord, wear his skin for a cloak. She'd heard of savages in the north doing that with their enemies.

But she never turned back.

The Thief had never loved a thing the way Kili loved his uncle, but the part of her that was Varna remembered what that had been like.

She remembered a wood lodge with only two rooms, with its lot of carrots out-front; it had been her Da's house. Not far from it was a farm with fields of rye and barley, and cattle. The farmer had been a big man who liked to drink, with a handsome son whose hair was the colour of the oranges they grew in Rhun. More red, than orange, she had heard. Blood oranges. Varna had worked those fields herself – half because her Da's strength left him, and half because she'd been curious her whole life to pluck one of those oranges and taste it for herself.

But what she smelled now weren't oranges.

It was not trolls, either. But it's something.

Caution made her quick. Varna slipped off the dirt-road that ran through the Trollswood, evading the pry of moonlight. She reached down to her belt – but remembered, with chagrin, that Thorin Oakenshield had taken her knife. The Thief would fight hand to hand if it came to it, but her odds were much less.

The stench sharpened and she realised what it was. Sodden pelt. Wolves. It was too dark to see any trace, but she needed none; far away, one of them called at the moon. It was a discordant, shrill cry, soon joined by the songs of its brothers. By the end the hairs on her body were spears.

Varna squinted up into the canopy. She would not need to reach the top, just a high branch would be enough. Heart hammering, a foothold in the bark of a tree opened up to her boot. She slid it in and yanked herself up –

But the darkness pulled down.

Something on her boot gave a hard wrench. Varna yelled as she lost the foothold, clinging to the bark. She kicked out, trying to shake the grip off...but it only grabbed again, more insistent. The bark chipped out from under her fingers like broken ice and suddenly she was sliding. There was nothing to hold on to. Vertigo pulled her mind out of her flesh, but her body was falling. Varna's fingers caught a branch – it snapped. They raced to the bottom.

The next she knew she was on the ground. A fist was in her hair, snatching. It wrenched her head back. Darkness, trees and stars slurred above her – then they became a blade, unsheathed from nowhere, driving down.

No!

The Thief slammed her elbow back, into the bowels. It numbed her up the forearm. With a grunt, the hand in her hair loosened and she had a moment's respite. Her hand found the square of a knee – she punched, bent it, twisting. There was a strangled cry. Then they were both off their feet. Varna climbed him, straddling his chest. She could hear him, snarling and puffing beneath her. The Thief had not escaped a hanging to have her throat cut by another outlaw. She reached out and weighed a big rock –

A fist came from below and cracked her in the face.

She bit her tongue as her head jerked aside. Varna tasted blood. Then she saw blood; the world was stained, blurred and sharpening all at the same time. Her ears were ringing.

Then a coldness on her neck, like a white, sharp tongue. She was back on her feet, she realised – but only just. He had her up against a tree, grinding her into the bark with her knees quivering under her. His knife was under her chin. She saw his face.

He was no dwarf.

"What're you waiting on?" she slurred, still dizzy. "Come, do it."

"I have a mind to, my lady."

Her heart flapped like a bird in a cage. The way he talked was more gentile than she'd expected, like a noble's. The Trollshaws were teeming with outlaws, but none of them were this face bearing down inches on hers. It was too dark to see properly. He was nothing but sharp white features, screaming out against the flesh of a ravenous face. Shadows were all around him. The eyes were two black pits.

She held her nerve. "I've nothing, afore you ask. Kill me...and fuck off."

"Would that you were not so curious a morsel, and I might. Tell me, what is your name, my lady?"

All outlaws played this game. You'll not make me a piece. "Fuck your mother. And I'm no lady."

He laughed. "No lady, indeed." Then he pushed the blade up against the pulsing in her throat. "Even so, you must have a name. The truth, if you would. I will know a lie."

Varna held his eye, long and unwavering. The man's skin smelled of damp and fur and blood. She remembered the howling in the night that had seemed so far away, but now she was not so sure. Confusion tangled up her fear.

"I'll not be the first to die without a name," she croaked. "Nor the last."

Unexpectedly, the man's mouth twitched at both sides. "Archet?"

All at once, her bravery was doused like a lamp.

He smiled. "I thought so. Your accent is very distinct, my lady."

This time she didn't correct him. The name of her home village cowed her, as though if she thought it up too many times its ears would hear and its eyes would see. That's not me, she thought. Varna was some village girl in Archet who vanished one night and never came back – dead, raped or killed or both. Some said the Thief-In-The-Trollshaws was her ghost.

She squirmed against the steal at her neck. Far off, the wolves were howling again.

The man sensed her unease. "Do not be afraid, lady."

"I weren't."

His eyes were wide and white, reflecting the stars above. He looked into the skies, listening to the wolves sing somewhere far away. "Tell me," he whispered, but he seemed not to see her. "Have you ever laid eyes on the Gundabad warg?"

"No."

"Most mercurial beasts."

"Orc familiars," she spat.

He turned his eyes to her, and all the light was gone. Then his free hand came up to sit on her breast, touching it through the shin shift. "A woman's flesh, but a child's ignorance." He sighed. "Sweet lady. The warg can be bent like any beast, if only you know the way."

She was afraid. "Cowshit."

Then she heard the undergrowth stir; the clawed gait of something that walked on four legs. The first that Varna saw of it were two gold eyes in the dark, with two black pupils like flies rotting in clots of amber. The eyes met hers, and a red tongue darted out to wet its chops, with teeth too thick for the great slab of jaw. The beast was bigger than a mountain wolf, almost as large as a horse.

"Csaerise," the man warned.

The warg heeled, ears pricking, but the shrewd orange eyes were watching her die.

Varna could feel herself shaking.

"Quite lovely, is she not?"

He's going to feed me to it. The idea made her lose her mind. "Please. You've mistook me for someone else."

The man removed his hand from her breast and touched her face, drawing her eyes to his. "Do you know what sweet Csaerise says, my lady? She says that you reek of dwarf."

Even with a fire going, heat scattered from the clearing like dogs fleeing the wrath of a master. Varna found herself remembering how the dwarf camp had smelled – hot, full of fire and leather and sweat and oil. Here, it only smelled cold. There was a silence as awful as she had ever heard; the fire feared to crackle, the air dreaded to whisper. The Trollshaws was never quiet to Varna's ears, but now the trees were determined not to know her, and the stars were watching with cruel, colourless eyes.

The wood felt cold and dead.

She could hear the huge wolf some paces behind her, paws filling out beneath her massive weight, claws raking the dirt. It had taken two of them to bring Varna before Thorin Oakenshield - Kili and the old man, Gandalf. But with the wolf's orange eyes on her back, and the man pacing silently beside her, it was all she could do to keep her water. The wolf-bitch moved her ease more than any monster of her childhood.

The man never needed to handle her; his warg was enough to make the Thief his creature. Best you begin praying to some gods, warg-Ward, she thought. When your bitch leaves you alone with me, you'll be meeting with them sooner'n you fancy. The Ward hadn't given her up to the beast, as had been Varna's first thought. Instead, he'd said something else:

You reek of dwarf.

Varna hadn't shown recognition in her face. And there it is. She now understood why the Nuncle Noble had been willing to take her captive, why he hoped she'd take knowledge of his Company to the hangman – men were looking for him. But why? If she knew, she could sell it this man.

But somehow, her guts were hardening into a hunk of ice.

She'd never felt a bigger fool. The Trollswood was hers; she knew it like an old memory, the way a man knows the freckles on his wife's skin, the way a babe knows to breathe. Nothing could walk the dirt-road without her finding its footprints, nothing could pass the wood without her eyes watching. So long as she had her knife, and the armour of night – there were no man on Arda she'd fear.

Only the wood had betrayed her, her knife was taken, and she was twice a captive.

An unlearned child, Thorin Oakenshield's voice found her suddenly. You know nothing of the world...

And as they stepped through the clearing, man and woman and wolf, she discovered that Thorin Oakenshield had been right all along.

Varna's legs refused her at once. She backed into Ward. "No. Please."

A hard push between the shoulders shoved her forward. "The Daughter of Archet has decided she fears, after all. No fuck your mothers left for my comrades, sweet lady?" he chuckled. "Have no fear. They will not ravage you... if you put your wits to words."

The Thief stared, unable to move. This is wrong, she kept thinking. Some Hell's opened up, let out all the devils. Mayhaps she'd died after all, in the troll hoard. Maybe she were in Hell. Mayhaps Thorin Oakenshield had killed her in her sleep...

Out of the fifteen Orc before her, only one rose to receive them. His shadow reached over the clearing like a hand and touched their faces with darkness. He was bigger than any man she had ever seen. The expanse of his huge chest was spiked with rusted plate, gaping at the joints; beneath, the muscle was ashen white, hard as clay.

His black eyes disturbed the beating in her chest.

The Ward had her by the shoulder. "My lady has the pleasure of Bolg; heir to Moria, of the Eastland. She must take a great care not to offend."

Varna kept her eyes on Bolg. "Milord." She heard herself say, in a voice cracked and small.

There were other wolves, Varna realised. It was then Ward's bitch slunk forth, padding towards the remaining litter. A grey maw came out of nowhere to nip at the bitch with huge teeth, but missed. Varna suddenly felt very sick. Fifteen Orc. Fifteen wolves. The Thief could feel something between her legs but regained control at the last moment. The Thief-In-The-Wood pisses fear for none.

Only not long ago she'd been in the Company of some fifteen dwarves. They're looking for him, she knew at once. For the Nuncle Noble. The chance at revenge should have delighted her, but instead she wanted to empty her guts on the ground.

"'Tis the most auspicious of nights, indeed." Ward called. "The Trollshaws has proved bountiful, my lord, as I knew it would. The hamlets of Men often utilise this woodland for its harvests of fruit, medicines and timber – yet no fruit sown in these soils might prove as ripe as the one I have plucked for you this night."

She tried to hide her shaking.

"Do not you smell it on her, Bolg, my lord?"

Bolg's features were upturned; two teeth grasped upwards from his jaw, like a boar's. For an instant she thought she felt them tearing into her skin, and shivered. Needles were in his eyes as he glared at her – and decided he did smell it on her after all.

The others bristled excitedly.

It took him three clean strides to stand before her. Varna wanted to plea, but she had forgotten how to speak. Instead she tried to back away -

"Ru-eeg," the Orc rasped.

He was too strong to be defied.

Ward was behind her. "The Heir of Moria would heed all you know, sweet lady."

But Varna could not make herself could smell him, musk and rot...and blood. Tell him of the Noble Nuncle and his stupid nephew. Tell him! All she'd have to do was speak of the troll hoard - but her tongue was suddenly too heavy to lift.

She felt huge clawed hands snatch at her face, forcing it up. "Torin undag Train-ob?"

"Tell him what you know," echoed Ward, close. "Tell him what you know of Thorin, son of Thrain."

Bolg's knife was set against her cheek. She could feel the serrated edge, rusted and filthy with old gore. "Talk."

Somewhere, as if out of the thralls of a dream, she heard herself speak. "I don't know. I never knew a Thorin -"

"Did I not tell you I would know a lie in you, wench?" said Ward. "You bring with you the reek of dwarf-scum. Do not deny it."

He was right. She had lied.

Gods, she'd lied.

Why had she done that? The stink of carrion on the orc's breath made it impossible to think. The knife was pricking at her cheek, angled beneath her eye; twisting. All Bolg would need to do were push.

She felt him move -

"Wait!" sense found her. She was breathing very hard. "I...I saw them. Your dwarves. I saw them."

"My lord," the man corrected icily. "You are speaking to the Lord of Moria."

The Thief gulped. "Milord," she agreed.

Varna made herself look Bolg in the eyes. They were so black they reflected her. The girl in that mirror was white and wet with fear...and small.

Ward spoke. "Where did you see them? What was their heading?"

All of a sudden she'd lost her nerve again.

Bolg's eyes narrowed to pin-pricks. He pressed the dirk into her face. "Whur?"

He cut down.

A pain like a scorch-ended iron woke in her flesh; she felt wetness slip down her cheek, like a hot tear. Varna squirmed in his grip, but Bolg had her firm.

"Please," she cried. "Milord -"

The Orc's face twisted into something that might have been a smile. He carved deep. Hot blood wove rivulets through his fingers, and she was screaming.

"There is a way," Ward reminded her. "Courage will gather you no purchase but death. Tell him all you know."

Aye, somehow she managed to think through her pain. A way. She could tell them of the troll hoard, and of Thorin, son of Thrain. Of Kili his nephew, and of Oin, who'd dressed her wounds. The Orcs would fall upon them while they slept and kill them, the way she'd wanted. Between pain and panic her thoughts were wriggling, crushed and confused, like a hive of hornets between her ears. A voice cut through the droning:

What learning have you, of honour?

Varna glared up, and the world was swimming in blood and found Ward's face. "Fuck your mother."

Some small amusement showed first. Then Ward sighed. "The wench leaves little choice. Bolg; find which part of her makes her brave, and cut it off."

Then hands were on her, seizing her. Varna writhed, spitting and slapping and kicking. Claws pinched at her, crushing her limbs into submission. They were much stronger than her. One of her legs kicked out – a fist snatched it, wrenching at the boot on her foot. It came free, and her toes were tingling in the cold.

Bolg's face detached itself from the shadows, smiling. Varna realised what was going to happen.

"Will you yield?" the Ward's lips were at her ear. "Daughter of Archet?"

"No," she heard herself say.

With a movement that was almost tender, Bolg's knife flicked upwards. And the Thief screamed.

It was felling first light when the chaos was come, but Kili had long been waiting for it. He lay on his side, legs crunched into his chest, watching the shadows move from dusk to morn. His limbs felt taught and stiff, and his eyelids lowered like a portcullis...but he could never have slept. In the end, it was Dori who shook his uncle by the shoulder to wake him.

Now they were gathered in the place where a murderer had once slept.

"A Thief's a wily thing, Thorin - it's known." Dori was an anxious man, and showed it. "But that woman...that woman was wildnatured. Wild things aren't to be curtailed by hemp or... or stone. Wildness finds a way. And this Thief, she found a way..."

Thorin Oakenshield was crouched on the hard packed soil. In his hands were two hewn ends of rope; his patience looked to be in similar form. "Explain to me how. I should be glad to hear of it."

"Dori's righ'," Gloin supplied. "Lass were cunning enough. You saw her with the trolls."

"These bonds were cut."

"So, lass had a knife!"

Rage paled in Uncle's face. "That knife was taken from her." He drew it out; a long, thin blade, like an icicle. "I would have to sleep like a corpse not to rouse. So tell me. Where did she get the steel?"

"Have y'considered 'er tongue?" Bofur clucked. "Tha' seemed sharp enough."

Kili pinned his eyes away, taking a swallow of water from his skin. As a dwarrowling he'd been complimented on having eyes so pretty and large and honest, with features to match. And he'd hated it. Blushing made lying to his mother such a chore in the end that Fili decided he would be the talker of the two: Kili could never get anything out without smiling or laughing about it first. Gambling and bluffing games had taught the boy to lie better, and the pretty honest eyes had gotten him kissed more than once - but now he felt nothing like smiling or laughing. Kili felt as though he had a second head that everyone else could see, like a mummer's mask, leering like a grotesque; telling the truth.

Surely if Uncle was to look up at him, he would see.

Bombur was dodging the blame when his thoughts returned. "I stayed awake for an hour past three. The girl never moved!"

Dwalin spat. "Yer suggestin' I did this?"

"Well, you were on watch after me!"

The dwarf blinked, confounded. "O' course!" He thrust out his right arm – it was slung, injured in the fight with the trolls. "I'm toilin' ter wipe my own arse, but cuttin' free mouthy wee cunts who'd seek ter rob us blind - that's where my loyalties lie!"

Kili's brother leaned in: "I'll trust he wipes his hands first."

Elsewise, he would have snickered, but Kili only forced his mouth to twitch slightly. They will fight their way through each other – until it's me they're looking at. The thought made him ill. Would Uncle dismiss him? Should he just put an end to it now, tell them the truth? That was what king's blood would do, wasn't it? The true and noble thing to do?

But the words wouldn't come.

In the halls of the Blue Mountains, he'd been trained to bear arms and master a court since he could walk. When the time had come to reclaim Erebor he'd seen the quest as his window of opportunity. He'd prove his worth, slay many foes, avenge and protect the innocent; like princes were supposed to. Then he'd return to mother a hero. Now he was going to lose it all. Kili was so angry he wanted to tear off his clothes, then his skin; tear it all to tiny little squares until there was nothing remained. They'll still be calling me boy when the hair between my legs is curling white, when I'm so old I'll have skin to spare.

There was no middle ground. He had disgraced his uncle.

And for what?

At first he'd wanted Varna as dead as she'd tried to do for him: he'd been angry and ashamed to have some girl-thief outwit him with his breeches around his ankles. And the way she'd breathed milord into his ear, and teased at him...and kissed him...Kili cringed inwardly, flushing. He could still feel her words inside of him, slicing. She'd called him a liar. You'd turn outlaw quicker'n you could finish pissing, milord. But that couldn't be true. I am of king's blood, he'd kept telling himself. She's just some silly peasant who probably couldn't pick out her own name on a parchment. Honour and nobility were the fires that nourished him all his life; they were true - and so was Kili.

Varna couldn't be right. They couldn't be the same.

That was why he'd done it - to prove her wrong.

Anyone else would have taken their vengeance, but he was not anyone else. He was true and worthwhile and he was going show that to the whole of Arda one day; perhaps as King-under-the-Mountain. That Varna had saved Thorin's life only made it easier to free her.

Suddenly the prince felt brave. He knew what he was going to do.

"Thorin." The others fell silent as he spoke. "Uncle. I..."

"Fell asleep on watch," someone else finished, louder. "Thorin – I am sorry."

Kili blinked. No. That's not what happened. He fought against his confusion, and found that all eyes were on another.

"You did this?" Thorin bellowed. "You?"

Bilbo Baggins grimaced. "No! I didn't...I didn't free her -"

"Then what? The truth, halfling - or I swear by Aule below to have you join him under the soil."

The hafling wrung his hands. "I – must have dozed off! When I woke...she was gone." Uncle's silences were often more dangerous than his rage. The hobbit must have realised this too, desperately trying to stuff it with beseeching words. "I...I understand if you would have me leave."

Kili didn't understand what was happening. He had a belly full of worms, wriggling and terrified.

At last, Thorin's shoulders sagged in dismay. "It makes no matter. The girl will be leagues gone by now; we have no hopes to find her again." He flung down the hempen rope ends and rose on his knees, never looking a single man in the eye. "We leave on the hour. Be ready."

Kili flinched aside for his uncle to pass. The Company loitered until Thorin Oakenshield's footsteps were gone from the troll hoard.

Balin sighed. "Well, y'heard the man. Get t'it."

It was moments later that Kili found him in an alcove, folding his bedroll. Bilbo Baggins was the Company's final recruit, a hobbit with no renown for valour or blade or burglary. But already Kili had learned a valuable lesson about appearances; the Thief had looked nothing like the murderer she was, and he had discovered that with a knife at his throat. He might have yet made the same mistake.

Kili approached him. "Why did you do that?"

The hobbit's lull of fair curls bobbed as he jolted in shock. Then he regained himself. "Do what?"

He could feel himself reddening again. "You know." When Bilbo said nothing, he made two fists and kept his voice low, afraid that someone would hear. "You didn't free Varna."

Bilbo paused. He had soft, understanding eyes.

"You know who did," said Kili.

"Kili, you had your reasons -"

"I was going to tell him, eventually. I would have!"

Bilbo smiled. "Better you, than me." He looped his shoulders through his pack. "Until you do decide...think nothing of it."

He left Kili standing there, gawking. No renown for valour or blade or burglary. But Kili didn't care. He'd gained a brother.

Burglar be damned!

Fury carried him from the troll hoard, out into the glare of morning. Thorin threw a gauntlet up over his eyes as he emerged, squinting. The Trollshaws was a thick cloister of fir, with spiny branches and roots groping outwards from parched soil. The air was close and hot, almost thick enough to swallow; it was humoured with mildew and rot.

Thorin did not remember walking so far, but the next he knew he found himself on the dirt-road, alone.

It was an ancient thing, six feet wide; an endless effort from east to west, running right through the Trollshaws. Long stretches of it were rutted by wheels and animal tracks, churning it to mud. Stagnant water pooled in the turned earth, haloed with flies. Thorin thumbed his pipe full with leaf and began to smoke. The weight of the elvish sword tugged awkwardly at his belt. He would become accustomed to it in time.

Would that the same could be said of the hobbit.

Gandalf's investment in Master Baggins had perplexed Thorin from the first. But the wizard's counsel was not one he was willing to squander; if the Grey Pilgrim fancied to find a latent hero within a Shireling then it was only for Thorin to assume that his eyes were the ones gone blind. I will trust in Gandalf insofar as Baggins remains with us. He could not doubt the potential of a creature so slight and small entering the occupation of Company burglar – but he could doubt the burglar's heart.

He remembered the Thief's bonds, severed in half. It had been a clean cut; the mark of a honed knife.

Thorin could not prove it was Bilbo's work, but truth be owed – the idea relieved him. To have it be the doing of his kinsmen was a hammer on anvil in his breast that no leaf would steady. But what reason had the hobbit to let free an outlaw? No less a thief and murderer. Mayhaps he had taken a liking to her; thought her handsome? It was not infeasible. The girl was no tragedy to look upon.

Perhaps she made an offering of herself, as once was her appeal to me. He scoffed. Refusing her was sweeter than anything he could have of her, he did not doubt.

The smoke filled his lungs, prickling at the extremities.

Thorin Oakenshield wondered where the Thief might be, this instant. Such possibilities left him cold. She would be far from here by now. Would she find acolytes in the outlaws of the wood, when she told them of his Company? Or would she seek out deeper pockets, and sell what secrets she had to them? There were some in Arda who wished him dead, that much was true; some had sent their knives for him in Bree, at the Inn of the Prancing Pony. They would not be the last.

If the girl returned for them, he would almost welcome it.

A thief and a murderer, he thought. A child, full of ridiculous wisdom. He would show her the true taste of injustice; the sort that was not found on a hangman's noose. Thorin had tasted it all too well, the day the skies of Erebor filled black with smoke.

Movement began to stir in the margins of his vision. It was not long before a palfrey came plodding up the dirt road, saddlebags knocking and bumping at her hindquarters.

Thorin had little love for strangers. He kept his eyes low as he smoked.

To his chagrin, the rider slowed. "Good morn, friend!" he called. "How fares you?" He was a pink faced man with an unfortunate disposition for smiles; he had small, pebbly teeth, like a child's. Some were rotten.

"I am well." Thorin allowed. "And yourself?"

"Me? Making for the market, down Chetwood." He peeled back one of the saddlebags to reveal gnarled bulbs, covered in soil. "Fresh ginger, master dwarf. A man can make a killing on it - if he knows to grow it proper."

"No doubt." Thorin bobbed his head. "Luck to you."

"And blessings you," smiled the man, spurring his horse.

Thorin wondered how differently such an exchange would have been if the rider had known him. One day men might be obliged to dismount their horses and bend the knee before him. There would come a time when all on Arda knew who ruled beneath the Mountain. Thorin did not know whether he was discomfited by the notion, now that it was at last upon him.

The sun was shying, he noticed, the air chilled and biting. Thorin put away his pipe.

When he returned to the troll hoard, an arm fell heavily on his shoulder. "Thorin." his nephew had an urgent look this morning. "Come, quickly."

"What is it, Fili?"

What he saw next gave him his answer. The Company were gathered at the mouth of the cave, around a man that Thorin did not know.

He might have been another outlaw, were it not for the staff he carried. Wiry hair tufted out from every conceivable avenue, so matted that it was nigh impossible to deign where hair began and the felt skin hat atop his head began. His robes were a slobbering shaggy pelt, and his face was an old man's. Behind him was a sled, manned by Rhosgobel rabbit. Thorin had once leafed through the pages of an old tome, wherein he had read of the beasts.

The stranger turned around and beamed courteously. "Thorin Oakenshield; tidings."

Thorin tried to cow his revolt; the old man's temples were begrimed with bird shit. "I have not had the pleasure."

"This is Radagast," Gandalf broke in. "The Brown."

"It's news, from the north." Radagast's owlish eyes were big as saucers. "I've been looking for you, Gandalf. Something is wrong. Terribly wrong."

He strained his ears to the wizards' counsel, but their voices were too low and wary. The Brown and The Grey had deigned to speak alone - that had already rankled him. If something falls awry in Arda, those who speak with the mouths of the masses needs must hear of it. A King should know if his realm was imperilled; elsewise, how was he to mitigate it? At first he had paced irritably, nullifying attempts to placate him – but even he had wearied of waiting, retiring to a seat on a log. The moon was already a waxen spectre in the midday sky, and nightfall would come sooner than later. I will not risk travelling by dark.

It was as if Dwalin had heard him. "Are we ter stay another night, kept warm by troll shit?" he muttered. "The wizard'll pay fer wasted food, mark it, he will."

"What is it they're talking about?" Ori chirped. "Can't anyone hear?"

"If you'se keep natterin', that's all we'll be able to feckin' hear." Nori was on his back, eyes closed, hands behind his head. "I can hear you'se lot talk about bugger-all any day of the week – not today."

Dori put a hand on Ori's shoulder. "They'll be done soon enough."

Thorin watched them, trying to remember what it was like to have a brother. His own had left him long ago. His nephews Kili and Fili were the sons of his sister, Dis; crown princes to his legacy. He often wondered whether he had been wise to allow them on this conquest. They are not so distant in age, but one of them is still a boy in his mind. He feared for Kili –

Whatever he might fear for his nephew was lost. Like a distant wind, a shrill sound rolled through the trees and filled him with cold; it made the hair on his body prickle. Another followed, in discord.

Bilbo leapt up. "Was that a wolf? Are – are there wolves out here?"

No, Master Baggins, Thorin thought gravely. No wolf. He was the first to see it.

Others were reaching to-arms, but Orcrist was already in Thorin's hand. The thing vaulted from above, crashing amidst them – a monstrous, grey warg, larger than a horse. The jaundiced eyes found Thorin. The next he knew, massive, gnashing teeth were making for his face. He smelled hot carrion in its air.

Orcrist flashed between them. He felt the steel jar.

The beast's maw filled with blood as it died.

He was aware of a thrumming. It was too late for him to move, and Thorin felt the arrowhead dart his ear – a second huge shape came hurtling from the trees. It was already dead when it fell at Thorin's feet; pierced by a shaft.

The first-slain convulsed around Thorin's blade as he tugged it free.

"Warg-scouts!" he heard Dwalin shout. "Thorin. An orc pack'll nae tarry behind -"

Bilbo was white. "Orc pack?"

It was all Thorin could stomach. He wiped his gory blade on the longrass and found the hobbit with his eyes. "Aye, orc pack! Freeing thieves seems a foolish endeavour of an instant, does it not?" This was the woman Varna's doing, he knew it. "Lament the flames of your own arson, burglar – this lies at your door!"

Balin cut in. "Thorin, there is too little time fer this –"

"He's right." It took a moment for Thorin to realise that it was Radagast, hurrying up the trail. "Go, now – I'll draw them off."

Thorin did not cow his revolt this time. "You?"

Gandalf huffed. "These are Gundabad wargs, Radagast. They will outrun you."

"Outrun?" the Brown returned, shrilly. "These are Rhosgobel rabbits. If only they would try."

And they will, Thorin thought. Oh, they will.

A/N:I very much hope you enjoyed this! Thank you for reading!