The soft sounds of pickaxes clanking against stone was cut off abruptly when the horn sounded. A deep black sound that echoed through the halls and passages like a sickly poison fog; blanketing all it touched with trepidation. With the ease that came with long years of (unwanted) practice; the dwarves dropped their pickaxes where they stood and fell into formation - the four factions bunched together in rows of five abreast.

Hlífhrím nervously glanced across at Thorin beside her. Here was the do or die moment. One wrong step and her carefully constructed plans would crumble faster than she could scream for help. Inwardly, she prayed to Mahal that he would help them through this. Make the goblins unaware of the switch. "Remember," she hissed to him "eyes down; do not react to anything that might occur. Become a slave."

Thorin sent an angry glare in her direction - he was tenser than a tightly coiled spring; but he nodded imperceptibly and shifted his eyes ahead. Hlífhrím wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and took a deep breath. The sound of heavy boots echoed into the caves and she could hear the Goblins talking in Black Speech; their shrieking voices growing closer.

The sounds grew louder as several smaller Goblins and Orcs rounded the corner. As Snagae they were a lesser breed, more disposable, and hence, used to do the most unwanted jobs. There were eight that circled the four dwarf factions then; quickly, the eight moved between the rows of dwarves attaching rough manacles to their legs. Snarling and leering at them, they pushed and shoved them towards the cave entrance. Hlífhrím swallowed heavily; trying to quell her nervousness as the factions began to march. That was one of the worst things about those stinking goblins - they could practically smell fear.

"Get on scum! Move yer feet you filthy maggot!" Hlífhrím heard one goblin gnashing it's teeth at one of the older dwarves. She could almost feel the sting of the whip lashing across her own face when it cracked behind her.

Covertly; Hlífhrím glanced across to Thorin and nearly stopped dead when she saw the thunderous look on his face. Slipping him past the Snagae was fine, they were categorically stupid; but the four Morannon Orcs - larger beasts with heightened senses that waited at the doors; would notice his expression straight away.

Working on instinct; Hlífhrím stumbled and bumped into the tall dwarf; shooting him a look that clearly said remember what I told you. She had a moment to sigh thankfully when Thorin's grey eyes found hers and his face resumed it's stony mask; before she felt the tails of the whip flicking towards her.

"Faster you wretches! We don't have all day!" The four factions and their Snagae guards finally passed out the doors into the mines into a square shaped room. This was the tricky part. The room was only six meters wide at best; to the right, lay the slave pens where they would spend the night. to the left was another passage that let off further into the depths of the mountain. Since the Lonely Mountain had been overrun, Hlífhrím had spent the entire time in this small section. She had been one of those forced to bury further into the mountains in order to create the slave pens where they were headed.

The Morannon Orcs were an entirely different breed of foul; they were larger than their Snagae cousins; with greater strength and more intelligence. Where the Snagae were simply a nasty rabble; the Morannon were nasty and more adept at following orders. That was; unless there were different tribes put on the same duty...like there was this night.

Goblins and Orcs were almost the same thing as far as Hlífhrím could tell; except that Goblins seemed to maintain a higher pitched shriek; and were more adept at climbing. The two had a fairly simple hierarchical structure in their society that stated one breed was better than the other; and whoever was the best fighter was labelled the leader. When one was considered the leader; that position would not often be held for long as Orcs and Goblins were essentially a violent race and a single spark of anger over a matter of no importance would leave a room full of bodies. Although there were fights within a single tribe for positions of leadership; they most often occurred between those of different clans. She couldn't understand such hate between those of the same species.

Hlífhrím had never seen a female Orc or Goblin; but she had heard rumors around the pen that they existed. Apparently, one could not tell them apart from their male counterparts - they were so alike in features. Somehow, when a female desired a mate, the males would know and immediately begin to fight. The one that was left standing would be her choice. The thought made Hlífhrím shudder. Indeed she had seen several instances where fighting had broken out for seemingly no reason whatsoever. The end result was not something she ever wished to see.

Hlífhrím could immediately tell that those four Orcs standing outside the doors were from different tribes by the way they stood - tall, feet wide apart, and with inherently vicious snarls on their ugly faces (moreso than usual). Apparently the factions had just walked in on the middle of an argument. and the Orcs spared no attention to the dwarves that passed them by; instead eying each other off from across the room

"Factions coming through!" One Snagae spat out, shoving dwarves through; as they bunched together to fit through the tight space. Out of the corner of her eye; Hlífhrím saw one of the Morannon Orcs shove Nannulf away from him when the young dwarf got too close. A few heartbeats later; they were through into the slave pens and she breathed a sigh of relief.

They passed four more factions as they stepped through the doors who were ready to enter the mines and fill their places. The Easterlings had worked out over the years that shifts of workers were the best means of extracting work from their slaves. They were not given much respite from labour; but it was enough (or so the Easterlings thought).

Hlífhrím looked on the slave pens with new eyes this night; as she wondered how they would look to the dwarf next to her. They were a morbid sight, one that she had simply had gotten used to over the years. The cavern had a high ceiling, pocked with the marks of unsuccessful mining. The stone beneath their feet dropped away into thin air and rope bridges crisscrossed the room above six pits; seven meters wide and six meters deep. Open, gaping wounds in the earth, shrouded in shadow.

She could feel Thorin shifting uncomfortably as the four factions walked straight out onto the rickety bridges and stopped. Hlífhrím waited patiently as faction Three was lowered into their pit and then stepped forward with the others as the snagae moved them forwards to their own pit.

"Move it!" Their snaga snapped at them as it nudged one of the faction (it looked like Ása from where she was standing) towards the lift with their whip handle. "Five, all of you get in there!"

Obediently, Hlífhrím and her faction did as they were told and crowded into the creaky little wooden lift. She had to tug Thorin along where her manacle was attached to his - for a moment she thought he would refuse to move. The other dwarves in the faction all glanced suspiciously at the new addition but said nothing as the lift was slowly lowered into the pit.

Thorin could think of nothing, feel nothing but fury and anguish as he walked with the other dwarves back to their place of rest. He had never felt more degraded in his life than when the Orc-scum attached the manacle to his ankle. The thick iron chaffing his boot and making the slightest movement a weighty task. The only thing that stopped Thorin from jumping to the attack were Hlífhrím's words of warning that such an act by one would mean punishment for the rest of the faction (that and his apparent lack of weaponary).

He had never seen such a rape of the earth as what the slave pens were. Raw, red holes buried into the ground without thought or feeling towards the mountain that housed them. As the lift descended into the pen; Thorin ignored the looks the other dwarves were giving him; instead, deciding to fix a scowl on the pulley that lowered them into the cavity. The lift jerked to a stop, making him grimace when his neck cracked at the sudden movement. Quickly, the faction - as Hlífhrím had called it; which he now seemed to belong to, shuffled off the wood and onto the hard-packed clay beneath them. As the lift rose back up to the level of the walkways; the dwarves turned on him and stared.

Thorin appraised each of them in turn and even though the pit was blackened, he could still make out their features (the eyes of a dwarf being much better for seeing in the dark of caverns than a man's). The first pair was a dwarf man and woman; very similar with dirty-blonde hair and narrow brown eyes like the colour of the earth. The male's beard was a darker blonde than his hair and intricately braided and tucked into his belt. The female's beard was soft and delicate down over her chin - if the time had been his own (and she had not been quite so dirty); she would have caught the eye of many a dwarf. One thing he did notice about the two was how small they were; smaller by far than any dwarf he had ever met.

He heard whispering and; turned his gaze onto the next pair two male dwarves; stout and stocky. One with red hair and beard; and the other with brown. The first eyed him suspiciously and inspected him (quite obviously) from head to toe; gaze roaming over clothes; hair, and finally narrowing on his short beard (something which had not seemed to grow in the three-thousand years of apparent sleep). The second looked him over once, seemingly finding nothing worth being interested in and took two steps back against the wall before sliding to a seat on the floor.

"Who is this Hlífhrím?" another dwarf growled somewhere to his right; "I ask you as it seems you are the only one with any idea of why he is here - where is Baldur?". Immediately, Thorin turned to the sound and faced a dwarf nearly tall as himself; with pale white-blond hair and beard, dirtied by grime. Thorin studied the blonde dwarf intently and green eyes met his stare unflinchingly. Here was a wolf in the guise of a sheep if ever he had seen one and he could tell at once the other dwarf was sizing him up and taking his measure.

While Hlífhrím mumbled something incoherent next to him, the one called Nannulf (who had ploughed into her in the mines) spoke up; "Yes, what is your name Sir?", his voice was distinctly young; causing Thorin to look at him intently. He was no more than a mere boy; not even yet a stripling, and his wide brown eyes looked on him with the same wonder and awe that he had seen in the eyes of his nephews; so many years ago.

It seemed that his introduction was to be sooner than he thought. Thorin inclined his head politely to the young dwarf throwing a contemptuous glance at the pale-haired, tall dwarf; "I am Thorin, son of Thráin." he said when suddenly, one of the others snorted.

Thorin turned a scowl in the direction of the noise; which ended up being a black-haired female dwarf; standing next to the pale-haired one. Her features were sharp and angular; and her beard slightly longer than the other female's and tied in tiny braids. "There is no one of that name here - there has not been a dwarf carrying those names for many years." she said, her eyes cold; "You are a liar."

He was about to angrily respond when Hlífhrím beat him to it; "He does not lie Ása, I know he does not." she snapped at the other dwarf woman; before casting her eyes about the group, "He has given you his name; now it is proper that we give him ours - or would we become rude and foul like those who drive us with their whips and swords?"

There were several mumbles and scowls as Hlífhrím glared at the dwarves around her (to say she had surprised him - and seemingly the others; would have been an understatement). "I am Nannulf." the young dwarf beside his side said suddenly, catching all in surprise at his forwardness.

The old dwarf who had talked to Hlífhrím back in the mines grunted beside the boy. "And I am Geir." he said gruffly, staring intently at him with his one eye - the other, only a sunken eyelid in his skull. "It is odd that you have named your father; Thorin, son of Thráin. We have not done this for many a year, as surely you should know - instead we name our house. Nannulf, and I are of the Longbeard clan."

Thorin nodded but said nothing; so, they were of his people - as it appeared Hlífhrím was (who had forgotten to tell him about this fact regarding names in her seemingly never-ending list of instructions). "You already know my name, and my people." Hlífhrím said with a shrug, before looking to the others across from her with a glare; "So perhaps we should move straight on."

Thorin shifted his gaze in the direction she was looking towards the two blonde dwarves; "I am Vigdis and this is Viljalmar, my brother" The female said abruptly, "We are of the house of Firebeard."

"I wish I could say it was a pleasure; but that would be an untruth." Viljalmar drawled disparagingly; giving a wave of his hand. Thorin got the distinct feeling this one thought better of himself than he was in reality.

Another voice broke him rudely from his thoughts. "I am Ejnar, also of the Firebeard clan." the red haired dwarf suddenly spoke up, giving a mocking bow, his blue eyes skeptical; "and that lout sitting down is Ivarr; of the Longbeard clan."

The brown-haired dwarf simply yawned in response to the other dwarf's statement and closed his eyes, resting his head back against the wall; utterly uninterested. Thorin's gaze finally settled on the pale-haired dwarf and the black-haired female. The pair stared at him in contempt; and he only just managed to rein in his temper, gritting his teeth in annoyance. "And your names?" Thorin asked cooly; watching their reactions.

It was the female that finally decided to speak up; "I am Ása, and this is my cousin Rorik." she said haughtily; "We are of the the Broadbeam house."

Thorin raised his eyebrows and said nothing, instead deciding to glare at the one called Rorik. He would show him just how unintimidated he was by the silent display of aggression. The pale-haired dwarf simply stared back cooly. "We should all get some sleep." Rorik suddenly spoke up; eyes never wavering from his own. "We are on second rotation. Tomorrow we work the forges. Be ready Thorin, son of Thráin."

With that; the dwarf turned and settled down against the pit walls, followed by the rest of the faction. Thorin felt Hlífhrím nudge him with her foot and she jerked her head in the direction of a free wall-space. The manacles didn't offer much room to move about; but he tramped over to the space she had indicated (which was not far enough away from the others in his opinion) before seating himself against the hard clay.

As Thorin settled down to sleep, he felt something sharp digging into his chest, and remembered the Arkenstone. In everything that had occurred he had completely forgotten the stone that posed so many questions. He had always thought that the 'Heart of the Mountain' was simply a gem; but now, for some reason his suspicions led him to believe otherwise.

Thorin fought the urge to keep one eye open in case someone decided to steal it. His last act of greed had led to death and destruction; and he would be damned if he let the emotion take hold of his better judgement again. Slowly, he drifted off to sleep and the Arkenstone became a comforting weight against his breast; moving with the beat of his heart. As he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, Thorin hoped that in sleep, he would come to realise the events that had occurred were simply a fallacy; mere dreams in a feverish mind.

A/N: I have (finally) decided on the theme song for this fic (an odd little thing I tend to do): 'Promentory' from The Last of the Mohicans (also known as 'The Gael' by Dougie Maclean). I honestly think it has a bit of a 'dwarvish' feel to it; and think it goes quite nicely with the beat of the story.

The 'slave pits' are modeled on the 'warg pits' from the two towers, mixed with ideas of gladiatorial pits. Also I just realised - typo on the Map of Erebor I drew - '3.' is not 'Food Hall' it is 'Forges' :)

I'm actually thinking of drawing up an edited and extended map of middle-earth and the far east for this story (the 5th Age); would anybody say yes to that? To help ya'll visualise certain aspects of the story?

Thanks so much to everyone that followed/favourited. Especially to harrylee94, LadyDunla, Afri, Teres, Shadow fang the black wolf, blackestnight10 and L. C. Doyle for reviewing. Each and every one of you make me smile with what you have to say :)

Please review! It really helps me (both with motivation and ideas) when you do! :)