CHAPTER SIX: TWO EDGES, TWO FACES

Goblin Town: Part One

Thorin watched the blackness above, his heart little more than a dull twitch in his breast. He had fumbled through thought and mind for hours, straying between sleep and wake. He could not tarry at either province long; his mind was all a tumult. When he was dreaming, he dreamt of things so terrifying they woke him. When he woke, he thought only of the things that terrified him. Thorin shifted, trying for sleep. The damp of his clothes had him aching to lie in nothing but his own skin.

The cave was black as pitch, save for a smattering of moonlight upon the rocks. When Thorin was not asleep he was watching its entrance. Gandalf the Grey had been standing there not a moment ago, until Thorin had realised he was dreaming it. After that, he stopped looking.

So the night aged, and spent his hopes of seeing the wizard return.

Elsewhere, someone stirred in the cave. The dim shape of his nephew rolled over and slept on. In the half-light Thorin could make out a thin line across Kili's throat – the vestige of a thief's knife, who had once tried to murder him for his money. Thorin Oakenshield suddenly stiffened in unease. That same Thief not six feet from us. How had that come to be? Distrust is an armour much as the ramparts of any stronghold. How had he forgotten?

He had often felt ensured in that reading truth in a man's lies would always be a power at his beckon. But this girl…when he looked upon her face he could pass no sentence. Enemy or friend? Or servant? His lord father had told once told him that a servant could be an ally, and that a friend could serve; but an ally was not a friend. An ally would turn their cloak the moment the odds were against him. Or her.

He began to wonder whether bringing her into his service had been some terrible err. She was only his hired knife. And all knives have two edges, as thieves have two faces.

Thorin had even entertained fettering the girl in irons while they slept. That way he might fall into a sleep that did not have staves waiting for him at the bottom. He was certain that Varna of the Great East road had thought of murdering him more times than he cared to count. There were times that her eyes looked at him as though he were the least deserving thing to draw breath; as though it had been his knife and hand that had maimed her.

And to Thorin's horror, he found that he felt it was the truth.

I sent her to that fate.

Was it why he had hired her, in the end? For guilt? He remembered the man named Ward, and the Gundabad orc. He remembered how Varna had looked, beaten bloody. Guilt. Some discomforting instinct told him that was much and more of it.

Thorin searched the darkness and found her.

The Thief was thinner than he liked a woman to be – and taller. She wore rough, brown breeches and a tunic of light wool; the garb was a man's, but that did not make her a man beneath them. His eye was not fooled. Underneath she had long, lithe legs and a small waist – and he imagined there would be a tight, hungry sort of strength to her body. A cut on her cheek left by the orcish knives was scarring.

Twenty was no older then Ori. How could he have entrusted such great purpose onto half a child? I have gambled with my claim on halflings and thieves. If any tragedy should befall the quest for Erebor, mayhaps it was no less than he deserved.

Enough of this. He sighed angrily. Enough.

Thorin crossed his arms about his chest and closed his eyes. He was close to drifting away when he heard someone moving within the cave. Then words were spoken.

"Where d'yeh think you're going?" Bofur had the watch, and it was Bofur's voice who had woke him.

"Back to Rivendell."

Thorin's consciousness came flooding back. There was no denying the second voice. The hobbit. Thorin knew at once this was a conversation he was not meant to be privy to.

There was a scuffle as Bofur leapt to his feet. "Yeh can't turn back now. What abou' the contract? Yer part of the Company!"

"I'm not." Bilbo said. "And I never was. Thorin was right; I shouldn't have come. I don't know whatI was thinking..."

"Bilbo -"

"No, Bofur. You shan't miss me. Besides...there's a true burglar lying at your feet. She's the one you need." He paused. "I'll only hold you back."

A silence passed. Thorin knew that the quest for Erebor dangled on it; without the hobbit we have lost our burglar. Who would they send in his stead? The woman? He could not say if she had courage enough to face the Great Calamity. If she turns her cloak, my cause is lost.

The hobbit continued: "I should have seen sense and turned back the moment she came to us."

"You're homesick!" Bofur tried to console him. "I understand - "

"No, you don't! You don't understand. None of you do. You're dwarves! You're used to – to this life, to living on the road. Never settling in one place - not belonging anywhere!" Bilbo's words trailed away, realising his mistake. "That was out of turn. I – I'm sorry."

"No. You've the right of it." Bofur sighed. "We belong noplace."

But we shall, Thorin fought back. When I stand in the halls of my forefathers once more, we will have a place in which to belong. And no part of its glory shall be had by hobbits of the Shire.

"I wish you all the luck in the world, friend." said Bofur. "I do, truly." Thorin saw shadows shift on the walls as the hobbit sidestepped and moved for the cave mouth.

"Wait..." Bofur stopped him. "What's that?"

The stone around Thorin was paling, he realised; the colour of winter ice over water. Exhausted as he was, gathering his wits was like catching cats in an alleyway. He squinted. Then, all of a sudden, he was recalling a passage from an old tome his professor had given him:

Blades forged in the elvish province of Gondolin are possessed of a foresight; such is the nature of the steel to bear a bluish hue when orcs or goblins tarry close, a quality proven most effective in disarming the advantages of an assault.

Understanding crashed into him like a wave. Thorin sat up at once, but it was too late. The cavern swelled with a guttural clunk of metal over metal.

"Wake up!" Thorin struggled to his feet and gave someone a hard shove. "Wake up!"


She had been dreaming that Arda split like a seam, and all the world had fallen into Hell.

The fall woke her at once. The chill of the cavern dropped into a dank, nauseating heat. Air assailed her, screaming at her ears. Flailing, she felt a thick-fingered hand grab for her – but it soon lost its grasp. The heat grew aggressive, torched sconces lined streaming past her so quickly it seemed to be one finger of flame...below, the ground reared upwards.

Varna landed twistedly, moaning in pain. A foul stench sprang from the sudden heat, filling her mouth and nose. She gagged, struggling for her legs. They were in a cage, she saw; a hutch of bent bones, bark and iron. The cavern was monstrous large, lit with sconces above...but below, the roots of the mountain were lost and black.

Then strangulated shrieks rang in the dim, and the cavern walls were crawling.

"Demons," the Thief whispered, remembering her dream.

Fili was at her side. "Goblins."

Fear punched her in the gut. In that moment Varna felt something tug at her arm, clawed and heavy-handed – she flinched, revolted. The mob were too many for swords, and the heat was stifling. Creatures were scaling the hutch like hornets; a knot of claws and yellowed eyes and leather flesh. The horde was assailing at all sides, sweeping them away like a tide of ants. Varna's legs moved without her volition. When teeth gnashed at her face, she unsheathed her dirk -

A hand grabbed her wrist. She would have fought him off too but at the last moment, she felt that the hand was warm. "Save yer strength, lass," Dwalin warned her, before being sucked into the swarm of monsters.

As she stared, something gave her a sharp jab in the spine. Some goblin had his knife shoved up against her ribs. "Move, she-man."

Fear pushed her forward and she scrambled into step. As her head snapped back one last time, a pair of eyes found hers in the throng.

Run, she tried to say. Run, Bilbo.

"Keep movin'!" another jab.

The Company were overwhelmed by sheer number, herded through the narrows in the rock. Above and below were bridges of bark and rope, veering from wall to wall.

Then the narrows widened, and the cavern soared hundreds of feet. Goblin Town was built entirely of scaffolding. It swayed and veered and laughed, the earth pounding like drums in the stone. She could feel it rumbling under her feet, shaking her inside. Thousands of creatures gawked from its towering walls, their eyes shining wet and red under the bloody torches.

When the swarm halted, they were descended on the foot of a great chair. A throne, she realised, with horror.

The creature that filled it was eight feet tall. A toothed crown atop declared him king, but the thick and ulcerated creature made her flesh prickle with revulsion. Every motion had his expansive bulk quivering, the sullied loincloth between his thighs swinging over legs riddled with warts and welts. One eye was molested by a sty, but the other saw clearly.

The Great Goblin called a silence that fell at once. Then he lurched forth, weighted on the butt of a sceptre mounted with the skull of a beast. "Who would be so bold as to come armed into the Hithaelgir? Spies? Thieves? Assassins? The truth, now. I will have the truth!"

Somewhere, a scout spoke up. "Dwarves, your Malevolence."

"Dwarves?"

Varna lowered her eyes hastily as the scout answered: "Found 'em on the front porch. They were carryin' these." At once several of the goblin party laid a homage at the foot of the throne: the Company's swords. Varna's hands drifted up to the dirk on her belt protectively.

The Great Goblin conceded. "Dwarves indeed. Queer to find dwarves so far into the mountains. But no matter. I will have the truth of it. Do...enlighten me." He looked over his prisoners. "Who sent you?" When none spoke, a rictus of rotted teeth broadened at his snout; he leered. "Very well. There are other ways of inspiring talk. Bring up the mangler, and the bone-breaker! Begin with the youngest."

"No!" Thorin Oakenshield barked, shoving his way to the front. "Here is your truth, cur."

The Great Goblin's eyes gleamed with a thousand facets. "Well, well. Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. King-Under-The-Mountain."

Thorin's eyes never wavered from the Great Goblin's face, his expression as still as the effigies on the portcullis into Rivendell. "You have the honour."

"The honour," the Goblin returned phlegmatically. "Whence have you come? You lost your Mountain to a fire-drake; did you think to come and claim mine?" he regarded him, leaning on the bones of his sceptre. "There is one who would pay a pretty price for your head, Thorin, son of Thrain; a bounty lies upon thine life. By rights I should kill you now."

Varna could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She remembered what Thorin Oakenshield had said to her; there are foes in all corners of Arda, girl. Had they come all this way, only to die?

Thorin negated him. "That news is old as ruins. Elves slew the Gundabad orcs who laid that price."

"So I heard. But I speak of another. An old enemy of yours. You must assuredly remember, Mountain-King, for he slew your grandfather: a pale orc, astride a white warg."

The Thief recalled the monster who had mutilated her; an orc with white flesh, as tall as a man. My lady has the pleasure of Bolg; heir to Moria, of the Eastland.

Whose heir? Varna feared the answer.

"Azog the Defiler was destroyed," Thorin refuted. "He was slain in battle long ago!"

"So you think his defiling days are done, do you?" the King baited. "I see one before me that thinks otherwise." Something must have been showing in her face. Varna's insides shrank as the Great Goblin found her with his thick-lidded eyes, red lips wriggling like earthworms. "In fact; I see one before me who is contrary entirely. When I first heard that dwarves travelled with a daughter of Man I held my doubts – and yet, here you stand, Thief of the Great East Road."

"Leave her be," Thorin Oakenshield's voice cracked like a lash. "Your quarrels are with me, not my Company!"

"For a small fortune, I'd take any man's quarrels!" the King spat, and turned to Varna once more. "You wounded a man's pride."

Ward. The Thief found her voice. "Wounded more than his pride."

That amused the Great Goblin. "And for that, you're wanted intact. But perhaps...a finger, to join that toe of yours?"

A sick feeling pitted itself in her belly. She looked away.

"Docked you like a dog, did they? I should like to see that."

Before she could fight back she was hauled roughly to her feet. Varna twisted away as goblin claws bruised her body. First they seized her arms. Then her legs – she kicked out, screaming, remembering how the orcs had done the same to her. They were going to do it again.

The struggle lasted a long time. Oin had seen enough. "You'll choke her. Stop this madness now!"

"But she struggles so, master dwarf. How else are we to prove her name?"

Varna ripped away from the claws over her mouth, quaffing at the air. When she opened her eyes, she was on all fours, clinging to the grooves in the wood scaffold. One of her fingernails was cracked and bleeding. "Stop," she hissed, as a clawed hand squeezed her shoulder. "Mercy. I'll prove it my damned self."

She heard the Great Goblin concede. "Very well."

The Thief's throat burned. She hardly remembered getting to her feet, but now she was standing under the dull devouring eyes of the Goblin King. Varna yanked at the laces of her left boot, trembling. It took her longer than it should to get them undone, and she started to flush. The buckles at her brace were even harder, but they fell away too.

Varna looked away at once, disgusted. The missing toe was a ragged lump, like a malformed part. The torches made it shine wet and pink, like a burn scar. Hot tears were pooling in her eyes.

The King turned to his scribe. "Send word to the Pale Orc. Tell him: I have his prize."

Iron shackles closed over her wrists with a cool bite, but she let them snap shut without a fight. She felt someone trying to make eyes with her. Varna refused him. The eyes were unbearable. I'm all Thorin says; weak, unlearned, stupid and craven. Better to die and get out of the way of heroes, than be all of those things.

Quite suddenly, a commotion started in the throng – one of the goblin scouts had found a thing he disliked; he threw the half-drawn sword away and let it land with a jarring clang, quivering on the floor. Orcrist. She would have known its gleam anyplace.

The King rumbled. "The Goblin Cleaver." Then he jabbed a finger towards Thorin, rounding on him. "You. You would dare wield this profane thing in the Hithaelgir?" When Thorin Oakenshield served him with nought but defiance, a rage took hold of him. "Seize him."

"NO!" Kili cried.

Goblins rushed at him, forcing Thorin's arms around. He struggled all the way to the cutting block, until a kick in the gut doubled him over. They knocked his knees out from under him, and he went down with a grunt.

"Bring me his head," the King commanded.

Everything happened very slowly, as if it were happening somewhere else - somewhere far away. The Company surged violently, but none could withstand the mob around them. Varna only watched with the taste of bile in her mouth. He's done for, she thought. And so am I.

The goblin knife came up with a flash, and then it descended –

It never made it half-way.

Varna had to shield her eyes from the light, she would remember later. It came from the darkness, from the nothing. A deafening rumble shook the mountain, and the brightness what began as a searing singularity only swelled with a belch of light. The flash rushed out, devouring. She felt air fluttering. Then the impossible winds took her legs out from under her.

The next she knew, she was on the floor.

She could hear and see nothing. The thousand sconces that had lined the walls were snuffed out, and shapes moved and struggled all around her. She listened, but her head was full of bees. Then the sounds sharpened. It was screaming.

"Take up arms," came the command that would make her heart quicken. The old man. "Fight. FIGHT."

War broke out like a pestilence. Varna found her feet; somehow, a sword found its way into her hand.

In the end, the goblin that came for her was quicker than she'd anticipated. Varna loitered, trying to remember everything of swordplay that Thorin Oakenshield had taught her - but it was no good. The thing wrestled her to the floor. A scythe lopped at her face.

In a deep place inside of her, a voice screamed no.

Her dirk was on her belt, waiting. It was the easiest thing in the world for Varna to unsheathe it. Shoving forward with all her weight, she felt the blade push through skin and hide and muscle. She was quicker than the goblin had anticipated, too. Hot blood stuck to her knuckles, black as tar.

Varna jiggled the hilt and yanked the dirk free.

In the next breath, she was pushing the corpse away. Her eyes searched the battle for a face she knew.

It was the gory gleam of Orcrist that found her first – and then the dwarf wielding it. Thorin Oakenshield's face transformed as Orcrist left a red shadow in its wake, cutting down foe on foe. Was it peace, or rage, in his face? She did not know. Varna's skin turned cold. Orcrist seemed hardly a sword at all – rather part of the arm, part of the man.

The Great Goblin's sceptre was nothing to the high-elvish forge. Orcrist cut through it with ease...as the force shuddered through his arm, the Goblin King lost his footing. As he fell, a sound like cracking timber cut through Varna's confusion.

All too late she realised what was going to happen. The beams at her feet were shuddering, snapping. Varna tried to leap away, but there was no ground to leap to. She snatched out, but there was nothing to hold onto.

Blackness opened up beneath her.


Thorin stared for a long time, wondering whether he could trust his own eyes. I cannot lose the first of my Company here, he thought. Not in this foul place.

The first creature to bar his way did not so much as raise his scythe before Thorin cut him down. Hot foam sprayed from the steel as Orcrist buried itself in the sternum; the dwarf felt the bone yield to the Gondolin steel. Then Thorin slid the sword from the corpse and he was running.

Much of the dais was destroyed. The wooden beams were shattered, clinging to the frayed ropes that held it aloft. Thorin leapt to the edge and looked down into darkness.

He scarcely believed what he saw.

The girl's eyes were black with fear. "Milord. Help me."

Thorin was already on his knees. The shackles around her wrists had caught on a protuberant plank; the sleeves of her tunic were stained red to the elbows, where the iron had gouged her flesh. Her face was spattered with blood. There is little time, Thorin assessed. The dais will fall.

"Thorin." the Thief was pale and still. "Please."

He stretched out an arm. "Reach me."

The girl tried for him, but the chain slipped. She lurched, gasping. "I can't."

"You must," he found himself growing frightened. "Do it!"

"The chain -"

"Enough of the damned chain, it is your hand that I want. Take my hand - or I will cut you loose myself!"

"Why don't you?" she tried to snarl, but it came out small and scared. Thorin looked at her hard, wanting to hide his fears from her.

"We have little time," he said. "You must try."

In that instant, he watched the fright disperse in her eyes. Then she let out a savage scream, yanking herself up – her right hand was slick with sweat and blood, gleaming gorily. Thorin sloshed forward and caught it.

She gasped in relief.

A fierce smile cracked at his mouth. "Good. Now the other – quickly." The stickiness of the blood made it hard to keep a grip. Varna tried for him with her left, but missed.

Her right hand was slipping. "Varna, you must hurry."

She tried again – this time, it was Thorin who missed. As she swung away, the chain broke the last resistance of the scaffold. She shouted a stream of curses, but Thorin still had her.

"The left, now!"

She reached for him. Her right hand broke from his, while her left veered just out of reach. He heard himself shout, but never knew what.

Thorin's fingers closed over nothing.


A/N: Eternal gratitudes!