Trial of Leadership (9/12)
When Fíli woke, someone was shaking him so hard it rattled his teeth. "Thank goodness," Bofur spoke from too close, his breath on Fíli's face. "You wouldn't wake."
Fíli's head was swimming, and at first he couldn't assimilate what was going on around him. However, everything snapped into place when he looked through the cracks in their makeshift prison and saw the fires. The screams of women and horses blended together. Metal clanged. The roar of battle mixed with the whoosh of flame. Dwalin voiced their meaning: "It's an attack."
The raiders that Valor and Jordon had feared were come.
Fíli thrust himself to his feet, hands already scraping the floor, looking for a broken piece of wood. "Nori," he barked. "The planks from the bench, we need them for leverage. Dwalin, ram the wall as hard as you can. Ori, Bofur, Bifur, put your shoulder to it. Come on, now!"
Everyone quickly seized his meaning. With the chaos, there would be no guard, no one watching. Dwalin and the others threw their weight against the wall while Nori and Fíli worked to bend the stressed the weakened wood. Finally, with one final exertion, the planks cracked. The partition gave way, and they forced their way into the night.
Nori's finger pointed to the north. "That way," he whispered. "We can follow the river."
The others hurried to follow him, but Fíli looked back on the besieged village. Though the haze of smoke and the indistinct light, he couldn't make out the attackers at first. Then, out of the mirage of ghostly smog, a shaggy body, muscled and fierce, emerged from the smoke. On its back rode a creature just as bestial. The light of the moon caught it's eyes, which glowed like yellow circles. Warg rider.
Before his eyes, the orc struck a crying woman. One thrust and her voice was cut off, silenced. She had not been armed. She had no valuables. She had simply been mowed down by a killer, who destroyed without motive. Terrified bleating: sheep and horseflesh and the village children. The very ground Fíli stood on seemed to cry out. To these people, it was home, sustenance, survival.
Without realizing what he was doing, Fíli stepped over a corpse and took up the hatchet wedged there.
"Fíli!"
He looked back, into the faces of Dwalin and his companions. He saw their stricken expressions. Alarmed, Bofur asked, "What are you doing?"
Fíli was tired. Tired of the pressure, the contention. Tired of the quarrels, the fears, the anxiety in his own heart. But he could not forsake the sense of righteousness which prevented him from joining them. "Go," he said. "Follow the river and find Thorin."
"What about you? You can't be mad enough to go charging into that."
"Why?" Ori asked in a voice that was high and bewildered. "Fíli, they would not help us."
Dwalin took a step toward him, his hand extended. "Laddie." He spoke as he had when Fíli had still been scampering around his knees, begging for stories of glorious battle. "Please. I know I spoke harshly before, but that doesn't mean you should – It's not our fight."
Fíli's straightened his shoulders, his head thrown back. "Did I not say they were our neighbors?" he asked, and then he pivoted on his heel and strode toward the fires.
The orcs had attacked as a pack, snarling astride their mounts. They bore weapons: roughly honed pieces of iron more suitable for piercing and bludgeoning than searing with an edge. Crude and terrible, but enough for their purpose, which was murder. Fíli saw the cruel iron, already bloody, even as he raised his own weapon.
"Îmî, kabâru drekh!" He announced himself, burying his borrowed hatchet deep into the arteries at the junction in a warg's hind leg. The animal whirled, through it's leg dragged through a trough of its own blood. The orc beat it, but that only maddened it more, and it snapped at its own rider, seizing the flailing arm and dragging the orc onto the ground.
Fíli was waiting to finish both of them, surprise and darkness shielding him like a cloak. Afterwards, he searched for another opponent. The one he found was on foot and came at him swinging a mace. Fili waited for the swing, then flung himself forward, slicing his opponent's throat while the mace whistled over his shoulder.
Another sword came at his back, too quick for him to turn and defend himself. However, that orc was struck in the shoulder with an arrow before it could finish its deadly strike. It squealed, flinching, easy prey. Afterwards, Fíli looked up to the watchtower and was stunned to see Ori carefully fitting another arrow to a borrowed bow. When he saw Fíli's upturned face, he nodded timorously. Fíli's heart swelled with gratitude, and he saluted with his hatchet.
'You're as brave as any dwarf, Ori,' he thought. 'Let no one tell you otherwise.'
"Khazâd ai-mênu!"
Another shout rang out, and Fíli realized that Ori wasn't the only dwarf in this fight. He heard Bifur's berserker cries as he wielded a pike like every encroaching fighter were the one who had maimed him so many years ago. Bofur guarded his back, armed with the bucket from the shed. From the height of the tower, Ori was putting Kíli's archery lessons to use. His draw was slow, unsure, but he was hitting his mark. Another orc dropped off his mount when a bolt appeared in the animal's shoulder. Fíli thought them all magnificent, and he was proud, though the situation was so bad.
"Fíli."
Fíli swung around and saw Dwalin approaching him beseechingly. Unwilling to listen, Fíli pierced the older dwarf with rings of steel. He couldn't have known it, but the red light of the fire had gotten tangled up in his bright hair, and the flames made the glowing strands look, just for a moment, like a crown.
Dwalin swallowed, whatever he was about to say forestalled. Still staring, he spoke. "I'm with you."
More thankful than he could say at such a time and place, Fíli merely nodded. He turned back to the mêlée.
The fighting went on and on, until Fíli's arms began to feel heavy, especially the wounded one, which he could barely lift. He felled another orc and then stopped, panting for breath in the brief lull. 'I cannot go on like this much longer,' he thought. 'Something must change, soon.'
That is when he heard the cry of desperation: "Back, you beasts! I'll kill you if you come nearer!"
The voice was one that Fíli knew. Pivoting on his heel, he saw a man defending a door. His curling hair was plastered down with sweat, and there were blood splatters on his face and arms, as though he had already done much fighting. It was Jordon. He held his worthless knife in front of his body like he would impale any who came close. Behind the thin partition he guarded, Fíli could hear someone crying.
The man looked ready to die before forfeiting that place, but his opponent was ruthless and inhumanly strong. It easily batting his weapon away, and then dragged Jordon forward by the neck, raising a wickedly curved scimitar. Despite the pain in Fíli's temple, courtesy of the dishonorable blow he'd been struck, Fíli knew he couldn't condemn Jordon to death, not if he could prevent it. Shouting, he seized the orc, flinging it back from its intended victim.
The orc quickly regained balance. "Khozd," the it hissed, sounding both shocked and outraged. Fíli understood the feeling. There should not be orcs here. Were they scavengers, after the small plunder, or did they serve some greater, unknown purpose?
Setting aside those questions for now, Fíli bore his teeth. The orc looked him up and down, then it hawked a thick wad of mucus and spat, snarling in its filthy language. Deliberately, Fíli raised the hatchet, which looked small compared to the heavy weapon his opponent carried.
Contemptuous, the orc circled. Fíli tracked it with his eyes. Finally, it howled with rage and attacked. Fíli stuck at the same time, leaving a deep scour along the orc's ribs. Maddened, it thrust its sword with whip-like speed, the scimitar scrapping past Fíli as he evaded. Two, three passes he escaped unharmed, but on the forth he stumbled, and the blade caught his ear, slicing deep.
But even as the pain registered, Fíli was already lunging. While his enemy's body was exposed, he stepped under the creature's guard and buried his hatchet deep under the creature's armpit. He saw it hemorrhage. A critical wound. But not one that was instantly fatal, and he paid for it.
The hilt of the scimitar crashed down on his head, and Fíli buckled onto his hands and knees. He gasped, barely supporting himself on one elbow, the other too weak to hold his weight. Had his opponent been in any condition to strike, he would have been dead in that moment. However, as he blinked though the night, he saw the orc swaying heavily, its hand around the head of the hatchet. Black ichor was pumping thick and dark. The orc had moment only. But in those moments, its teeth drew together in a snarl made even more threatening by the red foam painted on them. Its bead-like eyes rested on Fíli as it stepped forward, the scimitar still fisted in a vice-like grip. Hatred clear on the oozy, perspiring face, it hissed, "Guru, Snaga."
And that is when, like a gust of wind, Fíli realized he wasn't going to die. 'Not here,' his mind spoke with absurd calmness. 'Not quite yet.' And as if that strange clarity gave a final burst of strength, Fíli threw himself against the orc's raised arm and bore both of them to the ground. They grappled, the orc's claws scrapping and biting into Fíli's face, but Fíli was relentless.
'I will see my brother again,' he thought. 'I will not die because of you!'
And still with his hands around the contested hilt, Fíli drove his elbow into the hatchet still carving the orc's side. It shrieked, writhing with such terrible strength that Fíli was sure he would be bucked free – and then with a one final heave it was over. The beast gurgled and fell limp, barely breathing. Fíli looked into the dull eyes that were already fading and took pity. He lifted the sword and severed the jugular. What light remained was extinguished, and Fíli's chin dropped on his breast.
Shakily and with great effort, he attempted to regain his feet. However, his muscles weren't cooperating. Perplexed, he consulted his body, which he barely recognized. 'Too much blood,' he thought. 'Might as well cast these clothes into that fire over there.'
Someone touched his elbow, and he looked up. It was Jordon, who asked, "Are you well?"
Rather than answer, Fíli cast his eyes around the tableau. Some places were still burning, but villagers were beating them out. It seemed the raiding party had been driven off. Fíli saw Valor, limping but alive. He also saw his companions – Dwalin, Nori, Ori, Bifur, and Bofur. They were coming toward him, but Fíli could not read their expressions. Dwalin's gaze was especially difficult to understand. Fíli wasn't sure if he'd ever seen that look.
Or maybe it was just the heat. He raised his weak arm, which trembled, and tried to wipe some of the sweat stinging his eyes. He felt light headed. Without realizing, he started to list, but Jordon held onto him until the others were there. Dwalin searched him with hands that shook. "Did it cut you? Where are you wounded?"
Wounded? Fíli felt terribly confused. 'You may need to lie down,' something inward chided, but another part was still struggled to stay upright, even though it hurt him. Oh, it hurt so badly. "Valor," he said, hoping the man could hear him. "You'll be a scoundrel if you put us back in that shed."
And that was the last thing he knew before he ingloriously passed out, right on the field of battle.
Next Chapter Summary: The aftermath of the attack.
