Chapter Ten
Kili, Prince of Erebor, rode pillion behind a tall rider of Rohan named Breodan.
"Watch out!" the rider called back to him.
Kili leaned left as the horse made a sharp turn, dirt flying under its hooves. He leaned forward as it leapt down a bank, and he moved as Breodan did when the horse flexed left and right in a high speed serpentine through massive trees.
He clenched his jaw to keep from biting his tongue, and just staying in his seat took alert concentration as all five Eored rode like a stampede down the Old Forest Road…a road that had just taken his little company of dwarves two days to cross with a slow-moving pack train of heavily-laden ponies. Now he was back-tracking in record time and hanging on with every ounce of his great strength.
It was late afternoon when the Eored slowed and milled about at a spring, riders exchanging information from scouts, dismounting to check hooves, and walking and watering horses.
Kili was handed down and he looked quickly for the other dwarves, spotting young Skirfir nearby, windblown but on his feet.
"All right, lad?" he asked.
Skirf nodded. "That was...wild." He walked with a slight stagger.
Kili knew the feeling, though he hoped he didn't look quite as unsteady as Skirf. The past few hours were a blur.
Overhead, ravens circled, having found the Eored. They flew low, quorking and calling. Kili looked up at them, and King Eomer's horsemen gave him silent regard as he walked far enough away to raise an arm and invite the ravens down to talk. The Rohirrim seemed suspicious of the ravens, but none of them questioned the usefulness of the information they brought and Kili's ability to hear it and interpret.
Skirfir went with him, his sword drawn and ready to defend his Prince and swordbrother in case of unexpected visitors. Vit and Vir appeared as well, taking up guard positions.
One raven flew in with a swoop. Man like bear! From the west! Then the bird immediately took wing again to draw Kili's eye to a trail from the northwest.
"Look sharp!" Kili called, raising an arm to alert the Rohirrim.
"Who is it?" Breodan called. "Friend or foe?"
"One person, alone. Let's hope for friend," Kili said, not quite believing the ravens description of man like bear but knowing better than to discount them.
A small group of Rohirrim were quick to form a loose defense, wary. Eomer rode forward, though Kili held up a hand to keep them back.
He heard the stranger's footsteps, slow and purposeful.
Kili stood firm. Beside him, Skirfir gripped his sword in both hands, eyes wide.
"Steady, lad," Kili murmured.
As they watched, a very tall, massive man with bushy auburn hair, a high forehead, and long straight nose strode forward.
"Friend," Kili said, signaling back to the Rohirrim, recognizing the man who approached. At least he hoped they could call him that.
The giant of a man stepped closer.
Kili stood firm. He knew this man's kind did not stand on ceremony, and he motioned for Skirfir to lower his blade.
The man stopped, towering above Kili and glaring down at him. "Who is this horde which rides at such speed down this old road?" the tall man asked gruffly.
"They are men of Rohan," Kili answered. "Riding to aid Erebor. There are Easterlings in the Vale and the Mountain."
The man glowered, but Kili simply looked up at him, keeping his expression open.
"Kin of Oakenshield…" the man named him.
"Kili." He inclined his head but knew better than to offer his service.
"Where are your ponies?" he demanded. "I saw you ride past yesterday, your ponies fat and healthy."
"They are with two elves and my Lady Wife, back at the river. The ravens brought us ill tidings. We ride to war."
The tall man nodded, then looked up to take in the number of the combined Eoreds.
"Many fine horses. And men."
"This is King Eomer of Rohan," Kili held a hand out to where Eomer sat his horse. "King Eomer, this is Grimbeorn, son of Beorn."
Eomer bowed his head, but said nothing.
"What will elves want with ponies?" Grimbeorn asked, apparently more interested in beasts than kings.
"They will look after them until it is safe to return to the Mountain."
Grimbeorn looked at him, his expression unreadable. "We don't like Easterlings."
"Neither do we."
"Your Lady Wife," Grimbeorn said, changing the subject. "The one with child?"
Kili blinked. How did…? Then he drew breath. Beornings were well known as sensitive to living beings; known for their careful husbandry of creatures. A sixth sense, perhaps.
"Yes," he acknowledged. "But that's best kept secret, for her safety."
"She is with friends?"
Kili frowned. Of a sort. Allies, anyway.
Grimbeorn, it seemed, understood without needing the explanation. "I will offer them sanctuary," he snorted. "Care for the ponies. For the dwarf-mother." He spoke the last words with a soft reverence.
Kili felt chagrin even as his heart lifted. "I am humbled by your offer. We would be in your debt..."
"No," Grimbeorn said. "Rather say it atones for the death of Oakenshield, whom we could not save on that terrible day."
Kili considered, then nodded. He knew the day Grimbeorn spoke of. Thorin, falling in battle, despite Beorn's help.
Grimbeorn looked from him to the mass of horsemen. "This I can do." He looked back at Kili and gestured to the men of Rohan. "While you fight Easterlings, you and the horse men."
"My thanks to you, Grimbeorn," Kili said. "She is a brave lass, but not for this kind of war. Tell her that you come by the last light of Durin's Day." He met the large man's eyes. "And give her my love."
"It is not winter," Grimbeorn scoffed. "This is a code you use?"
"Yes."
They regarded each other, the Beorning and the dwarf.
"This I will do for the kin of Oakenshield." With that, the tall man looked at the Rohirrim one last time, then turned and strode back into the forest.
Kili wracked his brain, wondering if he'd ever told Nÿr about Beorn and the Beornings and whether she'd be in for a complete shock when he appeared to her. Surely Tuilind and Yanu knew of Grimbeorn, though he never knew with elves.
"Is it true," Skirfir's voice was close by. "That his kind are skinchangers?"
Kili looked at him. "Yes. The man is large and cares for beasts," he said. "The bear is massive and unpredictable."
Skirfir stared at the woods where the man had gone. "You trust him?" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "With Nÿr?"
Kili wasn't sure how to answer. After a moment he looked down, then at his young swordbrother. "Above all, Beornings revere life." He sighed. "I trust him more than most."
Skirfir looked skeptical, then guilty for having questioned his prince. He nodded.
"I appreciate your concern," he said to the lad. "I love that she is quite capable of taking care of herself...but I can't help worrying about her, lad."
Skirfir's eyes were serious, almost accusing. "You would not be worth her trust if you didn't."
In spite of everything, Kili smiled at him. Skirfir was young and just a little bit besotted with the new Princess of Erebor in his own way. Kili understood it and might have even caused it-using the lad as a go-between for half a year. Truth be told, Skirfir's accident in a rock fall had given Kili his chance to get the young healer lass's attention in the first place.
He patted his young protégé on the shoulder and took the time to call a raven, sending it back to Nÿr. Trust the bear-man, Grimbeorn. Be safe, love. As the strong young hen took to the sky, he gauged the angle of the sun and wondered if the message would reach his Lady Wife before dark.
Fly fast and strong, he said silently to the dark bird as it disappeared over the trees. And Mahal help us.
And then they were remounting, the Riders of Rohan merging into long lines as they took the road and continued east.
To Kili, the second part of the ride was just as fast and breakneck as the first part. He stayed hunched behind Breodan and concentrated on moving with the horse, just hoping his gear would stay buckled together.
At twilight, the last ravens found them pounding down a wide, straight portion of road and they flew alongside him as if in a race.
"It's the last chance to ravenspeak before night," he shouted to Breodan. "They roost at sunset."
Breodan nodded and slowed, cantering aside into a small meadow. Most of the Eored charged on, a small guard, including King Eomer himself, stayed with Kili, circling to cool their horses.
Kili slid to the ground and was quick to stride a bit uphill, allowing the birds room to land and talk to him.
Years of ravenspeaking enabled him to sort the jumble of incoming information.
Dale musters. Gates are closed.
No one speaks for Erebor but Mountain Lassie at the top of stairs.
Grey haired miner tracks the King.
Bofur. Kili let his breath out. That was a heartening piece of news.
But it was followed by disaster.
Western outpost burns.
Many guard lie dead.
When Kili heard this, his expression turned hard as stone.
Nut Head taken. They take him south. We follow.
Eomer rode close, concern on his face.
"The Western Outpost burns," Kili said.
Eomer's eyes hardened and his mouth pressed tight. "Losses?"
Kili matched the expression with his darkest Durin glower. He knew who the ravens named Nut Head. "Too many. My cousin Dwalin…taken prisoner, the ravens tell me."
Eomer looked grim. "Ever the Easterlings strike without honor." He and Kili regarded each other, silently agreeing that no Easterling would survive this transgression. Then Eomer nodded once, turning and raising an arm to his warriors. "Ride on!"
Kili clenched his jaw and grabbed the hand that Breodan offered, letting the strong warrior pull him up.
They sped on for another hour, until the twilight deepened and the trail became too risky in the dark. Breodan slowed his mount as the Eoreds spilled over a series of rocky embankments and splashed across a shallow stream into a wide meadow.
The Rohirrim made quick work of setting up a bare-bones camp in the tall grass, allowing the horses to graze at will. Kili found Skirfir again, and before long stood with the two hill brothers and the other four dwarves of their group.
"We will take our share of the watch," Kili said to Eomer when the King approached them.
Eomer regarded the mass of Rohirrim around them.
"That is a welcome offer," he said, inclining his head toward them. "We are all taking one hour each. You are welcome to join us." He nodded to the green banner where the watch commander would be. "We ride at sunrise, and Mahal willing, our blades see battle soon. Rest while you can, lads."
Beka, daughter of Dwalin and first year trainee in the Erebor Guard, had taken two steps back and clutched a rock when the ravens had delivered the news about the Western Outpost.
Her father had been there. He was captured. Taken by Easterlings. Warriors slain defending him, his great figure bent by chains on his hands.
They had stripped him of his axes.
Who? She had seethed. Easterlings, yes, but who helped them do this?
The ravens had taken her question as a command.
They passed the word, and the next morning when they flew over Ravenhill, unfamiliar dwarves threw stones at them.
Erebor's ravens were not pleased. They called to each other, starting to circle. The foreign dwarves were baited and threw more stones, shouting at them. Ravens flew closer, taunting them.
Go away! You are not our dwarves! Go! Go!
It finally happened: they struck a raven. One of the old hens, out of flight trim and in her last season, took a stone to the head and dropped from the sky.
A foreign dwarf raised his hands in triumph, striding forward to lift his prize kill by the feet and shake her limp body at them.
Anger hardened the eye of every bird in the flock. No Erebor dwarf would harm a raven. Rock throwers were not Erebor dwarves. Rock throwers were prey.
The foreign dwarf did not know what it meant when the ravens began circling like a black-winged cyclone. He stared up at them, laughing with his kill in his hand, crying out his derision and defiance.
At some point, his fellows backed off, unsettled by the birds' behavior.
The raven named Klaak, a well experienced warrior, waited until the rock-thrower was separated away, the other dwarves having fled in dismay, and then he started the war-cry.
Attack! Attack! Attack!
Well over two hundred ravens descended on the foreign dwarf like arrows falling from the sky, sharp beaks striking him, pecking and rending flesh, leathers, shirt...
The foreign dwarf dropped the dead hen and covered his head with his arms, then fell to the ground, curled around himself.
The ravens finished him off.
He was already dead when Klaak landed in the fray, scattering the angry mob of ravens who'd been driven by their fury.
In Klaak's mind, he felt he was flying high in triumph, but in reality he was on the ground, jockeying for position against the rest of the angry flock, his feet angrily trodding the carcass of his enemy, unable to resist hard, striking pecks at the bad dwarf's throwing hand. Rock thrower. Hen killer.
The bad dwarf was bloody meat, repeated pecks separating leathers from buckles, skin from sinew and bone.
A white, shiny symbol caught his beady eye, and Klaak stopped long enough to angle his head for a closer look, flapping and hopping to fend off his fellows while he looked.
A mark on the dwarf's arm, underside of his arm, below the elbow… what was now a flap of skin surrounded by bloody meat. It was not dark markings like those on Nut Head, the ravenspeaker with no hair, it was a light marking.
But Klaak knew what sigils were. Raven Prince's sigil…which was different than King's sigil…different than One Eye's sigil…he could beak them, feel the design, see the differences.
This was no one's sigil.
Sign of the traitors! He screamed. Sign of the traitors!
Klaak ripped the shiny mark from the remnants of the dead arm and clamped the bit of skin tight in his beak, leaping into the sky and taking wing, rising high above the war flock's furious decimation of the rock thrower's body. His wings beat strongly as he took to the sky, aiming for a particular place high up on the mountain.
Mountain Lassie…Mountain Lassie…sign of the traitors!
When he made it to the mountain top, he found Mountain Lassie, cold and shivering in the early morning light, holding her arm to him.
He landed silently, offering the flap of skin.
Her eyes were wide when she took it.
"Easterling?" she asked.
"Skin of dwarf. Hen killer. Hen killer dwarf."
Mountain Lassie looked sick. "This came from a traitor dwarf? One who killed a raven?"
"Yes, yes. Hen killer. Rock thrower." Then he flapped, almost unable to stay perched in his anger. He crouched into nest-defense position and screamed before looking her in the eye. "War flock peck and strike. Peck and strike. Bloody dwarf." He reached down, nibbling the inside of her arm, just below the elbow. "Sign of the traitors. Here. Sign." He nibbled again. "Sign of the traitors."
Mountain Lassie looked taken aback. "This tattoo…they wear it here?" She rubbed the place on her arm where he'd been nibbling.
"Yes, yes. Here. Sign of the traitors."
"The flock attacked a foreign dwarf who killed a hen?"
"Yes, yes."
"Is he dead?"
"Yes, yes."
"And you found this white mark on his arm?"
"Yes, yes."
"Where was the dwarf, Klaak? At the western outpost?"
Klaak ruffled his feathers. "Ravenhill."
"Ravenhill," Mountain Lassie repeated. "Good bird. Fierce bird. Thank the war flock. Tell them Mountain Lassie thanks them. Great flock."
Klaak bowed his head. Yes, he would tell them, he would tell them now. He launched himself with a cry of triumph and flew high, exhilarating in the open air, ready to fly fast down the mountain and ride the morning currents.
Beka watched Klaak the raven soar away, a jumble of feelings in her heart. She scanned the sky, didn't see signs of more ravens, and turned for the threshold back inside the Mountain.
"Mieth!" Her cousin's close friend stood with his cloak wrapped tightly around himself in front of their little fire, but he looked up at her call.
"What is it?"
"Take this down yourself," Beka said, showing him the scrap of flesh. "Straight to Fjalar. No one else."
Mieth took it. "What is it?"
"Piece of skin," she said. "From the inner forearm of a traitor dwarf." She touched her own forearm, just below the elbow. "This is their sign. The ravens think they are all marked with it."
Mieth looked at it with distaste. "So if Fjalar finds dwarves with this…" he struggled for the best word. "White tattoo," he decided. "He'll have found the traitors?"
Beka nodded.
Mieth looked at her. "How did the ravens discover this?" he asked as if he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
She told him. "You heard Skirfir tell about the war-flock attacking the spider at the Pinnacles?"
Mieth nodded.
"Sounded pretty much the same," she said in a low voice. They looked at each other. Erebor's ravens could be goofy, pesty, messy, and loud, but few knew how deadly they could be. As a flock, they were perfectly capable of killing in defense of the Mountain.
"Go all the way down the stairs yourself. Talk to Fjalar alone," Beka said. She quickly briefed him on everything else she knew, even though some of it had already been sent down in short, coded messages. "He'll ask a million questions, if I know him. So you better be ready to answer."
"Ravens have tracked where they took my Da," she said, her voice bravely steady. "And they've sighted Bofur not far from there. It's the eastern ridge, south of Esgaroth." She took a scrap of paper and drew a quick map. "This isn't accurate, but maybe he can check it against charts in the King's study. The ravens say there's a cave opening up here," she drew an X.
"That's their hideout?"
Beka gave him a scathing look. "Hideout? They're not children, Mieth." She rolled her eyes. "I don't know what it is, but the ravens think the King is here, they think my Da's being taken there too, and they tell me Bofur is not far from it."
Mieth nodded.
And that's when the second raven of the morning swooped overhead, diving at the thin smoke from their campfire.
"Raven Prince! Raven Prince comes!"
"Kili!" Beka breathed, leaping up to stand clear of the rocks and raise her hand to the incoming bird.
And finally she heard some news that gave her hope.
"Last message," she said to Mieth as the raven flew for the nuts and seed strewn on the rock below their camp. "Kili's turned around and he rides for the River Running south of the Lake."
Mieth pumped a fist. "Yes!"
"And the best part…he says Raven Prince comes with Rohan. Dawn. On the tenth day."
"Today's the ninth," Mieth said, his face blank in surprise. "He means tomorrow!"
"Yes," Beka nodded. She picked up the rough map she'd sketched and thrust it at Mieth. "Go! All the way to Fjalar—tell no one else anything. Do you understand?"
Mieth's face flushed in excitement. "Absolutely, yes. I totally understand," he said, charging for the top of the stairway.
Then he stopped, pulled the fur-lined cloak from his shoulders and turned back to hand it to her.
"Take it," he said. "I won't need it…you will." He shoved the extra cloak at Beka, who took it in a jumble. They looked at each other. They were unlikely friends, Dwalin's daughter and the burly son of smiths…but they were firmly united in two things: support of Fjalar, King's heir, friend and cousin; and protection of Erebor, home of the Sons of Durin.
Mieth nodded to her, then dashed for the stairs.
Beka sighed. What was it she'd heard her cousin Kili say about the chubby lads on the stairs? Might be slow going up, but with all that momentum, the hefty lads are hell on two feet going downhill .
Beka clutched the extra cloak, her hands soaking up the warmth left from Mieth's body heat.
Be hell on two feet, Mieth, she said silently. And I hope it's enough, Da. I hope it's enough.
Fili, King of Erebor, stood shirtless and bootless in a place he didn't know.
But he stood in front of a dwarven-made forge, ages old, and what to do with a forge was one thing he did know.
Coal, kindling, and flint: he had what he needed to get a fire going in the box, and he could do that, no matter how long the furnace had been cold.
And there was the anvil. He touched it as he limped to the workbench. There. A hammer. He lifted it, gripping it in his hand, wiping dust away. To his left, tongs and pokers.
All good.
Fili snorted. His captors had brought him here and made a demand: make a magic sword. A Tyrfing sword.
They're dumb enough to give me a forge...I'll certainly make a sword, Fili fumed. It wouldn't be exactly what this Lord Svarlam expected, but so be it. The bastard would deserve what he got.
Fili spent a few minutes cleaning out the old grate, then with a bucket of anthracite coal and his tongs, laid a nest of coal, leaving a well in the center, just as he'd been taught as a lad. He assembled shavings, small sticks, and bits of a used torch, and found an old but usable chunk of firelighter just where a true dwarf smith would have left it...he took a moment to bless whoever that long dead smith had been, and in moments dropped a flaming chunk the size of a small stone into the kindling.
He added shavings with a well-practiced eye, watched them light, and then smiled grimly as the tell-tale ghost flame shot up, a sign that the gasses from the anthracite had caught fire.
He carefully added larger pieces of wood, and as the fire took, added more coal, slowly covering the kindling. His little fire went from flickering to volcano before he knew it, and he stood back, feeling a blazing warmth for the first time since he'd awakened here. It was smoky and smelly, but he watched the dark fumes rise, satisfied that there was enough draft in this cavern to draw the air and fire the forge.
By the time his coals were blazing red hot, he'd cleaned and readied the hammer, anvil, tongs, and pokers, and he'd laid out crucibles and cleaned the sand pit.
He set one long poker with a good length in the fire as a temperature gauge. When that metal turned bright red, he would know that his coal was hot enough to smelt ore.
Until then, he stood and concentrated on what he was about to do.
Mahal, father of all fathers, bless these hands, this fire, the forge and steel. Let me strike the hammer on the anvil as we will strike our enemies with our swords. He let his consciousness reach into the stone beneath his feet. The core of Erebor was far away, but he could sense it. It would respond to him...
But before he was ready to work, he heard his captors returning.
"Take your hands off me!" someone shouted.
Fili turned, eyes wide. He knew that voice!
"Turn and fight, you stinking orc-offal!"
The double doors into the cavern burst open, and a small sortie of six large Easterlings struggled in with a snarling, kicking dwarf, shrouded in dark cloth but cursing as loud as he could in Khuzdul.
Dwalin! Fili would recognize that voice anywhere. How in the name of Mahal had they gotten Dwalin?
It took all six large Easterlings to wrestle the warrior dwarf forward, and when they stripped away the dark cloth, Dwalin, bloody and shirtless, sprang at them with the energy of a lad a quarter of his age.
"I'll punch you bloody and tear out your guts..." he raged.
The Easterlings didn't wait. They ganged up on him with their fists and Fili winced, having been recently introduced to that particular method for subduing a prisoner. He sported the cuts and bruises to prove it.
Six against one. Unfair.
Fili spun and grabbed the bright hot poker from the fire and turned on the six Easterlings. He charged in, swinging the fiery metal like it was a broadsword, slashing through trousers to burn and cut the sinew of the men's thighs and calves.
The first two toppled backwards, screaming their agony at the searing pain of the hot metal.
Two more made the mistake of drawing long knives, quickly batted away when the flaming hot poker slammed against unguarded hands.
One of the long knives made it into Dwalin's hand and together, the cousins slashed and burned their way into scattering the Easterlings.
The men fled out the door, dragging themselves back the way they came. When Dwalin roared and made to charge after them, Fili intervened, using his whole body to hold the larger, older dwarf back.
"No! Dwalin! I need you here!" Fili said sharply, trying to make sure Dwalin heard him through his rage. "Let them go."
"They burned the western outpost!" Dwalin roared. "I want their heads on a stake and their guts flung to the winds!"
"I know!" Fili shouted back at him. "I know, so do I! Gunz, Dwalin. Did they say anything about Gunz?"
Dwalin's mouth shut and while he pushed against Fili, he finally looked at him: a moment of confusion and shock registering on his angry face.
"They say they have him here," Fili said. He held Dwalin's gaze and his voice softened. "But I don't believe it...tell me what you know."
Dwalin shook his head. "No, lad. They only have you. The ravens..." he blinked. "Ravens say the kids are all in the Mountain..."
Dwalin stepped back, anger replaced by sympathy. "And Gunz...he lies still. They say he's not awakened."
Fili couldn't breathe. Lying Easterlings...they didn't have Gunz captive, no matter what they said. He would kill a hundred himself as soon as he had a real blade in his hands.
"They hurt my son, Dwalin," Fili glowered. "A lad. He's just a child." Fili struggled with his emotions, breathing hard. "I want them dead."
Dwalin's eyes narrowed. "Aye, lad." Then he seemed to take in the cooling poker, the forge, and the coal fire.
"This is their price," Fili said, motioning toward the old forge with an angry gesture. "They want a magic sword."
"And you mean to forge them one?" Dwalin asked, almost accusing.
"I mean to make a Tyrfing blade," Fili spat.
The two cousins looked at each other, and Dwalin's eyes went wide.
"That's a tricky spell," Dwalin acknowledged. "Can go wrong in a hundred horrible, unintended ways."
Fili's expression was stony. "I intend for it to go wrong only for the Easterlings."
Dwalin's expression showed his shock. "What you propose is...not done," he said.
"Will you stop me?"
Dwalin didn't answer. After a long moment he shook his head. "No lad. Count on me to help you."
**Please take a moment to review or PM if you can-your feedback keeps me going on this story and I can't tell you how valuable and appreciated it is. There are more scenes and chapters already in the hopper, so hope to get back to posting more often. I will be at two large conventions this summer—ALA/Vegas (some of you may know what that is!) and ComicCon/San Diego. If anyone reading this will also be there—send me a PM and maybe there's a meetup possibility! Mahal's Blessings! Summer**