Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

25. Searching for the Lost

Thorin kept a tight grip on Fíli's shoulder as he turned to the others, knowing that his nephew would not agree with the order he was about to give. Despairingly, his eyes swept the rock and bodies of their foes one more time, as if Kíli would leap out of hiding, grinning a greeting at his trick, but it was not to be.

"We return to camp. They will take Kíli deep, into the areas that we do not yet control, nor even have accurate maps for, believing that we would not dare to follow."

"Thorin, surely we should try following the trail they left us first! "

Sure enough, Fíli protested, only to be silenced by a gentle shake of the arm from his uncle as Bofur laid a reassuring hand on the prince's other shoulder, a sad smile accompanying the councilor's words.

"Think, Fíli! They know we will follow! That trail will lead to nothing but traps and ambushes! No, we must consult what maps we do have and plan our search, not run about in a battle craze, needlessly risking lives and wasting time."

The blonde opened his mouth, but Thorin cut him off before he could speak.

"Your brother would not thank us for such foolishness, especially as he already blamed himself for losing that patrol this morning. You know I speak truly, Fíli."

That there was no way Kíli could gave warned of such a thing went without saying. Had it really been only hours ago? It felt as if it had taken place in another age! Odd, that Kíli would encounter a cultist group on the very highest level of the city, where Thorin had not believed they would now dare to venture. There were only a handful of routes to the lower levels from here, and the king had thought they had them all guarded. Obviously, they had missed one. Raising his voice after receiving a reluctant nod from his oldest sister-son, the king addressed the group.

"I would ask that the leaders of each part of the army explain to your warriors what has occurred here."

Catching Einarr's eye, he saw an acknowledgement from the Blacklock that he would tell the other leaders of the dwarrow contingents. Legolas and Faramir could be trusted to gather their respective peoples, whom Thorin would need to take over guard positions from those dwarrow who joined the search.

"To find Kíli, we must venture into uncontrolled areas, and quickly, meaning those who do so will be at high risk. I cannot order any to do so; I ask that each leader tally volunteers to be placed into ten person patrols. Those who do not wish to join the search can take positions guarding the camp and ensuring tasks such as meals and cleaning are properly done, which is also vitally important to us. Thank you."

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Several hours later, as Thorin followed part of his search group down the main stairs, he could not help shaking his head in amazement. He and Dwalin had spent over an hour pouring over the few maps they had of the lower levels, including what Kíli had been able to fill in by reading the stone weeks ago. Because of that work, they knew that there were a number of orc and troll tunnels that were created out of natural caves to the south, near the endless stair, and both dwarrow believed this to be the most probable place for the cult to have taken Kíli. It would also explain why the Fellowship did not see any sign of the Death Warriors while going through Moria; Gandalf had led them through the northern paths, not the maze that was the west-central and southern parts of the great city.

The Warmaster had laid out the search areas in sections, dividing it up so that it would be easy to modify their plans for as few as two search groups and as many as ten. Neither had expected more than that, but when Thorin went to meet the leaders of each group, they numbered over twenty. As the king had floundered in grateful astonishment, he was informed that ten more groups were resting so they might take over where the others left off for the night. Adding to this was the fact that each team had at least one non-dwarrow, including a goodly number of elves!

Thorin had decided then that he would divide up the group he and Dwalin had originally planned to lead, sending each of them with a different team. These were all friends of Kíli, or family, and would have the best chance of recognizing any item of his that might have been dropped or planted. His decision had also been influenced by a nagging feel of something 'not right' about this whole mess. Had the cult still managed to infiltrate the army, despite all their precautions? New dwarrow joining them had to be vouched for by at least two others already with the army, especially if they came from any of the four eastern tribes, but-

How does a leader distinguish between those forced to abide evil done in front of them to survive from those who were actually complicit in carrying it out? Whose version of the truth was to be believed? No, far better to have at least one trusted dwarf with each team since they had the numbers, backed by a man or elf. As a further safety, the dwarrow were also deliberately mixed, breaking up those who usually patrolled together into separate groups.

There had been some grumbling when the reassignments had been announced, but most quickly surmised that their leaders would not take such actions without cause, and held their tongues. Naturally, there was speculation as to the reason, and Thorin had been hard pressed, at first, to provide an alternate explanation, since none would take kindly to even the hint that they might be secretly allied with the cult. The handiest excuse, surprisingly enough, had come from Fíli; he had pointed out that it would be better for each team to have at least one archer, and that some would have to be shifted around to make this happen. Of course, that most of their archers had been trained by or with Kíli was carefully not pointed out.

Thorin had claimed Faramir as his, since the man outright refused to stay safely in camp. For the other eight, he had taken the Blacklock, Einarr, a Stonefoot, two Firebeards he vaguely knew from back in Ered Luin, a Broadbeam who was distantly related to Bofur, a Stiffbeard, and two lads from Erebor. Both of the latter carried bows, as well.

When Thorin had raised a questioning eyebrow at their arrival in his little huddle, the older of the two had shrugged, saying they were there on Dwalin's orders. Thorin had briefly flicked his eyes over to his friend, tempted to argue, then let it go. He was too impatient to be at the search to become involved in an argument that he would not only lose, but would only serve to delay him further.

His group would search the sections closest to the Great Southern Rift and the far southern miner's town before venturing down the endless stair to its beginning in the Silent Stone, the area where the ancient tombs of the Durins were to be found. From there, they would hopefully find an entrance to the orc and goblin tunnels from the south, a direction the cult would probably not expect. Others would work their way west and down, heading toward the troll caves, and more teams would head into the orc tunnels from the north, the more logical route, and draw the attention of their foes to them.

Unfortunately, Thorin had not planned for a battle almost as soon as they entered the deeper section bordering the southern abyss. They had just crossed the bridge, which was fortunately sound, and ventured into the first of the miners' dining halls when the ground beneath them began to shake and the sound of huge footfalls echoed. All of the dwarrow, and one man, gazed around in puzzlement, as the approaching creature seemed to be coming from behind a blank wall.

"Thorin, I think we should-"

Before Faramir could complete his suggestion, the wall erupted inward in a shower of stone, a huge form barreling into their midst with all the force of an enraged dragon. Several dwarrow were sent tumbling as Thorin swept Orcrist from its sheath, but he had no chance to attack their crasher. Instead, a meaty hand swept the king from his feet, sending him flying as the first sounds of metal hitting metal told him someone had taken advantage of the creature's distraction. Colors burst in his vision as his head bounced off the wall, body sliding down in a heap to rest on the floor as he fought to maintain a tenuous hold upon consciousness. Through the involuntary tears that blurred his eyes, the stunned dwarf finally received a good look at their foe.

Easily twice the height of a man with a bald head and a rude leather smock half falling off its body, the cave troll bellowed in anger, swiping its club at another of the group that had the temerity to venture too close. Of all the various species of troll, these were by far the dumbest, quite a feat when their more intelligent cousins had not the wit to see that dinner that still talked back when supposedly roasting over a fire would definitely not be cooked before dawn!

Cave trolls were little more than animals, with a rudimentary vocabulary of perhaps a dozen words and the most basic of reasoning. They were normally kept as slaves by goblins and orcs, used for their brute strength and invulnerability to most weapons. There were really only two ways to deal with them when encountered without the control of their masters – kill them as the dwarrow had done during the attack on the camp or hurt them enough that they fled.

As Thorin pushed himself up, wincing in pain, he was grateful that the brute had slapped him with an open hand. A blow with a fist in this small room could easily have resulted in breaking even a dwarf's notoriously strong skeleton. The king regained his feet, but did not have the chance to take more than a step before being knocked flat by another dwarf being tossed through the air, the two going down in a tangle of limbs. Fortunately, the other had missed Orcrist's naked blade or he would have easily been skewered even through his armor.

Thorin lay gasping for a moment, then pushed at the dead weight of the other when he did not move. He heaved himself up, then turned, intending to push the wounded dwarf away from the fighting, where he would be less likely to be injured further, only to stop when unblinking eyes told him there was no need. A bellow returned his attention to the fighting in time to see Faramir let fly with an arrow that took the beast in the eye, directly next to a shorter shaft already lodged there.

Thorin charged back into the melee with a roar of anger, the ancient weapon easily finding its mark once more, plunging to the hilt in the beast's thigh. With all the grace of a felled tree, the creature staggered and stumbled off, bellowing in pain as black blood spurted from the artery that the king had just severed. Several of the still mobile members of the group, including Faramir and Thorin, reached the doorway in time to watch the troll disappear down into the abyss that they had just crossed.

Silence cloaked the rocky hall, broken only by the heaving breaths of the still standing dwarrow and the involuntary moans of the wounded. Torches flared to life once more as they were retrieved, bathing the room more fully in light, and Thorin's heart sank. More than half his party was on the ground, and only two of those showed signs of continued life. How many had they lost?

"Prepare the wounded to move. We head back."

His heart ached at the order, knowing Kíli was still out there, alone, scared, hurt, in the hands of an enemy who had tried to kill him twice already, but there was little choice. They dared not take the wounded further into danger, and the able bodied could not fight encumbered with stretchers. It would be hard enough to protect the little group as they limped back to camp.

"Thorin? Will you be able to walk?"

Skör, Dwalin's lieutenant, appeared at his elbow, and Thorin blinked, not recalling the other having been with them. Seeing his monarch's puzzlement, the young dwarf smiled slightly.

"We had one extra, so Dwalin assigned me to your team only to find that you had already left. I walked right into the middle of the fun."

Of course there had 'happened' to be an odd number and it had not been discovered until after his team had set out! Dwalin, the old schemer, had undoubtedly wished to avoid the king's angry rejection of his friend's overprotectiveness. Thorin ground his teeth, sharply reminding himself that verbally flaying the poor dwarf in front of him would not be just.

"Am I to assume that there was also an extra that just 'happened' to be added to Fíli's group?"

Skör, having evidently realized that this meant he was not going to be subjected to a royal temper tantrum, grinned.

"Oh, aye. And this was after Healer Wyvern claimed a spot. Prince Legolas went with him, and I sent Nast with young Therin."

Young. Therin was only thirteen years younger than Skör, if Thorin remembered correctly. Why was it, then, that everyone saw the prince as still a child, even his family?

"Sire!"

The shout brought both dwarrow around as one of the youngest of the group, Tál, straightened from where he had been rifling a pack the troll left behind. Thorin did not try to hold back the angry oath the erupted from his lips at the sight of a scrap of bloodied cloth dangling from the young dwarf's hand, silver threads forming part of the sigil of Kíli, Prince of Erebor, still easily seen.

"Faramir, Skör, with me. The rest of you, wait here, we won't be long."

They could not venture far upon the troll's trail, but it was worth a fast look. It certainly would not take much skill, as the beasts had a tendency to run over or through anything in their path when frightened or wounded. In this case, that meant a hole in the wall creating a new entrance to the room beyond and a hidden door literally ripped from its hinges on the opposite side. From there, a long, winding corridor sloped downward into darkness, a few drops of black blood glinting in the torchlight.

"The troll was already wounded."

Faramir knelt, rubbing some of the foul stuff between two fingers as he directed the light of his lantern to illuminate more of the trail.

"We'll have to send another patrol to follow this. We have wounded to care for."

The prince of men stood, nodding to the dwarf king.

"Agreed."

"Do you think that Prince Kíli could still be alive?"

The hesitant question came from Tál as they stepped back into the room where the battle had taken place. The lad was pale, and Thorin abruptly recalled seeing his name on the short list of those dwarrow proficient in archery. It was that understanding that held the king back from issuing the biting rebuke that had been his first reaction, taking the time to wipe down and sheath his weapon before answering.

"I believe that were Kíli dead, our enemies would somehow have displayed the body to us by now."

"Why?"

It was asked with genuine puzzlement as the young archer cocked his head, clearly trying to reason out his monarch's thinking.

"The effect on morale, lad."

Skör spoke up before Thorin could, aiding another dwarf to settle onto one of the rolled canvas stretchers that all of the teams carried. Nearby, another was being constructed out of blankets and two broken spear shafts. It would only be minutes before they were ready to move. Skör handed the lad a pack as he quietly finished his statement.

"There is little that can demoralize faster than the death of a leader, Tál, especially one who is as respected and loved as Prince Kíli."

Thorin felt a swell of pride at those words, knowing that Skör was not one to say such a thing just to curry favor. He had hoped over these last fourteen years that Fíli and Kíli would earn such regard, but it had been difficult for him to judge, as few would talk so freely in his presence. Tál frowned the thought, hand tightening on his weapon.

"I'm angry enough that he's been taken. If we find out that they have killed him…"

There was a general rumble of agreement from the other dwarrow, making Faramir raise an eyebrow in surprise as leather and metal creaked, weapons being hefted in white-knuckled grips. Should another enemy appear now, they would be ripped to shreds. Skör gave a nod of approval, but his eyes were sad as he held up a cautioning hand, hinting at a past heavy with the weight of remembered sorrow. Thorin could only wonder at his history; the dwarf lieutenant not having been someone he recalled meeting in Ered Luin. Then, the lad was only a bit older than Fíli, so that was not all that surprising. He had been recruited recently to take the place of Dwalin's former second, who had taken over as Warmaster in the Iron Hills.

"None of you must ever forget the first rule of battle. Mahal knows Dwalin and I have spent enough of the last two years trying to pound it into you rockheads."

Understanding seemed to dawn on the young archer as several of the more experienced warriors flushed with shame.

"Leave anger outside of battle. It makes you reckless and stupid."

"Exactly," Thorin rejoined the conversation to the startlement of the other two. "When Thrór fell at Azanulbizar, the rally became a frantic rage, with no thought of tactics or how many more would be lost in a battle we all knew now mattered little. Over half of our army was killed or wounded, including Erebor's King, Crown Prince, and the Lord of the Iron Hills. Hardly a victory worthy of celebratory drink and song. Especially as we did not set a single foot within Khazad-dûm. Control your emotions, young warrior, and you will better serve your prince than with the most righteous anger."