I wish to express to you how much all of you mean to me. I need to know if I'm losing your attention. Is the story suffering from lack of action? Is there too much drama? Is there not enough, say, adventure? Or perhaps, am I focusing on too much inward conflict and the story now suffers rather than benefiting? These, I feel, are important questions to be answered. Not to make me feel better, mind you. But for the sake of the story. I want you to know I take that very seriously.


Chapter Twenty-Eight

In Which, There is the First of Many Battles


Cate screamed.

She scrambled away from the crude weapon, hands fumbling over the soft earth. The injured wrist gave out and her shoulder hit the ground, the rest of her following in a twist of limbs and clothing. The creature loomed above her and snarled, exposing a pair of yellowed fangs. Her mouth opened to cry out again but no sound came forth. A blackened hand reached out and seized her by the fabric of her coat; it drew her closer, its breath foul with decay.

"Man-flesh." It growled in a low, terrible voice.

She willed herself to pull away, but found her body would not obey the unspoken command to flee. The creature titled its dark head in terrible curiosity; a few strands of dirty, black coarse hairs falling across its face. It was gaunt and thin, with a hooked nose which appeared to be broken in several places. Its arms were far too long for its body; its short and stout. Yet, despite the creature's thin, twisted, shape, Cate could feel the bone-crushing strength in its grip upon her hair.

She forced her eyes to open (when had she closed them?), meeting the creature's sickly amber eyes. It snarled and, with one clawed appendage still clasped upon the shaft of the axe, it jerked her forward; tossing her against a nearby shrub. Branches snapped under the sudden weight and leaves fluttered across her vision. One leg missed the vegetation altogether and, instead, connected with a stray boulder. Her knee cracked against the stone, pain blossoming across her kneecap.

Cate managed to find her voice, crying out as tears flooded her eyes.

"A she-man." The creature hummed, its voice betraying a hint of surprise.

This promptly shattered whatever hope she had of this being a bad dream. She felt the world spin, her vision blackening near the edges. Having never fainted before, she wondered if the light-headed sensation was a warning sign. It was then, as her assailant advanced for a second time, a rather odd thought entered her mind.

Do Kyo and Arya have enough food?


One of the ponies nickered softly in the cool evening air, the breathy puff dispelling as quickly as it had come.

Fíli stretched leisurely, rolling out a stiff shoulder, and grunted in satisfaction when the joint shifted into place again.

"Here, Brother."

A pouch of fresh tobacco was thrust promptly under his nose.

He blinked, smirked, and took the offered gift. "You smoked it all, didn't you?"

"Not at all." Kíli grinned, a spark of humor glinting brightly in his eyes.

"Of course not," Fíli groused. He unhook the flap and peered inside. "Well, will you look at that. There's some left after all."

His brother frowned, miffed at the blatant lack of faith, but he payed little attention. Fíli promptly filled his pipe, lit the bowl, and took a long, grateful draw.

"Honestly, Fíli, you wound me -"

A cry pierced the night air, high and full of desperation.

"What in Mahal's name?"

The elder prince straightened, tearing his pipe from his mouth and reached for one of the knives at his belt. His eyes sought his brother's, deep blue meeting doe-brown. A flicker of fear moved behind Kíli's eyes.

"That sounded like -" He trailed off, swallowing thickly.

"Miss Martin." Fíli finished, a wave dread washing over like a battering ram. "Come, Kíli!"

At once, both brothers bolted for camp, their hands drawing both blade and bowstring.


Dwalin's hands sought his axes the moment the scream took to the night air.

However, it was who the scream belonged to which caused his blood to run cold.

The lass.

For the briefest of moments, the circle was silent. Not a soul dared to move, as if they were stilled by some spell. Then, as swiftly as it had come, the spell shattered. Culinary was thrown aside, forgotten. Food and drink alike spilled and fell about the ground, ignored. Shouts for blades were passed among them and the echo of Dwarvish boots rang out like a gong.

Thorin drew his blade from his sheath and bellowed for silence.

The dwarrows stilled, eyes fixed upon their king.

"Uncle!"

Dwalin lifted brown eyes to see Fíli and Kíli charge into camp, hair windswept and weapons drawn. Kíli's bow was strung and an arrow was notched in place, ready to spring free with the slightest flick of the wrist. Fíli's dual swords glinted in the faint firelight and Dwalin could see the young dwarrow's fingers shift along the hilt, adjusting and readjusting. Both wore equally serious expressions, postures taunt and eyes flitting to and fro, never settling on one specific object or person.

Dwalin felt a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth; the lads painted quite an impressive sight.

"Miss Martin," Kíli whipped his dark head about, as if searching for the young miss. "We heard her scream!"

"Calm yourself!" Thorin barked, eyeing his nephew with disapproval. "You will be of no help in such a state, Kíli!"

The lad flinched at his uncle's words but, nonetheless, bowed his head and remained silent.

"What happened, Uncle?" Fíli, however, was not one to be refused. "Is Miss Martin hurt?"

Dwalin's sharp eyes swept the camp.

Once was enough.

"She's not nearby; tha' screamed sounded far off. A good 400 meters, at least."

Thorin expelled an aggravated breath and Dwalin caught the underlining deep concern glinting behind darkened eyes. His own fingers tightened further upon the aged leather wrappings of his axes, which audibly strained under the sudden pressure. Knuckles groaned beneath scarred skin, paling the flesh, and placing further tension on an already tensed body.

Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

Thorin's gaze hardened in the old familiar way of battle, form straightening.

"Half of our number will search for Miss Martin." He addressed sharply, turning abruptly on his heels. "The others shall remain behind and guard the camp. If we should require aid, one of our number shall send out a call. Agreed?"

"Aye," Dwalin replied with a curt nod. In one swift motion, he withdrew Ukhlat and Umraz, spinning them about with an air of finality.

"Right ye are!" Bofur sounded off, happily swinging his mattock casually across strong shoulders.

On either side of the miner Bifur and Bombur added their own affirmations, each wielding their own weapon of choice: a rather large boar spear and a pair of meat cleavers sharpened to a razors edge.

"Dwalin, Glóin, Nori, Bofur, Bifur, and Fíli shall accompany me," Thorin continued without pause. He drew the sword belted at his side and readied his oaken shield. "Óin, Balin, Dori, Ori, Bombur, Kíli and Master Baggins shall remain behind. Prepare yourselves for possible wounded when we return. Is that understood?"

A ripple of agreement surged through the Company, pleased with their assignments. However, Dwalin did not miss the look of severe disappointment in Kíli's eyes. Fíli, as well, sported a deep frown, appearing to be equally unhappy about the separation.

"Wait," Bofur called a halt. A deep frown pulled at the miner's mustache as he quickly glanced about the circle. Something was amiss. "Where is Bilbo?"

Dwalin scanned the camp yet, found no trace of the hobbit either.

Mahal curse the Halfling!


Bilbo, from his place in the grass, watched in horror as Miss Martin went limp in the creature's grasp.

His heart instantly rose to his throat as she fell against the soft earth, unresponsive. The Orc then seized the young woman by the hair as a strangled, half-grunt rumbled from deep within its throat. It drew her closer, Miss Martin's head falling bonelessly backwards, exposing pale, vulnerable skin. It drew its wicked weapon from the confines of the blackness of the night and held it aloft, its dark blade glinting threateningly in the bare moonlight. raised its wicked weapon once more.

Bilbo's eyes flew ever wider.

It meant to strike her!

"No!"

Before he could question his actions, or quite possibly come up with a far more effective plan, the hobbit flung himself at the creature. Thin arms wrapped about the stout neck, struggling to tear it away from the fallen woman. Much to Bilbo's relief, though it did not release Miss Martin, it did lose hold of the axe. However, his small moment of triumph did not last. The Orc did not appreciate the hobbit's newfound perch upon its back, nor did it relish in having its air supply obstructed. It shook poor Bilbo, violently, while attempting to pry his hands from its throat.

Yet, the hobbit's hold remained true.

At least, until the creature blindly struck out with its elbow. The appendage landed a very successful, and quite effective, blow to poor Bilbo's ribs. His grip upon the creature instantly loosened and he slipped from its shoulders altogether. He flew backwards, meeting the ground hard upon his back, and knocked the breath from his lungs. He coughed violently and writhed in agony as his ribs throbbed painfully.

Oh, how his plan had failed! Indubitably so.

"Ya little squirrel!"

Or, perhaps not.

Bilbo blinked away tears, clearing his vision enough when the blacken creature seized him by the throat. He instinctively thrashed against it, wrapping his small hands about its wrists in the effort to pry them off. However, the Orc only issued a cruel laugh and pressed ever harder, causing spots of darkness to swim at the corners of his sight.

"Yer gonna regret tha'!" It spat venomously, drawling a knife from its belt. Yellowed teeth flashed in a wicked grimace, the blunted edge of the rusted blade pressing against the poor hobbit's breastbone. "Now, how 'bout I put a hole in ya, eh? See wot color blood ya have?"

Bilbo sputtered and gasped violently; half in fear and half in the effort to draw in as much air as he was able. He continued to claw at the creature in the vain attempt it would, somehow, release him. Yet, the tip of the dagger pressed firmly against his solar-plexus, threatening to delve ever deeper into his flesh.

"How 'bout we see what color yours is?!"

And then, the pressure against his chest was gone. Breath returned, full force, to the hobbit's much deprived lungs; he rolled over, gasping raggedly. Hot tears spilled over, drenching his front and causing further failure to his vision.

"Don't you touch him!" Cried the same voice. "Don't you fucking touch him!"

Despite being far from his best, Bilbo thought he heard a trace of familiarity in those enraged tones. Curious as to the goings on, he attempted to prop himself upon his forearms. For whatever rescued him could very well be an enemy of a different sort; he most certainly did not want to lay about on the grass waiting about for it to spot him. Anxious, he lifted one arm to drag drag himself forward. However, he collapsed instantly under the weight of his own body with a soft thump.

Clearly still shaken from the previous events, Bilbo lay still a moment to allow his sense of awareness to return. Gradually, his hearing no longer came through muffled and he blinked rapidly, clearing away the last of the black spots and remaining tears. Before him, not three feet from where he lay, two bodies struggled violently with one another. One whose skin was black as night and the other . . .

Bilbo's already tired and worn body went ridged.

The second figure drew back a pale fist then allowed it to fly free. Then another. And another. Relentlessly, the much smaller being threw fist after fist at the blackened creature. However, only about half the blows ever made full contact and somehow the Orc had been rendered weaponless. For the dagger, which had just been about to make Bilbo's chest its sheath, now lay off to the side and far out of reach. This, no doubt, must have occurred when his rescuer slammed into it, full force, and knocked the blade away.

Again and again, Miss Martin continued to throw blow after blow. Black curses fell from her lips; the darkest he ever heard, especially from her voice. The once strange, yet soothing and friendly tones were gone. The gentleness which once had resounded in the young woman's manner had been replaced with gruff shouts and biting snarls.


Cate, on several occasions, had felt real fear in her life. When she was a child, she had been terrified of the dark. At seventeen, her house had caught fire and her sister had to be pulled out by firefighters, her clothes aflame. When she had turned twenty, her grandmother suffered a stroke and succumbed to it, dying in a hospital surrounded by family and friends she no longer recognized. However, never before, had she ever witnessed someone about to be killed. Let alone her own friend. Until now.

This . . . thing . . . had tried to kill her. For a moment, she thought it had.

When she woke, the first thing she saw was Bilbo. Bilbo who, of all people, was wrestling with the creature. Trying to force it away from her. Preventing the thing from delivering any sort of mortal blow to her person. But then, it threw him; tossing the poor hobbit to the ground, seizing him by the throat, and then preceded to strangle him. And the knife. The thing pulled a knife, from what seemed out of nowhere, and made to thrust it through Bilbo's heart.

Cate felt something shift within her.

Suddenly, it didn't matter that she didn't have a weapon; it didn't matter that she only weighed 120 pounds, and it didn't matter that she had little to no experience in combat. What did matter was Bilbo's life. A person who had befriended her when no one else would; who had now, quite literally, saved her life.

And he was about to die right before her very eyes.

Like hell.

The dagger hovered for a moment. But, it was only a moment she needed.

"Leave him alone!"

Cate slammed her hands into the soft earth, propelling herself forward. Air screamed past her ears and she felt one of her ankles twist painfully. She fell forward but, miraculously, she tumbled, much like a gymnast, and rolled out of the misstep. In the next instant, she threw herself at the black creature, ramming into it with as much force as she could muster. A flash of silver caught her eye before it spun away. She hoped it was the knife, because she really wasn't too keen about wrestling with the thing as it was. They rolled and tumbled, striking earth and stone as she kicked and punched in a twist of limbs.

"Don't you touch him!" She found herself screaming. "Don't you fucking touch him!"

Something struck her temple, knocking her away. Cate shook her head to shake off the blow, forcing herself to her feet (staying still was not a good idea). It was a good thing too because the creature was also struggling to stand. She felt a surge of fear rise in the back of her throat as she met its amber eyes.

This was insane.

What the hell am I doing?!

She never had the chance to think it over.

With a terrible cry of rage, it charged her. Cate shrieked and dove away, not even attempting to meet it head on. She landed hard on her side, a stray rock finding her already smarted ribs. She didn't have the time to nurse it before the creature took full advantage of her injury and struck her across the face. Her head rebounded against the ground and, suddenly, its hands were at her throat. Again.

No!

Cate blindly struck out with her left foot, rejoicing when it connected with the creature's crotch. It fell to its knees, screeching in agony. She scrambled out from underneath of it, putting as much distance between it and her. She heaved heavily, heart pounding terribly against the inside of her chest as if threatening to break free.

Bilbo.

She glanced towards the poor hobbit . . . and breathed a small sigh of relief.

Bilbo was struggling to get to his feet, very much alive. However, his eyes were glazed over; his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He had been knocked for one hell of a loop and wasn't in any condition to be moving around so soon.

"Wench!" The black creature spat angrily from one knee.

Cate spun around in time to avoid being knocked for another loop herself. She backpedaled, trying to keep a fair amount of distance from between it and herself. However, the thing took notice of Bilbo's awkward and vulnerable condition. It paused.

Then, it went for the poor hobbit.

"Oh, no you don't." Cate growled with uncharacteristic viciousness.

She dove after the creature, sticking out her foot and tangling its legs. It pitched forward but caught itself at the last moment and made a grab for her arm. It managed to catch her wrist yet she pulled back her injured hand and (knowing this was an entirely bad idea) aimed for its face. It struck home and the thing howled wildly, instantly letting her go. Shaking out her now, most certainly, damaged hand, she took full advantage and went after the blackened creature with renewed vigor. She struck out for any piece of the thing she could hit. Face. Chest. Side. Knee. Foot.

Cate attacked blindly, not caring what she aimed for, only hoping her blows connected with something.

She had to keep this thing away from Bilbo.

She had to.


Battle was of a sort of second nature to Thorin.

He had seen much of it, after all. The coming of Smaug, the fall of Erebor, the accursed War which took the lives of what few remained of his family and kin. It was something he knew and understood all too well. Thus, as he and his men broke through the treeline, his axe instantly made itself a new home in the exposed belly of an Orc.

It shrieked once then collapsed, dead. With one quick glance, Thorin counted their numbers. Only six, however, two Wargs flanked the band on either side and they were not pleased by the sudden appearance of Dwarves.

They had stumbled upon a scouting party and both Miss Martin and the hobbit were nowhere in sight.

Thorin felt his heart clench; his hold upon his remaining weapon tightened tenfold. If these putrid creatures had done away with them, they would soon regret ever doing so.

With a cry of war upon his lips, Thorin charged headlong into their mist. His blade sung against the nearest enemy's axe yet, the craftsmanship of the Orcs was unparalleled to that of Dwarves. The metal bent and gave under Thorin's brute strength. The Orc fell in the following instant but was soon replaced by its Warg, which he sidestepped in time so as to miss its jaws from taking his sword arm. Wasting not the opportunity, he severed the beast's cardiac artery; splashing hot, thick blackness across his chest.

He ignored the sensation.

Leaving the dying creature to its fate, Thorin swung about, sword at the ready. His assistance, however, was not needed. The party was finished and his own warriors, stood tall against the pale moonlight. To his pride, he watched as his eldest nephew withdrew his blades from the remaining Warg, which instantly stilled.

"Filthy beast," Fíli cursed bitterly. He swung his blades in a high arch, then brought them down sharply. The action removed any remaining blood from the swords and, in an motion which was all too fluid, sheathed them.

"They're no' here." Dwalin growled angrily, marching to Thorin's side. The burly Dwarf kicked one of the bodies viciously out of his path, eyes blazing. "Wha' have they done with 'em?!"

Thorin had not felt so unsure of himself in roughly seventy-seven years. A time, in which, he had first held Kíli since the night of his birth. His second nephew had been such a tiny thing, tiny even for most Dwarven babes. They had believed he would not make it past the third night yet, his nephew was of the line of Durin. Kíli, against all odds, had lived.

Thorin could only hope the same applied to Miss Martin and Master Baggins.

Though his mind worked to think clearly and act reasonably, another part of Thorin was uncharacteristically anxious. All this time, he thought the woman a nuisance and a threat. He had ignored what few facts he had managed to learn about her, choosing instead to allow his mind to plague upon his insecurities and doubts. He had created the threat he had wanted to see and chose to view her as nothing more than a burden. She was defenseless. She had not the means in protecting herself, save from trees (and not even then, for the tree had bested her in the end). Challenging him had been one matter yet, what did facing an entire scouting party of Orcs compare to? Miss Martin stood no chance in real battle. She would be slain. Master Baggins as well.

Thorin cursed himself for being such a fool. The two of them were common folk. They took pride in simple matters, caring not for great deeds but for friendship. Why else would Miss Martin so readily defend the hobbit? Because, simply, he had shown the woman nothing worthy of Dwarves. Yet, Master Baggins had given her every kindness Gandalf had once spoke of hobbits. Thus, Miss Martin had latched onto the only being which had given her a sense of safety.

They had slain the Orcs and their mounts yet, at what end? If would mean nothing at all if they were -

For the second time since this terror had begun, a scream took to the air. Yet, it was not so much a scream as it was a war cry.

Thinking quickly, Thorin rushed to retrieve his axe from the first Orc. "All of you, follow me!"

Yanking the weapon from the corpse, he dashed madly over the uneven earth. He ran parallel to the treeline, traveling north, towards the source of the cries. Miss Martin, who had always kept to herself, must have sought peace away from camp. He reasoned this was, quite possibly, was an effort to escape their presence. If that was so, then perhaps she and Master Baggins had gone unnoticed by the scouts.

Thorin prayed to Mahal this was, indeed, so.


Now for the discussion points! I'm very happy many of you enjoy me explaining the motives and reasoning's behind the characters. Thank you!

1.) You may have forgotten, but Cate did have her knife in her pocket. Why didn't she use it? Simple. She panicked and was unable to rationalize things. Even if she did use it, she wouldn't necessarily be better off. She may know how to use a knife, but its one thing to use it in practice and another to use it in a real situation. Cate is in a world she has only read about, not experienced.

2.) Cate was able to fend off the Orc because she side-blinded it when it was distracted. It was fixed on killing Bilbo and she saw an opportunity. It also is practical for her to try a save a person whom she has an emotional connection with. So far, Bilbo has been the one to give Cate a feeling of normalcy. Thus, Cate now feels connected to him. Also, the two of them made a promise to watch out for the other. However, Cate did not risk her life because of mere obligation, but rather because Bilbo's a friend. Cate's a loyal person. She protects her friends, even if she can't quite protect herself.

3.) You may have noticed by the end of Bilbo's section, he feels fear towards Cate. This is true because he is now seeing a side of her he hasn't before. Cate has gone into the "Fight or Flight" scenario again. However, this time, you witness what happens when she chooses to fight. Bilbo was just very frightened of how physical she was willing to be in an actual confrontation.

4.) I hope I didn't convey Cate as a perfect combatant. I was going for the opposite. Yet, I didn't want to pass her off as a complete damsel either. I believe most people know how to find ways to inflict damage on a person without being a expert martial artist. I've already mentioned Cate knows the correct way to throw a punch. She also avoids hits she can't take, such as when she threw herself out of the path of danger. She also tried to keep at least some distance between her and the Orc as well. Her combat skills are far from perfect but she isn't stupid. She won't just stand there and allow someone (or something) to have its way with her. Real combat readers, does not look like something out of a Bruce Lee film. Rather, it is using anything and everything exposed to you as an advantage. The trick is finding ways to turn your surroundings against your opponent.

Revised 3/7/16