34

OUR FOES SHALL FALL

Thorin stood in the entry hall and gazed around at his depleted Company, subdued and gratified by their fierce dedication. The past few days were a haze in his mind, but he remembered enough to know that he did not deserve their loyalty, or the compassion that shone from their faces. The grief in his heart was his own doing, and four of his companions were in danger because of his actions. Bilbo, who had been so unexpectedly fierce an ally. Viska, who had helped slay the dragon, only to lose the last of her kin. And his sister-sons, his heirs. Dís would kill him if they died this day, and by Mahal, he would let her.

The sound of boots on stone drew his attention and he glanced around as Balin, Dwalin, Ori, and Nori emerged from one of the many hallways, all but the white-haired advisor lugging a heavy crate filled with sand and, he hoped, a deadly surprise for the approaching Orcs. The wicked smile on Nori's face was expected – the matching one on Ori's was a bit of a surprise and it startled Thorin into an answering smirk. Balin cocked an eyebrow at him and nodded in confirmation. The king felt his smirk widening into a feral grin as he returned the gesture, then he took a deep breath and turned to address the Company, Dwarves he would forever trust at his back.

"I have no right to ask this of you," he admitted quietly, studying each face in turn. "My actions since we reached the Mountain have been...less than honorable. And yet you have all stood by me, save those I drove reluctantly from my side with cruel words and crueler blows." He paused, reading the determination in each pair of eyes, from quiet Bombur to protective Dori, and felt his heart swell. Never had any king been so blessed in his allies. "No matter your blood, you are all my brothers. Erebor is ours once more, beyond all hope and in spite of all conventional wisdom. But with Smaug defeated, a new threat rises and reaches for our home, threatening our allies and kin. Azog leads a great army from the south, from the Enemy's ancient fortress. His spawn Bolg leads another from the north, from Gundabad that they stole from us so long ago." He sighed, a thousand questions and half-formed scenarios running through his mind. "I am certain that Gandalf knows what ultimate prize they seek, and he would perhaps have told me, if recent events had gone differently. For now, however, the little that I do know is enough. Orcs are the enemy of all the Free Peoples, and Azog particularly is the enemy of me and mine. Erebor has not been won only to fall to such ilk, and Durin's Folk will not stand by as blood is shed to defend our Mountain. I do not deserve it, but I will ask nonetheless. Will you follow me, one last time?"

He started when a cheer broke from his companions, fierce joy lighting their faces as weapons were hefted. Dwalin took a step forward, offering a proud nod as he swept his arm back to indicate the entirety of the Company.

"We are with you, Thorin. We are few, but fierce, and we will fight to the last Dwarf."

That brought a flash of pain to his heart, an echo of memory, similar words spoken a lifetime ago by a bright-eyed Fíli, but Thorin seized the ache and used it to stoke his determination.

"We are few indeed, my friend, and I fear that a dozen Dwarves more on the battlefield will make little difference – before the proper moment. Better to put each of you where you will do the most good." He glanced at Balin, who stood by the sand-filled crates looking rather smug. "How many, cousin?"

"Twenty-five to a crate. Firepots, mostly, but with a little extra, courtesy of young Ori. Five of each, though, are the most delicate pots we could find, filled with a rather nasty mixture of Nori's. Where would you have them, my king?"

Thorin studied his companions for a long moment. "On the ledge outside the hidden door. Bolg's army will pass within good range. Nori, Ori, Dori, Bifur – do as much damage as you can. When you run out, or if they find you, come back in and seal the door behind you, then return to the Gate." Those he had named hastened to obey, the young scribe grabbing a torch to light their way as the others each hoisted a heavy crate and started for the first flight of stairs. The king turned to those who remained. "Bombur, get to the Horn of Thráin," he ordered, referring to the massive stone instrument carved into the side of Erebor by the first King Under the Mountain. "Wait for my signal to sound the charge and follow with your cousin when he returns. Bofur!" He turned to the miner as the rotund tinker hurried off, smiling slightly as Bofur offered him a cheeky salute and shouldered his mattock. "The base of the barricade. You know where. You'll bring it down on my order. Óin, Glóin – the catapult station to the right of the Gate is still intact. The weapon itself is probably useless, but see if you can do any damage with the ammunition that might be left. Perhaps one of the big crossbows is still functional." As the Company scattered, he turned to Balin and Dwalin, his oldest friends and most loyal allies. "With me, above the Gate. Dwalin, you will be my eyes, Balin my voice with the ravens. We will help send these scum to the Void that consumed their master."

* X *

Kíli was armed and armored when Fíli slipped through the tent flap, dark eyes lighting at the elder prince's arrival. He caught the blanket that was tossed his way and set it aside, a teasing smirk on his face.

"Sleep well, nadad?"

Fíli shook his head with a wry grin. Kíli's impudence was heartening, in a way. It was a reminder that his brother stood by him, as ever, hope and optimism personified.

"Well enough," he agreed, pulling his brother in for a gentle headbutt. "Thank you for the blanket. Are you feeling better?"

A hint of shadow darted through the archer's eyes, but he nodded firmly. "I am sorry about last night. I was-"

"You were exhausted and heartsick, and no one thinks the worse of you for it." Fíli cut him off, clasping his shoulders firmly. "Mahal, Kí, I understand. It nearly killed me to leave Erebor, no matter Thorin's behavior toward me, toward Viska. And to leave you behind? My soul was torn, kandith. It is still damaged, but it begins to heal. We are stronger now, the both of us."

"Stronger together than apart." Kíli pulled away as he murmured the mantra that their mother had always drilled into them. A ghost of a smile flickered across his face as he tilted his head toward one of the cots. "I almost forgot – that fire-haired Elf lass brought a bundle by a little while ago. I think you'll be pleased."

Pleased he was, for the bundle contained the weapons that had been taken from them in Mirkwood. He unwrapped it quickly, breaking into a broad smile when he found his own unique scabbard, both falchions firmly in place. Most of his knives were there as well, though there was nothing for Viska. Kíli shrugged when he commented on it.

"She lost her sword during the fight, remember? Bilbo told us that he had seen it, but he was too busy following the spiders to retrieve it. My bow is gone too, but I brought out the one I found in the armory, along with two quivers of arrows."

Fíli nodded, setting the scabbard aside and discarding his coat so he could pull his chain mail over his head. "She still has the blade from Erebor, at least. Perhaps Tauriel will have a chance to search for hers when this is all done. They seem to have found a sort of friendship." The chain in place, he put his coat back on and began stowing his blades carefully, Kíli handing them to him each in turn. The double scabbard came last, and he sighed with relief as it settled into place, an old friend returned. Kíli chuckled, then glanced around the tent curiously.

"Where is Viska?"

"Staying in Dale, I would hope."

Both young Dwarrow spun at the new voice, though only Kíli reached for his blade, as Fíli had recognized it immediately. Dáin stood in the entrance, beard bristling, great red war hammer strapped to his back. Kíli stared for a moment before glancing at his brother in confusion, but the Lord of the Iron Hills simply strode forward and pulled the archer into a fierce hug.

"Kíli, son of Dís! It is good to meet you, lad. Your brother worried for you. How fares your uncle?"

The younger prince's face cleared, but he did not smile, for he had no good news regarding Thorin. "When I left, he was lost in his own dark thoughts. But I believe that Balin and the others had a plan. Perhaps they will rouse him where I could not."

Dáin nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps. There are few I would set against Fundin's son in a battle of words or wit. If anyone can think of a way to break the Stone's sway, it will be him." He regarded Kíli seriously for a long moment. "I'll tell you what I told your brother. Thorin is strong – of will, of heart, and of mind. If any Son of Durin can be brought back from this darkness, it'll be your uncle."

Kíli nodded silently, and Dáin turned to Fíli. "Now, this lass of yours – she'll be staying somewhere safe, I hope? The deeprooms in Dale that Gandalf mentioned?"
Fíli sighed and shook his head. "She will be here soon."

"You'll not send her to safety?" Dáin stared at him incredulously and Fíli felt his temper flare as he met his cousin's eyes.

"You think I don't want to? I am terrified for her, even after everything we have already faced. She is alone, Dáin. Her brother was her last living kin, and he died saving her from Smaug, leaving her alone in ruined town of Men before she could rejoin us in the Mountain. I will not order her to leave my side. Not now. Not when..." He trailed off, unwilling to complete the thought and give voice to his deepest fears.

"But...surely she'd understand that you only want to keep her safe-" Kíli started to interject, only to wilt under his brother's incredulous gaze. "No, you're right. She will stay, no matter the danger," he admitted, turning to Dáin. "She disguised herself as a lad to join the Company, after her father died. She is a fighter and a survivor. She will stand by him to the end."

Dáin stared at both of them for a long moment before he nodded, a hint of admiration in his eyes. "Then keep her there and keep her safe, lad."

"And she will do the same for him."

Fíli smiled as Viska stepped into the tent, head up and eyes flashing as Dáin turned to her. Moving to her side, he introduced them smoothly.

"My lady Viska, may I present Dáin, Lord of Zirinhanâd, my cousin. My lord Dáin, this is Viska, daughter of Kulvik of Lanzhindîn. My lady."

The fierce warrior offered a formal bow, his sharp eyes going immediately to the cut on her face and the bruise that surrounded it. Raising an eyebrow at Fíli, he murmured half under his breath.

"Blows were struck?" he quoted the Crown Prince's explanation of the evening before. "Thorin did that? He struck your One and the worst you did was walk away? You have a will of iron, lad."

"Or merely an understanding heart, my lord." Viska's face was full of sorrow and Dáin nodded heavily.

"True enough. I remember Thrór's madness, and if Thorin suffers the same..." He trailed off, his thoughts clearly dark, and was silent for a moment before his eyes returned to meet her gaze. "Kulvik's daughter, then? I knew him slightly. He was an honorable Dwarf, and a good friend to Thorin. Stood with Fundin and young Frerin at Azanulbizar, if I remember correctly. Ah, that was a dark day. Never thought to see the like again."

"That is why we need to finish this, today," Fíli said, turning aside to help Viska shrug into her mail coat. "We will make sure that Azog is dead, and his foul spawn Bolg. Whatever alliance they have with the dark power in Dol Guldur, it ends today. We have an army of Men, Dwarves, and Elves, and we have the Mountain to aid us."

"Not to mention a Wizard!" There was a wild recklessness in Kíli's face that didn't quite cover the deep fear in his eyes, and the sound of an Elven horn cutting through the chill morning air brought his head up like a deer scenting a predator. Just as Fíli was about to reach out a steadying hand, his brother's jaw took on a determined set and he reached for his bow. At his side, Viska had paused in the act of slipping one last knife into a hidden sheath, but she recovered just as quickly, securing the ties on her coat. Dáin surveyed the trio and beamed approvingly, placing one hand on Fíli's shoulder.

"You'll be on Ravenhill?" Fíli nodded, handing the sheathed sword to Viska and watching her strap it into place on her back.

"Where I can see the field and hear the Mountain, if needed."

"And where you can be seen, with that golden hair of yours," the Lord of the Iron Hills retorted gruffly. "I'll send a couple of my best to stand with you, buntelith."

He was gone a moment later, leaving the three young Dwarrow alone. Fíli reached out blindly, pulling his brother and his One into a tight embrace, pressing their foreheads together as he spoke to them without words, willing them to be safe in the coming hours. He could feel Kíli's grip on his collar, Viska's fingers wound into the hair at the back of his neck as they held tightly to one another for a timeless eternity that was all too short. They broke apart at the next call of the horn, eyes bright, and then they were out of the tent, the thin winter sunlight warm on their heads as they hurried through the encampment toward the door at the base of Ravenhill.

* X *

Someone had once told Nori that the quietest folk were the ones to watch the closest, a warning he had shrugged off with a grin and a chuckle. Now, he was wondering if he should have given it more credence, for he was seeing a side of his scholarly younger brother that he had never imagined. Ori was downright frightening.

It had started when Balin had summoned them to accompany him to the Alchemy Hall, wanting their assistance in mixing as many firepots as possible before the arrival of the enemy armies. Ori had joined in enthusiastically, eager to learn and help, which was typical Ori. Once the mixture was complete, however, and they were ready to fill the thin ceramic pots, the quiet artist had frowned, the thin line between his brows a familiar sign that he was deep in thought.

"Wouldn't they do more damage if we added broken glass? Or even stone shards? Then, when the pots explode-"

"-they'll tear through flesh and muscle!" Balin's eyes had lit up, a fierce smile on his face. "Brilliant, Ori! Quick, gather up whatever you can find while we mix up this paste of Nori's."

The thief's own contribution to their weaponry had been a thinned out version of an acidic paste that he had used on occasion to gain access to areas that were secured against more conventional means of egress. At full strength, it could eat through most stone, though it took a while. Even the watered-down version, however, would corrode flesh. He had never used it in such a way before, and he hoped that he never would again. Only the knowledge of what they faced had persuaded him to produce the sealed vials of the main ingredients from their hiding places (Ori had blinked in surprise, prompting a shrug from the elder brother and a muttered "who searched through a Dwarf's hair?" as he slipped them from concealment beneath two of his three elaborate crests). By the time he and Balin had mixed and diluted the paste and filled fifteen of the thinnest of the pots, Ori had returned with a collection of broken glass, ceramic, and stone. Working quickly, the three Dwarves had packed the sharp debris in with the normal mixture of the firepots, adding a short fuse to each before packing them in sand-filled trays and stacking the trays in the crates. Dwalin had joined them as they finished the last tray, bringing word that Thorin had returned and was waiting in the entry hall, before the Great Gate.

Now, as he stood once more on the grassy ledge outside of the hidden door, Nori watched his brother and wondered when quiet little Ori had become so fierce. It was a small comfort that Dori also watched the other askance as the scholar piled several of the firepots within easy reach, one already in hand as they watched the first ranks of Orcs begin to pour around the side of the Mountain. The first to fly came from his hand, and many of those that followed found significant targets due to his keen eyesight and precise aim. Nori flicked a glance at Bifur, who met his eyes steadily before shrugging.

"Damum Durinul," the enigmatic warrior commented quietly, flashing a quick grin before he flung the thin pot he held.

Damum Durinul. Blood of Durin. And so they were, though of a distant line, somewhat disgraced in long years past. The Mountain had welcomed them, and the fire of Durin's Heirs sang in their blood. Nori realized that he wore a wicked smirk, and that it was mirrored on the faces of both his brothers. Side by side, all differences forgotten, the sons of Tomri hurled death down on the Orcs of Gundabad. After the first few, Bifur left them to it, making it his part instead to watch the enemy below. He was the one who saw when the Orcs realized where they were, and he was the one to tap Dori's arm, bringing the mithril-haired leather-worker out of his concentration to point out the approaching danger. Ori flung the last of the firepots as the others hurried into the small tunnel, then followed them as Dori began to swing the heavy stone into place. By the time the Orcs found their way up to the ledge, there was nothing to be seen but a scattering of sand, three empty crates, and a featureless wall, for doors of Dwarven craft are made to be invisible when closed.

* X *

The firepots had done their work, and done it well. Thorin, deep in communion with the Mountain, saw the damage wrought by the deadly missiles – flesh torn, bones shattered, blood spreading across the cold ground beneath the dead and maimed. Nori had focused on the Trolls that marched with the army, sending them mad with pain as the acidic paste ate through their thick hides. They had slain nearly as many of their own as the firepots, trampling their companions in vain attempts to escape the agony. The army from Gundabad was weakened, but still dangerous, and the pale Orc at its head was furious and frantic. As Bolg rallied his troops and led them at a rush around the final arm of the Mountain, the king's attention was caught by something in the stone itself. She whispered to him of a weakness there, where a century of ice and water had caused cracks to form and spread. A fierce grin spread across his face and he pulled back, turning to hurry down the stairs, his cousins at his heels.

"Dwalin, call the Company. Balin, tell Bofur to drop the right side of the barricade on my signal.

"What signal?"

Thorin laughed.

"I promise, it will be impossible to miss."

* X *

The Princes of Erebor stood halfway up Ravenhill, on a deep ledge accessed via the stairwells that led from the storage cellars of the tower to the heights of the guard post. Fíli stood in the middle, one falchion in hand, while Kíli flanked him on the left and Viska on the right. Kíli already had an arrow nocked, though he had not yet drawn his bow, and the Dwarrowlass had her sword drawn. Half a dozen of Dáin's soldiers had joined them, hardened infantry with a grizzled officer who bowed respectfully to the three young fighters before taking up a protective stance around them. Catching the officer's eye, Kíli shifted his grip on his weapon long enough to make a few quick, subtle signs. The scarred veteran's eyes widened slightly before a nearly imperceptible nod conveyed his agreement and the young archer felt a small measure of tension leave his shoulders. Like him, the soldiers would focus their attention on protecting Fíli and Viska. It was underhanded, perhaps, and would no doubt anger his brother if Fíli should ever find out, but Kíli was set in his course of action. He did not want to die. He had made a promise to his mother, who had already lost so much, and he fully intended to keep it. But he had also decided long ago that he would give his life to keep his brother safe, and that had never changed. It had simply evolved to encompass Viska and the future that she represented.

"My blood spilled before theirs, my life laid down for theirs,to protect my brother and his One to my last breath and beyond."

The first explosion caught them by surprise, Kíli whipping around to face north, drawing back the string on his bow as he moved. The second confused him, for there was nothing to see, and he turned to his brother. Fíli already had his hand on the stone of the Mountain, eyes closed as he reached through Erebor's sluggish consciousness. When his eyes opened again, they flared with a dangerous light and he spoke loudly, offering the welcome news to any of their allies within earshot.

"Dori and his brothers are outside of the hidden door! They are hurling firepots down on the northern army."

Kíli stared at him, then whooped in delight, a broad grin spreading across his face as Viska chuckled. Fíli grinned back at him, lowering his voice to a quiet murmur as he continued.

"Thorin is himself. I can feel his presence in the Mountain. He speaks with her. The Company prepares to join the battle."

His eyes found Viska's and Kíli felt his heart clench at the love that shone from both of their faces. He turned away, unwilling to intrude, but he could not close his ears.

"Do not take this wrong, but...I wish that you were not here, amrâlimê."

"I know, but I could not be anywhere else, kurdê."

And then the battle was upon them.

* X *

Across the battlefield, Azog hears the explosions, the rumble of the rock slide as part of the Mountain gives way and buries a swathe of the army from Gundabad. His grimace is pure fury, for soldiers lost mean fewer numbers in their battle. He cares little for Bolg, beyond determination that his offspring will not shame him, for Orcs do not share this weakness, this...sentimentality...for others of the same blood. But long years have taught them how to exploit it, oh yes. He does not need to seek Oakenshield – he needs only to find those that the Dwarf lord values.

And there they are, halfway up Ravenhill, fighting with a small detachment of soldiers from the Iron Hills (and that was a nasty surprise). The Dwarves who came to Oakenshield's defense on the cliffs of the Misty Mountains, the ones he protected outside of the home of the Great Bear. Sun-gold and raven-dark, they fight side by side as swords flash and they scream defiance at their enemies. Another fights with them, unfamiliar and yet not as the weak winter sun glints off of silver beads in an intricate braid, and the pale Orc abruptly recognizes another irritant of the past several months. Here is one of the young ones that has stood by the heirs since that first encounter, and it is clear from the way the three of them interact that this one is also close and dear. So then, it will be three...three pieces of bait...three morsels of tender flesh to tear and mangle. He will reach them, or Bolg will, and they will not need to search out Oakenshield. Once they are in hand, Oakenshield will come to him.

* X *

High above Ravenhill, unnoticed in the growing confusion below, Erebor's fiercest, strongest ravens drifted on steady wings, beady eyes watching for any threat to the three young Dwarves that were their charges.

Translations and Notes:

nadad – brother (Khuzdul)

kandith – little/young wolf (Khuzdul)

Zirinhanâd – The Iron Hills (Khuzdul)

Lanzhindîn – The Hills of Evendim (Khuzdul)

buntelith – little/young lion (Khuzdul, literally "young cat of all cats")

Damum Durinul – Blood of Durin (Khuzdul)

amrâlimê – my love (Khuzdul)

kurdê – my heart (Khuzdul)