Chapter 52
Marcus tapped his fingers in impatience.
"Black Speech," Troy whispered to him as they squatted upon the thin "road" they now followed, attention directed downward.
The road was one of a series of paths chiseled into the walls of – what had Troy called this place? – Erebor. Unlike the obvious hallways and passages, these were only a foot to a foot and a half wide and cut through what looked to be ornamental depressions in the very walls. What their purpose might be, Marcus hadn't a clue, but they were the faster option. Daphne's scent carried them up stairs, down stairs, and through the most convoluted of routes. These narrow roads shaved distance from their journey even with the need to backtrack as they lost her scent.
This place, he'd long since decided, was a nightmare for one racing against the clock. Three hours. His desperation was growing.
"Why do I care?" he asked Troy as he surveyed the scene below him.
"That's Azog," Troy told him, keeping his voice hushed. "He's supposed to be hunting for Oakenshield. He's not supposed to be here."
"Why do I care?" he repeated.
"Because that's an elf down there treating with him," Troy hissed.
Marcus's fingers whitened around the edge of the road, crushing the outer crust. "Why-?"
"This is important, alpha. We can't let the orcs win."
Marcus's eyes flicked heavenward. Spare him the altruism of youth. He prepared to signal his wolves onward when the elf spoke.
"I know what it is you seek." The elf approached the orcs with palms raised. "I can give her to you."
Wretched dialogue, Marcus sneered. He waited for the orcs to shoot the traitorous elf down, but they permitted him to approach. Birds of a feather, he supposed.
"The freakish creature is surrounded by defenders," the elf continued unprompted. "You'll never get her out."
Marcus's eyes slit at the evil sound of the orc's guffaw. "We have a dragon, elf."
The elf smile. "You need her alive. She trusts me." The elf leaned forward. "I can get her for you. No fight. No danger of her being…spoiled. Your master would not react well should harm come to her before he can question her."
The orc snarled. "What do you want, elf?"
Marcus shook his head in disgust. "Let's go," he breathed. The wolf in the lead position, Pete, dipped his snout and began padding along their minuscule road. The others fell in after him, Troy with great reluctance.
"No harm to me or mine," they heard the elf say. "You take that creature, you take her twin, and you go." Mockingly, "I'll even let you have the dwarves. But nothing else."
Twin. Marcus froze, homing in upon that along with the rest of the Pack. This elf intended to hand Daphne over to the orcs? He growled, and the entire Pack took up his call, hunching over as they glared down at the creatures on the floor dozens of meters below them.
The elf reacted immediately, pulling out a bow and launching an arrow. It pinged into the wall as Pete twisted from its path with the speed of their kind.
"Wargs?" the elf demanded of the orc.
The orc's eyes stared upward, too. "No," Azog denied. "Not wargs." He shouted at his fellows and the entire orc force began to fire upon the werewolves.
Marcus was struck in both shoulder and neck, and he roared in outrage. Pete bellowed as he took a hit in the belly. "Move," Marcus ordered. "Out of here. Now." The werewolves burst into a full run along the small road, following its incline higher until it ducked through a wall into another of Erebor's massive rooms. Safely out of sight, he wrenched the arrows from his body, ignoring the pain. He'd heal soon enough.
"Marcus," Troy panted as Pete tore an arrow from his back, "why didn't we kill them?"
"We don't have time, Troy. We've less than three hours to return to that portal. It's an hour from here."
"That elf knows where Daphne is," Troy ventured.
Marcus smiled coldly. "We can reach her first." He grabbed the base of Troy's neck in a rough embrace. "We'll get through this," he told his wolves. "Have I failed you yet? I swear, I'll get us through this, whatever the cost, my brothers. We'll be with our families again."
They all nodded in unison, familiar wolves that had followed him faithfully for decades, most of them.
"Let's go."
OoOoOo
Bofur hissed as he spied a dark, furry line of bodies upon another of the narrow paths. The wolves did not seem to notice his own party as they raced along the tiny road against the far wall of the Hall of Bronze. Bofur held himself still, hand tight upon the wee silver knife he'd filched from the Treasury as they'd pass it. A wolf, now, would hear a dwarf with ease – he was no elf to move about silently. He'd no idea if the same was true with these werewolves, but he'd not risk betraying their presence.
You'll not take my lassie, he told them. His lassie. Their future was within his grasp. He'd not allow it to slip away. His imagination had already provided him a picture of how it might be. Twins, Aleks had told him. The lass would be giving him twins. Aye, that sounded perfect to him. A house full of wee ones, all with their mother's green eyes. With or without the Brown Wizard, he'd make it happen.
When the beasts had passed out of the Hall of Bronze, Bofur lifted a brow at the elf behind him.
"They have discovered these paths," Legolas murmured with concern. Blue eyes beamed down upon him. "Can we reach the Old Keep before the werewolves?"
At that, Bofur smiled. "Aye," he said without hesitation. "Though best we be hurrying. That path will take them longer if they remain upon it, but it does reach the Old Bridge." At Legolas's confused look, he added as he ran along the stone ledge, "One must take the Old Bridge to reach the sole road to the Keep. These narrow paths do not extend so deep into the mountain."
"Just what is the purpose of these paths?" Belegon's voice asked from behind the prince.
"Runners," Bofur answered shortly, with a wry smile over one shoulder. "Ironically enough, they are for emergencies. Though I'm thinking the architects ne'er expected a situation quite like this one."
OoOoOo
Nori jumped, his heart near to thundering out his chest as his silent, stealthy progress was instantly shattered with boisterous greetings. He halted mid-step, stunned. Aye, maybe not so stealthy after all. Perhaps he'd been around his younger brother a bit too much.
"Are we ever glad to see you," a young man told him. Behind the dark-haired man, a group of men, women and children huddled. The boy cleared his throat and bowed at the waist. "Bain, son of Bard, at your service."
"Nori, at yours," the thief responded, fingers tapping upon his thigh. Well now, Bard would be relieved, he thought. Aye, very relieved. He bobbed his head. "Right, then. Your father's been worried," he told Bain. He considered his options. He wasn't thrilled at the idea of leading them to the Old Keep with Azog (maybe) and Smaug (definitely) prowling about.
Best take them to the First Hall, he decided. It was the safer route. "To the First Hall," he told them.
"What about Smaug?" Bain asked as many of the people burst into fearful questions.
"He's being kept distracted," Nori told them with a glance down at where the chipmunk bulged beneath his tunic. He patted the animal, but other than blinking up at him when he checked upon it, there was no response. Nori feared he may have just uttered a falsehood to these folks.
Mahal, Aleks. Where are you?
OoOoOo
Caranoran stood back as Beorn single-handedly lifted the heavy stone slab serving as a door from its moorings and tossed it off the mountain. The rock crumbled and shattered as it tumbled down the Lonely Mountain's uneven side.
"It looks scorched," one of the men, Gunter, said.
"Smaug," Bard responded. "Do you know where this door leads?"
Caranoran turned to find the man addressing him. "No," he answered, worry turning his voice sharp. His adar was fighting that horde below. He was certain of it. Legolas, too. He wanted to assure himself of their safety – no, needed to, rather. Realizing he'd snapped at the man, he modulated his voice to something kinder. "My apologies, Master Bard. No, I am unfamiliar with these Halls."
Bard shook his head. "No need to apologize, Master Elf."
"Beorn, here," Caranoran said, "is a skin-changer. He'll be leading us."
"Skin-changer?" Bard repeated with brows high.
Beorn grunted as he shoved debris that cluttered the doorway out of his path. He spared the men a glance. "The last," Beorn said. "I'll don the form of a large bear should we encounter orcs." The skin-changer next addressed him. "If I smell Little Brother or Little Sister, I will inform you."
One less worry, Caranoran thought.
Picking up the windlance, the giant of a man led them into the mountain.
Caranoran braced himself. Dragon-hunting. This development was unexpected and not altogether welcome. As he ducked down to enter Erebor, he prayed. With Beorn to sniff out their path, they would find Smaug. It was a foregone conclusion. A thrill of nervous, fearful anticipation flared to life. Caranoran hoped his resolve would not fail him. A dragon – his father had such stories of encounters with the beasts that Caranoran's mouth went dry as they burbled up in his memory. It was one thing to entertain stories of the beasts as a youth. It was quite another to place one foot before the other to confront one.
Too, he feared what might happen if while hunting the dragon, Azog managed to slip by with Hwinneth. The dragon must be dealt with…but his sister had to be protected, too. No choice. This party had the only weapon capable of dealing with Smaug. Erebor was a massive kingdom. The likelihood of Azog locating Hwinneth and then managing to locate Erebor's back door was slim to none. His gaze slid to Beorn's big frame. He'll know. If Hwinneth's path neared theirs, the skin-changer couldn't fail to notice it, not with a nose keen enough to follow a week-old trail left by dwarves.
Smaug could not be left alive. That he'd not yet turned upon Erebor's defenders from within was a boon that could not last forever. Before such a thing could happen, Caranoran determined to see the dragon dead.
For you, Ada. His father had been his teacher, his protector and guide through the many years of his life. Well did he know his father's terror of dragons, and well did he understand it. He took a deep breath. For his father, he would do this, and he would succeed.
OoOoOo
Bilbo deposited a piece of debris at the mouth of yet another arched entryway. He was nearing Smaug, and the dragon's rage was terrible to hear. Bellows rumbled the ground beneath his bare feet, and the reverberations of Smaug's footsteps shook the ground.
"Thief! Disfigurer!"
Bilbo dropped as the wall opposite him shattered, punctured by a monstrously large barbed tail. He held his breath as the dragon stomped by, waiting to see if his titles were added to the dragon's litany. If "Barrel Rider" came from the dragon's lips, he was in trouble.
Seconds stretched into minutes, and Smaug's steps never faltered or altered direction. Bilbo allowed himself to breathe easy once more. Rising to his feet, he straightened his coat with a sheepish little cough. Very well, then. He'd found the dragon, and the dragon was seeking Aleks. Slipping between cracks into the corridor Smaug had just passed, Bilbo padded after the dragon, hoping he'd lead him to Aleks.
How he'd extricate the satyr if Smaug spied him first, he had not quite worked out.
OoOoOo
The elf smiled at the fortuitous turn of events. Eru had blessed his efforts, it seemed. Eyeing his target, he murmured, "I'll draw them to us," to the orcs at his back. "She'll come to me."
He never saw the dagger before it sliced across his throat. His body was dropped to the floor like so much rubbish. Azog sneered. "You're services are no longer needed, elf."
Azog surveyed the scene arrayed below him and signaled his orcs. There was no escape for the female this time. Soon, he'd have her out of the mountain. Then, Oakenshield was his.
OoOoOo
Ever since that blazing pain had blasted through to me, an inner tugging had pulled at my mind. It was nebulous at times, but it persisted, demanding I follow. With that intangible guide to lead us, Oin picked our path. The old healer led us by both thin roads he called the "narrow paths" and the more sane byways below. As we progressed from one passageway to another, I rubbed Alice. But for the times we ventured onto the narrow paths, Ionor walked protectively at my side.
Oin rounded a corner into a grandiose square. He named the place for us with a sorrowful shake of the head – plainly it had once meant something to him – but the name swiftly escaped me. Hazduk? Hakduz? Whichever, it was a self-contained village, or the remains of one, rather. One of eight-seven situated throughout the mountain, Oin was both proud and sad to proclaim.
Eighty seven villages wiped out by Smaug, I thought, staring at the charred remains of block houses lining the walls and dividing the inner space of the huge area into tidy rows.
Aleks? Then, "Aleks?" I murmured at Alice. Neither drew any response. I exchanged worried glances with Ori. The scholar had his sword out and ready. If I had to guess, I'd say he was as freaked out at the idea of running into Smaug as I was. Ionor and Oin seemed unfazed. I tried to mimic them, but the whole "fake it until you make it" spiel? Yeah, that was pure, unadulterated bunk.
A scuffle sounded from the side. Ionor reacted first, planting himself between me and the source. At first, I failed to realize what was happening as Ionor stiffened. The chestnut-haired guard staggered backwards into me, falling with a look of pure shock upon his face. I tried to support him as his legs gave way. Blood welled from a wound upon his neck…a wound inflicted by the blood-saturated dagger protruding from his throat.
"Mahal," Ori whispered, dragging me from Ionor and thrusting me behind him.
Orcs stepped into the street from all sides, cutting off every avenue of escape. Oin sandwiched me between himself and Ori. I couldn't tear my gaze from Ionor as he choked on his own blood, struggling to lift his sword. An arrow sliced through the air, slamming into his head. Just so fast, Ionor was gone.
A chuckle drew my attention in the other direction, and I clutched at Ori, aware of the net of orcs closing in around us from all sides.
"Azog," Ori whispered.
OoOoOo
"What do you mean, they are not here?" Bofur asked, fear bursting into fiery life in an instant. He shoved his way down the hall and into the infirmary. She had to be here. Lass, lass, what have you done? Once inside, he scanned the room. He didn't see her. He didn't see Oin or Ori, either.
"Master Bofur?"
Spinning around, he found himself staring into Freija and Hydi's drawn faces. Josan slept upon his mother's shoulder, the wee one clearly exhausted. For them, Bofur reined himself in. "Freija," he entreated, "where is my lass?"
Freija's brown eyes filled with tears, and his heart burst with new dread. "Aleks," the woman managed to say, her voice as unsteady as a drunken Gloin. "Daphne said Smaug got Aleks. She was adamant that he was badly injured."
Aye, he thought through a rushing in his ears. A dragon would do that. Lassie, you cannot leave me.
A slender hand descended to his shoulder. Belegon, he identified, as Legolas listened just beyond him. The prince's blue gaze captured his, steadying him. Bofur, ye great fool, do not be losing heart now. Bofur inhaled, his shoulders firming.
"Who went with her?" Legolas asked. "She would not have gone alone."
"No," Hydi assured them, blushing under the elves' intense regard.
Freija patted Hydi's arm. "Oin declared himself the only one suited to tending A-Aleks," the lass told them. "He's had experience treating those dragon-burned." The young woman rubbed her palms together near her waist. "Ori and the elf guard went with her. They left a quarter hour ago."
A quarter hour.
"Bofur?"
He stopped before the door and craned back around.
Tears escaped from Freija's eyes. "Find them. Please. For me."
"I'll be finding them, lass," he told her in a rough voice of his own. "Count on it."
OoOoOo
A low moan escaped from the back of my throat as Oin rotated his staff before bracing it between both hands.
Azog's lips pulled back in a sneer. "Leave the female unspoiled."
The bottom dropped out from my stomach. An arrow sped from a bow. I saw it. I reacted, throwing myself at Ori, arms and legs wrapping around him. The scholar didn't even rock as my full weight hit him. The arrow meant for him slammed into my back hard enough that I gasped, choking as I tried to inhale. It felt like I'd bit hit by an anvil. Hissing sounds warned me of more arrows, and I hugged Ori, trying to shield as much of him as I could. A second, punching pain exploded in my hip. I'd barely registered that new pain when a third lanced into my side at rib-level. Shock coursed through me. Horrible, flashing red signs of pain exploded through my central nervous system.
I gaped, mouth open in a silent cry. Ori did cry out, but the sound was one of surprise, not pain. Oin grunted once, twice, the audible noise of arrow impacting flesh making me flinch.
Azog roared something, and the barrage halted. "You filthy maggots! Who told you to fire?"
I'd been shot.
I'd been shot. My brain couldn't compute it, stuttering on the fact like a skipping record.
"Oin!" Ori cried. The scholar crossed the small distance separating us and dropping to his knees beside the fallen healer. The jarring action loosed me from his back. My legs slipped from his hips, and my knees smacked into hard stone. Some instinct kept shouting to protect Ori, and I clutched at his coat as he bent over Oin.
I sobbed as new pain tore into me like a ravenous beast. Each shaft penetrating into my body burned like it had been dipped in molten metal – and a part of me belated blubbered, Metal! Get it out, it's metal!
"Daphne, can you help him?" Ori asked frantically. Only then, I supposed, did he realize I was still plastered to his back. His head whipped around. "Daphne?" His eyes widened, and his lips parted.
"Female," Azog rumbled. Wrapped around Ori as I was, my body throbbing with pain, it took me a few seconds to lift my head and bring the orc into view. He beckoned me with one finger.
Even if I could have moved, I knew how this game ended. He'd already murdered Ionor. The instant I was out of the line of fire, Ori and Oin were dead. I swallowed thickly, my gaze racing to Oin. The old healer lay sprawled on the ground before Ori's knees, his iron staff at his side. No less than four arrows had found their home in him. Blood stained his travel clothes and pooled beneath his body. Not Oin. Please, not Oin.
"Don't…move," I managed to whisper to Ori. "Azog…needs me alive." It was all I could think to do. Stall. What for, I didn't know. We were nowhere near the Old Keep or the First Hall. It wasn't like anyone was coming for us. No one knew we'd gone from the Keep but for the healers and Jarel's family.
An animal chittered and complained where it was squished between us – the chipmunk, I thought a bit hysterically. My heart pounded so loud, it drowned out the rest of what Azog said. I groaned, forehead dropping to Ori's back. The metal arrowheads felt like they were searing holes through me. Likely they are, a detached part of me noted. With metal, my wounds would grow and grow.
Aleks? It was stupid, for even if my brother heard me, what could he do? My hands turned clammy where they clutched at Ori's jacket. "It hurts, Ori." The words slipped from me, inane and useless. I could feel blood flowing down my back and side. How bad, I couldn't guess and rather preferred not knowing. My eyes welled with tears. I wanted Bofur there with such a sudden, intense fervor that it stole my breath.
Ori stiffened. "Daphne," he hissed. Oin, I noted, didn't move. Was he even alive? I tore my gaze from the healer. Azog stalked forward with ground-eating strides. I couldn't run – I was draped over Ori – and if he moved, they'd get him. I think both of us realized it.
"Ori," I said. Where I was going with that, I didn't know. I just spoke his name.
An ominous chorus of growls echoed through the huge space like surround sound, completely unexpected and blood-chilling. Azog froze. I panted in pain, my head drooping until it returned to rest against Ori. His right hand tightened upon his sword, but the left found and clasped my arm.
Dark balls of fur streaked across the rooftops around us like feral lightning. In a second, half the orcs were down, screaming as they were mauled. Black blood spurted all around us, splashing across the pavement and half-standing walls. A low whimper rose from the back of my throat.
Azog backed up with shock upon his face. He cut and ran, abandoning his orcs without hesitation. A handful raced after him, but only two managed to leave the square alive.
One of the furry creatures… Wait a sec.
My head lifted with difficulty as a familiar wolf padded towards me. Brown with a black splotch above the nose, bigger than any wolf had a right to be, I knew that wolf. Ori brandished his sword at the wolf, but I panted, "No, don't." I supposed I should try to extricate myself from Ori, but I wasn't sure I could coax either legs or arms to move. The burning sensation persisted, penetrating far into my body. I trembled, huddling closer to Ori. When had the temperature dropped so low? "Marcus?" My voice sounded little-girlish in my ears.
Bofur. I hadn't had a chance to really hold him. There had been no snuggling or even many kisses. At that moment, the fact rose up before me that I might never, and it broke my heart. Would he be okay? If I didn't make it, what would it do to my toymaker? Bofur, I'm sorry.
The wolf whined worriedly as it circled us. Once it had completed one circuit, it began to blur. Ori sucked in a big breath.
"He's…changing shape, Ori," I said, letting my eyelids half-mast. "Marcus, please. Check Oin. Is he alright?"
In a matter of seconds, a naked man stood where the wolf had been. Brown eyes raced over me as he stalked behind me. A hand drifted from my nape down my back. "What were you thinking, maple-girl?" my former foster father growled.
Maple-girl. For once, it lacked that hint of disdain so often associated with the label. "I was thinking…" A gasp as his hand brushed near one of the arrows. "…thinking that the orcs would kill the dwarves."
"We're stronger than you think," Ori chided. Twisting at the waist, he helped Marcus ease me onto the gritty stone floor, flat upon my belly. That was it for Alice – the chipmunk shot out of the sling like a bullet, zooming into the nearest crumbling structure with wild eyes. Ori shoved his coat under my head.
"Marcus," I managed. "They burn."
If anything, my erstwhile guardian's features hardened more. Troy appeared in my line of sight, the man's rump facing me as he leaned over Oin.
"Troy?" I begged.
"Troy, we don't have-" Marcus began.
Troy shook his head and interrupted. "This is Oin, Marcus. He's the dwarves' healer." He ripped Oin's outer wear from the dwarf's body, baring the injuries to us all.
"Search his supplies for bandages," Marcus commanded as he did likewise to the dress the Elvenking had provided for me just – I thought back – two days before. He used his claws to rip around the arrows' shafts and fletching, a low growl sounding continuously from his throat.
Troy dug through Oin's satchel and tossed Marcus bandaging. My guardian leaned in until our eyes met. "What do we put on the wounds?" he asked.
"You'll need to flush them out," Ori inserted. He reached over and filched the strap on Oin's bag. A few tugs dragged it to his side. "Orcs poison their weapons."
Poison. My teeth began to chatter. Bofur was really not going to like this. "Marcus," I pleaded, eyes leaking tears at the continual burn spearing through me. "They burn."
Marcus's eyes blazed as he bit out, "Poison?" The werewolf wasted no time. One by one, he gripped the wooden shafts sticking out of me and yanked them free. Some of the rest of the Pack must have shifted, for Pete's weathered hands appeared upon my shoulders, holding me down as I screamed and writhed with each removal. Oin groaned nearby, and I assumed he, too, was being roughly plucked of arrows.
Ori's hand ended up in mine – when, how, I didn't remember. I squeezed the life out of it, shivering.
Pete swore, using language my amma would have smack him for. "She's losing too much blood," the older man said.
"Metal," Marcus said with rising fury. "What did I tell you, maple-girl? You keep your head down. Don't attract attention. Leaping before an arrow is not smart." His roar blasted hair off my face.
No, I supposed not. "Oin? Please Marcus, is he…?"
The werewolf grumbled as only a wolf could, the sounds coming from his throat grudging and wordless. "Troy?"
"It's bad, but I think he'll live," the other wolf said.
"You are the one I'm worried about," Marcus said as he tossed soaked fabric to the side. It slapped against a wall fifty feet away with a splat, leaving a red stain as it fell to the ground. The wolf leaned in and inhaled over my back.
Ori's hand tightened around mine. "What are you doing?" he asked, appalled.
"Checking for poison," the alpha spat. "Pete?"
Pete took his turn, his nose close to my back. "Smells clean enough, but she's losing too much blood."
"I know, Pete." Marcus dug through Oin's bag, shoving Ori from his way. He rifled through glass jars, making all kinds of clinking noises in his panic. At last he bellowed, "I can't read any of this! What do I use?" Appearing before my face, my grim-faced guardian gentled his voice. "Daphne? You have to help me here. What do I use?"
He freed my hand from Ori's and guided it into the satchel. I was weak, but an inner voice said, We're in real trouble here. Figure it out. For Bofur. For Aleks. I groaned. Aleks. Was he laying somewhere, dying of his wounds? My hand fumbled around vials, and I sifted until I thought I detected something I could use.
"Need to smell this," I told Marcus.
He withdrew the jar, uncapped it, and held it near my nose. Shepherd's purse. I could have cried. Not so powerful as cayenne or comfrey, but on a normal wound, it would stop the bleeding. If it would help my condition, I wasn't certain.
"Use it," I told him. "For Oin, too." I panted, my head swimming. "Cayenne is better if there is any. Marcus?"
He gave a wolfish version of a hmm, anger undergirding the sound.
"Aleks is burned." The werewolf stiffened beside me. "Smaug," I added.
"Smaug got him?" Troy's voice.
I lifted a trembling hand, my finger shaking. "He's that way."
OoOoOo
Marcus's hand fisted around white bandaging as his ward continued to bleed from hip and back. Her ribs had prevented the third arrow from doing as much damage, but none of them should have happened. He wanted to roar in absolute fury. No, he did not love these naiad kids, but his Pack and his Nancy were riding on them. Looking at the dryad hemorrhage before him, he could feel his future, and his wife's, trickling away through his fingers.
He'd never wished harm on the naiads. Never. Pity joined his rage. The little dryad didn't deserve this. None of them did. Marcus tossed another saturated wad of cloth across the space. It smacked something in the background.
At least she'd lost consciousness. There'd be no arguments from her end. She would survive. All he had to do was collect Aleks and get them both back to the echnari. The Old One, he was certain, would take it from there.
"Pete?"
The older man's head popped up at his summons. "Start searching for Aleks. Take Jeremy, Donovan, and Sarge with you. We'll follow shortly."
"She can't be moved," the dwarf protested.
Marcus growled fully at him, teeth bared. "Do not interfere with me, dwarf."
He had to give the short man credit – he did not back down. No, he actually reached for his sword. Marcus shook his head and returned to his task, padding each of the gaping holes in Daphne's body with more bandaging liberally sprinkled with the powdered herb she'd selected.
As soon as she was ready for transport, he punched the dwarf hard enough to knock him out, lifted Daphne into his arms, and sped after the rest of his pack, leaving the two dwarves behind.
Two hours and twenty-two minutes.
OoOoOo
Bodies flew into the air as if hurled by some invisible force. Thorin stood beside Gandalf on the platform above the gates, Kili at his opposite shoulder. Brows climbing, Thorin lowered his bow. "What madness is this?" he demanded.
"The other power of which I spoke," Gandalf replied with drawn face.
"Uncle," Kili said in disbelief as a second wave of orcs were flung into the air like a child's toys.
"By Durin," Thorin muttered. His attention rushed to the dwarves below fighting the orcs. Thorin lifted a hand to signal Dain. Look up, he willed. As that inexplicable force tunneled ever closer to the dwarf lines, he drew Orcrist and waved it over his head.
At last, Dain noticed. The other dwarf's weapon thrust into the air.
Thorin pointed a the disturbance mowing through orcs and goblins with his sword, and Dain's helmet followed where he indicated. He was too far to behold Dain's expression, but a ripple made its way through the dwarves. The Iron Hills forces peeled away from the area, putting space between themselves and this new threat.
"Gandalf," Thorin said. "Have you counsel?"
The Grey Wizard's lips compressed, and his chin lowered. The wizard's attention never left the field below. "Yes," he said lowly. "Clear this balcony. Get word to the Elvenking. I will counter this creature, but I do not know what it is capable of doing."
"Can we aid you?"
At that, Gandalf looked over as if surprised, a small smile lighting his face. "This, my friend, is mine to do. I thank you for your offer, but it is best the rest of you stay clear."
Thorin nodded and left Gandalf to himself. "Captain Tauriel," Thorin called.
The elfess bobbed her head. "I heard." She erupted in a spate of Sindarin and the elves retreated into the hall.
"Kili, with me," Thorin commanded. "Bombur, those manning the siege weapons - tell them to halt until further notice." Who knew what the creature's response might be if they launched a volley of sharp objects upon it?
"Aye," the heavy dwarf said with a leery look below them. With a shake of the head, Bombur scampered away.
With one last glance at their wizard, Thorin raced from the terrace and to the nearest stairwell. That Old One could plow through orcs and goblins as it chose, and Thorin would celebrate. But he'd not allow it to do the same to his people. Or, he realized with some surprise, his allies.
Elves. As allies. Yet, this day, they were just that. This day, they had his sword to protect them, too.
Bursting from the hallway onto the landing three stories above the First Hall, he roared, "Elvenking!" From this distance, he could only discern that the elf looked in his direction. Trusting Thranduil would hear him, he shouted down, "The Old One approaches. Be ready to retreat before it."
"What of Gandalf?" Fili hollered back up at him. Thorin could not find his heir in the mass of bodies below.
"He will confront the creature," Thorin replied with equal volume. Mahal, help us. Aleks had not spoken of the Old Ones as Mistress Hunt must have. How powerful were these things?
OoOoOo
Radagast clutched his staff, chanting under his breath. He could not act overtly, but he could aid Gandalf in secrecy. And that, he determined to do.
Toby chirruped at his shoulder, and he spared his ferret-friend a distracted nod. "Yes, yes, I know. I will not wear myself out."
Another squeak from Toby.
"We'll not see the hobbit," he reminded his friend. "If all goes as the Lady has foreseen, he will be quite invisible. I know, Toby. Yes, it makes this entire matter much more disconcerting. We must trust he will arrive on time."
An exasperated huff, and Radagast returned to his efforts.
At the completion of the first set of phrases, the bats filling the air trembled as his first spell hit. He extended one hand towards them, sending command after command in their direction. To the naked eye, naught happened. There was no blinding flash of light or boom of thunder. Such would be too obvious. Even Gandalf could not know Radagast hovered on the edge of the battlefield. But the spells had their effect. Bats wheeled overhead, abandoning their assault upon the men and elves exposed to the open air.
Yes, he willed, chanting again.
Through the bats' senses, he knew a female creature walked towards Erebor as if strolling through the gardens of Valinor. She made no motions that Radagast or the bats could detect, but orcs and goblins were projected from her path as if launched from a catapult.
Sauron, Radagast thought with a fey glee, could not be happy at present. Doubtless, he too watched as this scene unfolded. Watched and seethed.
The orcs turned and fled before her, those in her path running over their fellows in their haste to vacate the area. Radagast smiled. They fled right into Dain Ironfoot's dwarves and were cut down by the dozens.
That part of the battle, at least, was done.
The more taxing part had just begun.
OoOoOo
Thranduil called for the retreat, his words echoed by the man leading Lake-town's forces and the dwarf, Fili. The Elvenking stood at the very edge of Erebor's entryway, Oakenshield, Fili, Sainor, Tauriel, and the human's leader beside him. They watched as goblins and orcs fled from Erebor, stampeding away like frightened cattle.
In their wake, the Old One was revealed.
She appeared a tall female, slender as an elf. Ebony tresses flowed down her back, and she wore a gown of no fabric Thranduil had ever before beheld. Her eyes glowed a luminescent blue-green, and Hwinneth's words returned to him. She'd seen such eyes before arriving in Dol Guldur. Was this creature, then, the one who had sent his daughter to him? For what purpose?
"How powerful are these beings?" Oakenshield murmured from the side of his mouth.
That, Thranduil thought, was the question. "Powerful enough to tear rifts between the worlds," he said. An alarming thought, for it implied they might be more powerful than their own wizards. Perhaps. The wizards had not yet been fully tested. They often worked through intermediaries, coaxing events along rather than filling the skies with dazzling displays. This encounter was going to be illuminating.
Gandalf cannot fail. He turned his mind to ways in which he might aid the wizard.
The Old One halted a dozen paces before them. The eerily beautiful female assessed them with one sweeping glance before lifting her eyes. "Return what is mine," she told Gandalf coolly.
"You may not have them," Thorin burst in harshly, drawing her unnatural gaze back to them.
"May I not?" she asked. She took a step forward, and a crack of thunder rent the air.
"You may not pass," Gandalf intoned, his voice echoing across the plains.
She lifted one hand, lightning crackling between her fingers. "Insignificant whelp. You try my patience. That, you will learn, is not wise." A brilliant ball of snapping energy shot up at Gandalf, only to fly into the ground beside her at the wizard's counter.
"This is not your world," Gandalf said. "You will not trample on the people here."
"You think to stop me?" She laughed, the sound that of breaking glass. "You have not the power, old man." She threw another orb of light, this time aiming for those watching from the First Hall.
Thranduil and the others threw themselves from its path. The orb smashed through four of Erebor's colossal pillars before dying out, pulverizing them in quick succession. People screamed and ran from the debris. Then, lightning arced down from the sky and slammed into the woman, blasting her to the ground.
Thranduil leaped to his feet and signaled his archers. "Shoot the female," he cried in Sindarin. Hundreds of arrows flew from their bow, all slamming into the female as he'd known they would. With more fletching visible than female, the creature somehow stood.
The bats that had been circling overhead like a thunderhead funneled down, a furry tornado that slashed into the female. The cloud of them filled the sky so densely that she vanished from sight.
Boom! The animals collapsed to the ground, charred and burning. The female stood, blood-drenched and skin torn. Arrows stuck out from her like an elleth's pincushion. She screamed, a high-pitched, shrill sound that hurt the ears, and the arrows darted from her, flying with as much force as when loosed from a bow. Thranduil's eyes flared at the sight of hundreds of arrows returning to them. He grunted as one struck with enough force to lodge in his armor above his breastbone, and a second slammed into his thigh.
None escaped injury, he noted with a wince of pain and blazing eyes. Everyone who had stood in Erebor's gates had been struck by her counterstrike.
As her scream ended, the wounds upon her body sealed themselves. The very blood she'd shed sank through skin to return to its proper abode, leaving the female without stain or blemish. By Eru, he thought, his eyes blazing. Even her dress mends itself.
The female shouted something in a tongue both lyrical and foul. The ledge above shattered, and with a cry, Gandalf fell.
OoOoOo
"There you are."
Aleks had never heard more terrifying words in his life. Something was wrong with Daph, the knowledge was complete and persistent. He'd been trying to home in upon her, his body shaking with exertion and pain…until this. Aleks turned around slowly. By his side, the fox whined once.
"Run," he said in fox speech. The animal hesitated, but Aleks roared, "Run!"
The little ginger fox bolted.
Aleks stared up at the crimson dragon and trembled. Let it be quick. There was nowhere to go. He stood in the center of a big, empty room. There were no obstacles, no walls or columns.
Smaug inhaled, and some desperate part of Aleks whipped him into a full-tilt run. It was useless. He'd never make it. But he ran.
OoOoOo
"There you are," Bilbo heard the dragon croon. Aleks. Instant panic. Smaug had found Aleks. He pulled Sting and raced towards the dragon, but even as he barreled around the corner, he saw Smaug's flame chase after his friend…and engulf him.
His eyesight turned blurry, and Bilbo raced on. When Smaug's fire died down, Bilbo removed the ring and waved his sword at the dragon. "Stay back, you."
Smaug's eyes widened, and then he laughed, the booming sound echoing around the gigantic room. "Why look who has come to join us," the dragon said. "Riddle-Maker."
Bilbo stood his ground, Sting wavering in his grip. He risked one glance behind him, retreating one foot after the other. Aleks…he was breathing. He was…alive? Bilbo's head whipped back around as Smaug's long, sinuous neck stretched out until the dragon's man-sized teeth were a bare foot from him. Hot, sulfuric breath puffed over his body.
"And where is the dwarf this time, thief?" the dragon rumbled. "Hiding once again?"
"N-no," Bilbo protested, mind working feverishly.
"Doubtless setting another trap," Smaug said with disdain. "Yet the only one capable of hurting me is…sadly…indisposed." The dragon chortled, his head swinging towards Aleks.
"No!" Bilbo hurried to plant himself between them again. "You… You can't have him."
"Can I not, thief?" Smaug stood upright, towering above him. "Just who do you think can stop me?"
OoOoOo
Marcus stared at the scene before him. Aleks looked so badly burned, he'd have thought him dead if not for the faint rise and fall of the satyr's chest. He couldn't believe this. First Daphne, now Aleks. Was the universe conspiring against him?
"Alpha?" Troy asked in a whisper.
…real-live, fire-breathing dragon…
"You said he is supposed to be dead," Marcus said.
Troy nodded frantically. "Bard was supposed to shoot him with a Black Arrow. Smaug is missing one scale on his chest."
Nice. That did them no good now. "Attack," he told his Pack. "Harry the beast. Stay out of his flames." For the first time ever, his wolves hesitated, staring at him with wide eyes. Marcus's temper escaped his tenuous hold. "Go!" he bellowed.
Pete nodded and howled as the dragon's attention fled the – what had Troy called him? – hobbit and rushed to where Marcus stood with Daphne in his arms. Before the dragon acted, the werewolves attacked. Marcus winced as the first two collided with the dragon's scale plating and slid to the floor. Pete growled wolfish commands, and the werewolves fled an instant before a ball of fire slammed into the ground, leaving a nice crater there.
Marcus bellowed in wordless, desperate frustration and leaped to the floor below. He rushed to Aleks's side, ignoring the hobbit as he pestered him with questions. He set Daphne down. His place was with his wolves. Spearing the small creature and his equally small sword with a sharp look, he demanded, "Get water. Soak any fabric you can find and put it on Aleks." When the hobbit failed to jump to, he roared, "Now!"
It was wrong. Everything had gone wrong. Whipping around, Marcus changed between one step and the next. With a guttural snarl, he threw himself into the fray.
OoOoOo
Beorn halted, nose in the air.
Bard's grip upon one of the Black Arrows tightened. Smaug was roaring, and… "Those cannot be wolves," Bard said.
Caranoran's head tilted to one side. "Those are wolves," the prince proclaimed.
"Here?" Davin asked, incredulous.
Beorn nodded. "I smell Little Brother and Little Sister." A somber glance at the elf.
To Bard, the words meant nothing, but it was clear they meant a good deal to the elf. "What?" Caranoran gasped. The elf's head whipped back towards the wall separating them from the dragon and what the elf had labeled 'wolves'. "Beorn, we must hurry."
The skin-changer placed hands upon the wall, pressing. He repeated the action a couple times, spacing his efforts out a yard apart.
"But it makes no sense," Davin protested. "Wolves in a mountain?"
No, it did not. A tremendous crash vibrated underfoot, and Caranoran spoke. "Beorn." Urgency and fear.
"You think to harm me?" they all heard the dragon bellow. The roar of dragon fire sounded.
Bard stretched out one hand to touch the wall. "It's hot," he hissed, withdrawing his palm.
Caranoran turned to him, the elf's strange eyes alight with some inner fire. "Hurry. Ready the windlance," he said.
Beorn plunked the weapon onto the ground with a metallic rattle.
"I cannot shoot through a wall," Bard informed the two.
"There will not be a wall," Beorn growled. Black hair began to pour out of the skin-changer's skin along his back, and his skeleton seemed to grow bigger and thicker. As his mouth and nose distorted, he rumbled in a guttural voice, "Find our naiads."
Caranoran nodded shortly. "My word on it. Take all care, Master Beorn."
Bard stood, Black Arrow in hand and jaw dangling, as the skin-changer completed his change, leaving Bard and his men standing in arm's length of the biggest bear he'd ever seen. The elf stepped away from the wall, and the bear pounded at it, roaring. The big, furry body shoved harder and harder, his coat of fur shaking with each driving thrust of his platter-sized paws. The wall splintered, then cracked with a crunching sound. With the bear's next mighty shove, the a chunk of wall separated and fell into the room.
Instant, stifling heat poured out of the hole, slapping Bard and his men in the face. The bear tore more pieces away, making a path before disappearing inside. Through the new aperture, Bard had a good look at the dragon raging within.
Bard burst into action, loading the Black Arrow as his men gawped at the sight before them. The room beyond the wall was destroyed. The dragon chased one wolf-like creature after another as they hounded him as only a wolf pack could.
"Blimey," Gunter whispered.
"Wolves," Manfred muttered. "Someone pinch me, for this makes not a lick of sense."
Caranoran hissed as he slipped into the room.
"Best of luck, Master Elf," Bard said.
Caranoran dipped his head. "And to you, Lord of Dale."
OoOoOo
Bilbo shook the last of his water onto his coat with trembling hands. He gathered it up and laid it as gently as he could upon Aleks's chest, fretting with every breath. He glanced back where the creatures – the werewolves, he corrected himself – attacked the dragon. Aleks had once told the Company how rapidly werewolves could heal, and he was witnessing the truth of Aleks's words before his very eyes.
"They won't last long," Aleks grunted, head turning back towards Bilbo.
Bilbo swallowed. Aleks looked more like a burnt roast than a living, breathing satyr. The hair upon his head was gone, including the beard, and the exposed scalp was blistered and seeped awful-looking fluids. And that, Bilbo thought with panic, was the least of his injuries. Aleks's legs looked blackened, the skin peeling away in dark curls, and his arms and chest were little better.
"We'd best get you out of here, Master Aleks," Bilbo said, attempting for a business-like tone.
"Dude," Aleks said, his head turning until his sister came into view. She'd not awakened when the werewolf had deposited her next to her brother, and the blood pooling around her alarmed Bilbo as much as Aleks's injuries. Bandages had been wrapped around her back – thick ones, too – but they were saturated, unable to halt the flow of blood leaving her body.
Bilbo patted his pocket, assuring himself the Ring remained within. He didn't know these werewolves, and if – when – Smaug bested them, Aleks had already made him swear to don the Ring and vanish. He was too important, Aleks had maintained.
Bilbo didn't feel important. He felt frantic that he was going to lose two people he cared about very much.
"Bilbo," Aleks tried again, "I don't think we're going to make it."
"Don't you be saying that, Aleks," Bilbo scolded, his fear rising. "We'll get you to Gandalf. You'll be just fine. You'll see."
Bilbo startled when a familiar elf appeared at his side. "Prince Caranoran," he blurted, but the prince had eyes only for the twins. No, Bilbo corrected himself, for his sister. How many times had he watched the two with their incessant pranks, wondering to himself at the elf's un-elf-like behavior?
"Dearest Eru, no," Caranoran breathed. The elf fell to his knees beside Daphne as if his legs could not support him any longer. Disbelief and shock shone from his face, the emotions raw and painful to behold. "It cannot be," he rasped. Bilbo saw it, how by degrees the disbelief faded, morphing into horrible grief. How eyes given to kindness and laughter reddened with tears, and a smooth brow furrowed with wrenching pain and fear. Bilbo's heart clenched, for the loss marking the elf's face was the mirror to his own. "No, Hwinneth." Those bright eyes turned to Bilbo. "How could this happen?"
Bilbo's throat thickened, robbing him of words. He could only shake his head, tears escaping down his cheeks. He dashed them away, looking about as if there might be some answer, some miracle to save them.
Moaning, Caranoran tore at her sopping bandages, his eyes wide. What was revealed made the elf gasp.
"'m sorry," Aleks said, his words slurred. Caranoran's tear-drenched face turned to the satyr. "Don't think we'll be staying," the young man said in a low, thready voice. "Your moth'r…healer. You…know."
A bestial bellow beyond them drew Bilbo's attention, but not, he noticed, Caranoran's. The prince uttered a cry too deep, too despairing for words to encompass. He gently scooped up his sister, drawing her onto his lap and rocking her. "No, Hwinneth. It is not time. I've yet to teach you Sindarin. You've not celebrated Year's End with us." Bilbo buried his face in one hand, a sob tearing through his chest at the elf's words. Then Caranoran cried again. "Eru Ilúvatar," he pleaded. "Not yet. Mandos, do not claim them. Do not take her where I cannot follow. I cannot say goodbye. Not so soon."
Turning his back, Bilbo dropped his hand. With chin wobbling from his own unhindered cries, Bilbo saw Beorn, and his breath hitched. He did not wish to see yet another friend lost, but he could not look away. How wrong this all was. How wrong that death and evil should triumph over good, stealing away all the hope that had grown. Bofur and Daphne should have their future. Thorin should see his kingdom restored, and Aleks should win the braids he so coveted. How the satyr had tried to hide that desire behind a gruff façade, but all of the Company knew… This, none of this, was right.
The wolves – they yelped as Smaug chased after them, but they learned. As he watched, one managed to rip a scale free from the dragon. The wolf fell, scale dangling from its mouth with a look of surprise upon its furry face. It spat the scale out, and Bilbo swore it told the others, for in seconds, they all changed tactics. They tore at Smaug with no mercy, teeth clamping upon scales and powerful little bodies ripping them from their moorings. Smaug roared, snapping at one and then the other, but the werewolves' speed was everything Aleks had told them.
It wasn't enough. Even with Beorn joining in, Bilbo doubted they could do sufficient damage, for Smaug, too, adapted. A slam of his tail sent one werewolf catapulting through the air. It crashed with a crunch of bones against the far wall. Another was seared as a wide jet of flame engulfed the area around him.
The burn victim broke away, limping out of the fray and towards Bilbo and his charges. As it neared, the wolf's shape distorted, leaving behind a young man as difficult to look upon as Aleks.
Caranoran's eyes widened, and his grip upon his sister tightened possessively. "Werewolf," he identified.
The wolf-man fell to his knees, moaning in pain as his skin rippled. Like Aleks, ooze and puss emerged between blackened pieces of skin.
Caranoran's voice whipped out like a lash. "What do you do here, werewolf? This is not your world."
The man snarled at them, teeth bared. "Like we had a choice," he snapped. "Our families are being held hostage." He frowned at Aleks, concern rising as Aleks's head turned towards him.
"Who?" Aleks managed.
"Old Ones," the man said, voice softening, subdued. "They want you. Both of you. You have no idea what happened in your absence."
"You cannot have them," Caranoran declared roughly, tears tracking without stop down his cheeks.
"No?" the man mocked. "The Old Ones need them," he said, leaning forward on knuckles. Bilbo gasped to notice new skin displacing the burned layers. Crispy pieces of flesh dropped from the werewolf, leaving behind restored flesh. "They die, elf. Do you have healers who can fix this?" He must have read the answer upon Caranoran's face, for he continued. "The Old Ones can. Easily." A grimace. "We must get them to her in time or we all lose."
"N-no," Aleks refused.
The man's head whipped around. "You'd see us die? You'd see our families die? The children?"
Bilbo agreed with Aleks as the satyr closed his eyes and swallowed. "Not Daph," he whispered.
The man shook his head sadly. "No choice. It's both or nothing."
"Then you have nothing," Caranoran refused. Then his stern, grief-stricken face crumpled. "Let them go," he whispered, tragedy filling his eyes. He hung his head, his silver hair spilling across his sister. "Not this," he seemed to beg. "Why did you not warn me of this, wizard?" For a long moment, the elf's eyes scrunched closed, pain written upon his face. Then the elf's head lifted. He sought Aleks. "You protect her this time, satyr."
"What?" Bilbo gasped. "You know how much she fears them," he protested.
Caranoran's chin lifted. "I know better than you could possibly," the elf said in a harsh voice. "I was there. I know what Faerie will do to my sister." Bilbo swallowed as the elf's gaze returned to the werewolf. "There is a man aiming a weapon at that dragon. All he needs is one clear shot of Smaug's chest. He's missing a scale there."
"He's missing more now," Bilbo told him.
Caranoran's eyes closed a second time, and he held his sister tighter. "Then Bard will have better luck in gaining a shot. Draw the dragon to him, werewolf." Bright eyes reopened, met the wolf's. "If you can do that, you can get them out of here."
"Bard is here?" the werewolf said, the name clearly meaning something to the man. Bilbo blinked in surprise as the man became a wolf before his eyes, almost as fast as he could blink. He'd never get used to that, he didn't think. The wolf raised its head and howled.
OoOoOo
It was Belegon who spied him.
"Prince!" the guard shouted, halting their pell-mell progress across a narrow path above and burned-out village.
Bofur halted, gasping for breath, and followed the guard's pointed finger downward. A body lay there, one he recognized in an instant. "Brethil," he whispered. "Nay." Then louder, "Nay." He broke into a full run, leaping to another narrow path that angled downward towards the floor. He skidded to a halt at the elf's feet.
Not far from him, he heard Legolas's voice. "And Ionor."
Horror stole over him. Both of his lass's Royal Guards lay here in their own blood. My Daphne. His eyes raced across the square frantically. Splotches of red blood decorated no less than four separate places. Numb, his feet carried him to the nearest, a smear upon a wall. He hunched down, fingering the blood-soaked fabric at its base. He recognized the gold tracing. A roaring sound filled his ears. Though the fabric was not gold and green any longer, he knew. His head began to swim and his heart clenched.
"Bofur!"
He was running ere Ori had finished saying his name. Mahal, Eru, you cannot be so cruel. Surely you'd not take her. Not again. Not after he'd tasted her maple kisses. Not after she'd proclaimed her love.
He reached the doorway of the intact structure, grabbing Ori, eyes flying over the lad to assure himself he was well. That Ori had not a mark upon him allowed Bofur to breathe again. To hope. Ori stepped back, and Oin came into view. Bofur dropped to his knees as he scanned the rest of the room. "My lass, Ori. Where is she?" Oin needed medical treatment, and right quick. Arrows? Aye, Bofur decided upon spying the wounds. Arrows or javelins had left these marks upon the old healer.
"The orcs attacked," the scholar said, collapsing beside him. The lad's eyes shied away from him as if guilt-ridden. "She shielded me, Bofur."
Oh, lass. Tell me you didn't.
"What say you?" Belegon interrupted. "Where is Lady Hwinneth."
Ori's gaze never left Bofur. "They took her."
"Orcs?" Bofur asked, leaping to his feet.
"No," Ori said. "They shot her. She was bleeding so much," the scholar said in wrenching tones. "But then the werewolves took her."
Werewolves. Aye, and he knew where they'd be heading. He waited for no more words. Bofur ran, each footstep punctuated by a desperate inner cry. My lass. My Daphne.
OoOoOo
Thorin's grasp upon Orcrist tightened. His left arm was useless after the arrow he'd taken to the shoulder. Mahal. What manner of creature was this that Eru had created? How could such a thing be?
Gandalf's plummet halted with no warning, leaving their wizard framed in the center of Erebor's open doors. Kili reacted, lifting his bow, but Thorin slapped it down. Glare for glare, his nephew matched him until finally, Fili put a hand on Kili's shoulder with a short shake of the head.
"You've seen what that thing can do, Brother," Fili murmured.
Thorin met Fili's eyes. Aye, little did they need another arrow returned to them in the manner of the last volley. Thorin signaled for those nearby to back away, glaring at Fili until he retreated, pulling his brother after him. Thorin remained. He'd not allow that thing to enter his kingdom.
"I have no compunction about slaying you," the Old One crooned. "In fact, I'd prefer it. You owe me much for stealing my naiads."
Gandalf gasped in pain, crying out, but then the wizard spoke in an unfamiliar tongue and extended his stave. The Old One was flung from her feet, crashing down a dozen meters away. Gandalf was released and dropped to the floor.
This time, the Old One did not recover so quickly. Thorin stepped forward and aided their wizard to his feet, reaching Gandalf a split-second before Thranduil. Together, the three waited her response.
She struggled to her feet, her hair mussed and a rend upon one cheek. It healed, but not so swiftly. Once erect, she chanted in her alien language. Bolts of light shot at the wizard from a handful of directions. Gandalf thrust the two kings back and spun about, his staff dipping and rotating in an arc.
The bolts hit and died, absorbed by the staff. Gandalf planted it upon the ground. "You will not enter this city."
The female snarled.
OoOoOo
Aleks coughed, his lungs full of liquid – blood, a part of him labeled – as the wolves and Beorn suffered wounds like his. They kept going, maneuvering the dragon, and Aleks willed them to succeed. For Thorin. For Fili and Kili.
He hoped the Durins lived, prayed it was so. For himself, the pain had passed bearable some time ago. He barely cared to fight. Peace. The longing for rest grew with each labored breath. Daph was fading - the satyr could feel it through the link. Now, finally, that bond had returned in full measure. Now, when it did them no good.
No, he denied. The timing is perfect. Wherever it was they were going, they'd go together. Unified in death as they'd struggled so long against being in life.
"Don't you dare give up," a voice whispered near his ear. Caranoran, he identified. "You must fight, Aleks Hunt. You must. And when the time comes, here is what you must do."
Aleks listened with despair. The elf did not hold his punches. "You do it for Hwinneth," he said time and again. Words flowed. Some Aleks heard, others drifted by.
He fought. He didn't wish to, but he fought. He just wasn't sure it would be enough.
OoOoOo
At last, Bard's arrow flew, and the dragon screamed. Caranoran kissed his sister's forehead as werewolves rushed from the scene, not waiting to witness the dragon's demise. They collected Aleks first, then Daphne.
Before they could depart, Prince Caranoran of the Woodland Realm stood to his full height. "They are ours, werewolf. Never forget that." One wolf stared at him, inclining his head. Caranoran watched, robes coated in his sister's blood, as they left with a speed unmatched by horses. In the blink of an eye, mayhap two, they were gone.
Caranoran frowned, turning about. Where had the hobbit gone?
Beorn grumbled questioningly, the skin-changer's head pointed towards where the twins had been carted off.
Caranoran turned bleak eyes his way. "Let them go," he reminded him.
Beorn's head reared up and a low growl escaped his lips.
"That wizard had best not fail us," Caranoran whispered. Beorn stared at him with hard eyes. At last, he bobbed his head.
The men joined them, led by a triumphant Bard.
"Congratulations, Bard," Caranoran told him, blinking back the welling of tears. "Your aim is truly remarkable." His head turned, gaze slipping to the exit through which the wolves had fled. Eru keep you, penneth. Guilt warred with belief. Had he done aright?
"I believe we have a war to attend to," the man said.
Indeed. With a last look around, Caranoran fell in behind Beorn as the skin-changer scented the air to gain his bearings. "Can you find the gates?" he asked him, uncertain the bear's nose was so keen to lead them such a distance.
The bear nodded.
OoOoOo
He'd not make it in time.
That fear hounded Bofur with every breath. He'd near run his legs off getting to Oin and Ori. Now, he could scarce feel them. Each breath from his lungs was like fire, yet he refused to slow.
You cannot take her. Bleeding. She'd been bleeding. She's terrified of Faerie, she is.
How badly?
He rushed headlong down the narrow paths, unmindful of his own neck. He had to reach the gates. He had to beat those werewolves.
Had she any idea how proud he was of her? To shield Ori as she had took courage, and that he valued. Yet, he felt stabbed to the quick, too. You cannot take harm without me bleeding, my lass. Do you not understand that?
OoOoOo
Thranduil spun around at the snarling cacaphony echoing through the hall. What sounded like hundreds of animals proved to be less than a dozen. His eyes flared, for rushing right towards him, leaping over men, elves, and dwarves alike, were the werewolves. Men scattered, but Thranduil held his place, lifting his weapons. His eyes locked upon one figure, and his heartbeat slowed. What remained of her dress was a blood-soaked banner dangling in her wake.
By Eru. Horror stole over him in slow stages the closer they drew. At his side, the tip of Thorin's blade dropped, proof of his own shock.
"Mahal," Oakenshield said.
Only then did Thranduil spot the blackened husk of a man held by one of the other man-wolves. Aleks, Thranduil labeled in disbelief. He could not live…surely. Not with such severe wounds.
The leader landed before them with Aleks in his arms, and the dwarves present formed a line at Thorin's back. The Old One must have seen her quarry, for the battle between the female and Gandalf intensified in decibel. Still, Thranduil did not turn away.
"Thorin."
Thranduil's swords wavered at the naiad's croak.
Raw emotion chased across the King Under the Mountain's face, an emotion Thranduil experienced as well. Their children. By Eru, how could this have come to pass?
"Aleks," Thorin groaned, stepping closer with free hand lifted, yet there was no single place upon the lad's body he could touch without causing further harm.
Green eyes slit.
Thranduil turned to his daughter, watching her face, but she didn't rouse. Blood splattered on the stone floor, the minute drip, drip from her dress increasing his horror. How much blood could her small body stand to lose? Only the minute rise and fall of her chest testified to her continued existence.
"Let them take us."
Both kings stared at the satyr in disbelief.
"It's…" A sickening cough, followed by an abrupt cry. "Have to. They can heal…"
They can heal them, Thranduil finished, appalled. He found Thorin in the same, horrified state.
"You cannot wish this. You cannot ask this of us. Aleks, we know what these monsters can do," Thorin protested.
"No…time." Again, those green eyes cracked open. "Trust. Has to happen. Old Ones…cannot betray a vow. Make her swear, Thorin. Make her swear they won't mess with our minds."
"I will not let them have my daughter, naiad," Thranduil said in a cold, cold voice.
"Caranoran said…"
Caranoran?
"…to tell you. Cenuvanyel rato," the satyr said. "Said…believe. Running out of…time."
Thranduil could not move. He could not consign his daughter back into the hands of that world. Yet, Hwinneth did not speak Quenyan. She barely knew a dozen words of Sindarin. Aleks could not know the words he spoke. I will see you soon, the Elvenking translated. What could his son mean?
"Thorin," the lad begged. "Please. Daph's…dying. I'm not…staying…without her."
OoOoOo
Thorin shoved Orcrist into Gloin's keeping as he stepped right next to the werewolf, looking down upon his charge.
Fili shouldered his way to Thorin's side, his pale eyes bright. "Uncle," Fili said with a tremor.
Thorin could barely speak around the knot in his throat. Mahal, Aleks. You brave, foolish satyr. "You always have a place in Erebor, Aleks. You hear me? You remember that. No matter where you go, or what you face, we will be here waiting for you to return. You've not failed me before. Do not fail me in this. You return, Aleks. You find the way, and you return to us."
"My king," Aleks rasped.
Thorin's attention turned to the Old One.
"Wait." At Aleks's weak summons, Thorin's head whipped back around.
"Bofur," Aleks struggled to say. He coughed, and blood leaked between his blackened lips. "Can't follow. Don't…let him. Tell him. Swear. I'll keep her safe."
Bifur broke into a spate of angry Khuzdul, tears streaking down his face and matting his beard. "Do not listen, Thorin," Bifur demanded. "You cannot do this."
Holding Aleks's eyes, Thorin promised, "We'll keep him here."
Bifur and others argued, their voices raised, but Thorin did not yield. Though he grieved at the wound Bofur was about to be dealt, he knew what Aleks was about. Should their naiads not survive, 'twould be cruel, indeed, to let Bofur be consigned to a lifetime's exile in Faerie.
Bifur nudged him demandingly.
"No," Thorin said, lifting his voice in command. "You will obey me in this." Thorin's gaze burned into Aleks's, the king's throat welling with grief. "You are family, do you understand? Our hearts are yours." He sensed more than saw his dwarves bobbing their heads at his words.
Then, Thorin shoved any elves or men from his path until he neared Gandalf. "Halt!"
OoOoOo
Bofur almost fell down the last flight of stairs. Everyone faced outward, lined up across Erebor's entrance. What were they doing? Why did they just stand there? A sickening suspicion. No, a part of him instantly howled. "No!" he bellowed ere his feet hit the floor. His Company would not let his lass be taken. His king would never consent.
Tear-streaked faces turned his way, and pain such as he'd never experienced punched through his chest, stealing the heart from him. They'd not… They couldn't. The eyes that met his were full of loss and regret. Regret.
She could not be gone. Not without him.
"Nay!" He ran past Dori and Nori. Gloin was a blur through the tears flooding his eyes. Panic, the terror that his lass had left where he could not go, ruled him. 'twas Bifur who caught him, and Thorin's arms that ensured he remained caught.
"No," Thorin said, but the word made no sense.
"Where is she?" he demanded, his anger surging so that his hands fisted. "Release me!" He threw a punch at his cousin, furious that any would dare bar him from reaching his lass. He struggled, shouting mindlessly until his gaze stumbled upon a sight that stole the wind from him. He sagged. My Daphne. Horror rose, for his lass, his sweet, maple-scented lassie, hung limp from a werewolf's arms. Her life's blood drained from her, turning her skin a marble white. Could she even live? "My lass," he said, feeling as if a part of him died to see her so. "Bifur," he whispered, his voice broken for all to hear. Broken as the pieces of him that cracked and shattered, and then cracked still more into smaller and smaller pieces.
And beside her… Another fist of loss slammed home, and he fell to his knees, grabbing at Thorin's arm. "Aleks."
"Aye. Aleks," Thorin said, his voice as hoarse as his own.
"You cannot let them take them, Thorin," he said, turning to his king. He'd beggar himself, debase himself, anything to keep them here. "My king, please. Do not let them take my lass from me." His cousin grabbed him from his king and hugged him tight. Thorin's eyes met his over his cousin's shoulder. Those iron gray orbs turned red, unashamedly flowing with tears.
A blinding light split the air, and a rushing sound followed. Bofur reacted, again attempting to break free, hat lost in the tussle, as a creature smirked at them while the werewolves passed through the glowing space in the air. One by one, they disappeared. Bofur roared as his Daphne vanished before his eyes.
"Remember your promise, female!" Thorin bellowed.
She stepped through, and as Bofur bellowed his lass's name one last time, the light vanished.
They were gone. He stared. The world had ended. It must have, he thought, for surely it could not hold such pain. 'twas his brother who hauled him close, and his brother who told him it would be well.
Well? Bofur's optimism had left him. His hope was gone, stolen whilst his king and friends stood aside. Why, a part of him yelled in despair and fury. Why? What could cause them to allow this?
OoOoOo
Thranduil stared at the distraught dwarf, a truth at last settling home. The dwarf loved his Hwinneth with the same intensity that Thranduil did his Rinel. The proof stared him in the face, moving him to pity and compassion.
Hwinneth was gone. He'd allowed her to be taken. Why, he asked himself. Why? What could Caranoran's message mean?
He longed to succumb to his grief, to allow himself tears and sorrow, but his eyes fell upon the fields before him. Duty remained. Grief and explanation would come later. For now, there were injured in desperate need of aid, and a dragon in need of killing.
