Battle of the Five Armies countdown! Four days left till it arrives in the US!
I have been warned that I shall bawl uncontrollably during the latter half of the movie. My writing style is due to change as I try to rescue my boys from certain death.
The air was still and heavy as iron key melded with hewn stone. Triumph surged through Thorin as the little bolt snicked free. He pushed the door inwards, and victory was tainted by the sense that he was pressing home the door to his nephew's graves. Fili and Kili. Frerin. Thrain. All lost, and for what? A stone corridor that reeked of death.
Thorin hovered in the entrance, running his hand over the carved runes. One hundred and forty-two years since Azanulbizar. Longer since the fall of Erebor. He wondered if Dis' room was still intact. If Frerin's…
The similarities between two dark-eyed, frail Dwarf lads was too knifing. Blankness eased the pain. Thorin vaguely registered sending Bilbo down the corridor alone, before he woke to himself standing against the inner wall, waiting.
Waiting for death to find them all.
They waited for the door to move. For a day and a half they languished in the icy wind, huddled against rocks that matched their grey skin. Kazog responded to no one, his gaze focused on the path.
Night fell.
The Dwarves bickered amongst themselves. A shaft of light hit the keyhole, and at last Kazog twitched. He rose silently, looking down on their prey. Gnarlâg started forward and a pale hand latched onto his armor, shoving him back. The runt had unwarranted strength.
"Wait," Kazog growled. "Let the beast finish them off."
Gnarlâg understood. The Dragon would be spurned, the Dwarves incinerated, and the mountain abandoned. Kazog had slicked human manure across the entrance beforehand. It was a repulsive tactic, even for their kind, but it would accomplish its purpose. Blood would have been too much of a giveaway, after all. They were trying to instigate a massacre, not a war. The Dwarves would track the stench inside, and the Dragon would suspect an allegiance had been forged between Dwarves and Men. He would slaughter both sides and Kazog wouldn't have to do any of the work.
Dragons had voracious appetites, after all. Why not appease Smaug and then join in the feast themselves?
Kazog was a clever runt indeed.
Later, Gnarlâg would realize he should have known better.
Even clever runts couldn't outwit a dragon.
He was lying on the floor of the forges, aching head pressed against a cushion of still coals. He wondered why they hadn't dragged him away yet. He wasn't working any longer. He hurt. He was tired. The forges couldn't warm him. His felt numb, as though he was already stiff and dead. No one was making him move. Maybe they understood that it was already too late.
Useless. No longer worth the keep. Finish him off before he sickens the others.
He knew a little of the Goblin language – enough to know when they were pleased and when he would be tossed into one of the bone cages lining the walkways. They would laugh and poke at him with dulled spears. They always forgot to feed the slaves in the cages. Some slaves died. He didn't. Perhaps that's why they let him out every time, before his throat cracked from thirst. He was stronger. They wanted him to live through it. Again and again.
But this time there would be no cages. This time they would drive a pick through his head and carry him to the fires, and he wouldn't feel any more pain.
He didn't want to die. Not now. Now when Mom wanted him.
But Mom was gone. She had fallen into the river because Kili wanted a pretty silver thing.
So he lay on the forge floor and waited.
"Kili."
He stirred, confused by the voice. He didn't have a name. Names were important. Names meant someone had promised to find you again.
Besides, Kili wasn't a name. It was a secret, buried in his pocket with a small metal bead.
"Kili."
Someone was prodding his shoulder. This was wrong. The other slaves didn't call him Kili. They called him "Slave Boy" or "Laddie," or sometimes "Man-child." Once an Elf had called him "Child of Starlight."
"Kili, please."
There was pain in that voice. Not panic. Not coercing; fear that another body should be hauled to the flames.
"Kee, don't leave me."
The most beautiful dream filled his mind. Blond hair flashing in the sunlight as a Dwarf swung off his pony. Desperation and relief causing blue eyes to shine. Strong arms holding him tight, claiming him with a power stronger than iron chains.
"Fee…" He clung to the voice, reaching out with his ugly, claw-like hands.
Someone grabbed those hands and held them tight. Feverish lips kissed his frozen brow. A husked voice whispered his name, over and over, and he knew he belonged to this one.
And since Fili still wanted him, Kili was no longer afraid. He might be dying, but he would never be alone.
"Mahal, it's not working."
Fili stiffened, feverish eyes latching onto Oin as he pulled Kili closer. "What are you saying?"
Oin passed a hand over the prince's cold brow. Brown eyes glittered beneath half-closed lids, but there was no recognition. "There's nothing more that can be done, lad."
Fili's eyes widened and he cried out, "No! No, you're not doing it right, Oin." The golden prince floundered, stumbling over his words. "You need more Ath-Athe- Athe… Kingsfoil. You need Kingsfoil. You're not doing it right!"
Oin closed his eyes and did not argue. The fever had drained Fili of reason. Any more strain, and he would lose his mind.
Silently Oin covered the blackened limb that was Kili's leg. No need to tell Fili yet. They had but one last chance. If that failed, peace would find the youngest prince soon. Mahal knew they had watched him die over and over already.
"Fetch me some ether," he whispered to Dwalin. "Fili can't be awake for this."
They looked at Dis, who had fallen asleep by the bed, one hand tucked in Kili's hair.
"Let her rest," Oin said. "She'll know for herself soon enough."
Dwalin nodded and gently unthreaded Kili's hands from Fili's tunic. The fingers were ice-cold, as though touched by winter frost. Fili shouted and reached for his brother, groaning as the movement jostled his leg. If infection settled any deeper, it would be his turn soon.
Oin sighed heavily and prepared his tools. They would be a cruelly matched pair, those boys, but if Mahal favored them they might both live. It didn't make the task any easier.
He looked up and nodded once to Sigrid. "Take your sister downstairs. You don't want her to see this."
"There's… no one there." Bilbo shuffled from one foot to another. "No dragon."
Balin frowned uneasily. "Dragons don't just leave their treasure, Bilbo."
"Did you find the Arkenstone?" Thorin interrogated.
Bilbo sighed and turned out his pockets one by one. "There's nothing there, Thorin. We could be searching for years and we'll never get to the bottom of that gold!"
"I did not ask for excuses!"
"Thorin, he is right," Balin said peaceably. "Smaug may well have buried it after all this time."
"Not the Arkenstone." Thorin shook his head. "Even he would have known it was far too precious."
Bilbo cringed at the word and looked away. He brushed his pocket, cursing the bit of magic hidden there. He should have forced Kili to keep the ring. Heaven knows it was useless to them now.
"We wait until dawn," Thorin decided. "Gloin, keep an eye out for any signs of the dragon. If he doesn't show his cowardly face, we'll find him."
"And what do you propose we do then?" Balin asked pointedly. "An army of Dwarves could not defeat him."
Thorin snarled at him, and the wise Dwarf saw madness glinting in his eyes. Madness born of pain and loss; of centuries of carnage weighing down on one king's shoulders.
"If there is one thing we gain from this quest," Thorin said, "I will slay the beast responsible for the death of my kinsmen."
Black blood trickled down the slopes, running down Kazog's ear and slipping past his collar. He shivered, forcing himself to remain calm.
Stupid!
They had been well hidden. The Dwarves would never have known they were shadowed by Kazog's army. The plan had been perfect.
Until a shadow as large as the mountain had swooped from above. Claws had brushed with afoshan's feathery touch against iron armor, and Kazog had watched blood spurt as bone was exposed. Jagged teeth delicately nipped up wargs and crunched them down. Hurricane winds swept the pale orc over the cliff edge, saving his life. He clung to the rock face, listening to the screams of his army. It lasted all of five minutes.
Blood coated Kazog's skin and he suppressed a shudder. He must remember his grandfather's training. Fear was a weakness. Weakness was for snagas and bairns. He had tortured both, delighting in the curve of wicked blade against sobbing flesh.
No time for fear. Only the cunning would survive.
Slipping into the crags of the mountain, Kazog crouched low and strung his bow. When the Dwarves crawled out of their hole, reeking of smoke and slaughter, he would be waiting.
