CHAPTER 3

Once they were finally out of the woods Ori sent two letters off to Bilbo at the same time, though he felt a little silly about it. He had just a little difficulty letting go of the letters, which an elf was going to carry to the next human town to the west. He looked at the elf and wondered if he'd complained about this specific one in the letter.

It was impossible to know.

Ori let go of the letter and his control on the situation and the dwarves marched south, heading towards the mountain range that divides the map in half. The days under the sunlight began to meld together and the skin on his ears and hands burnt and peeled. He had forgotten how uncomfortable it was above ground. The sound of boots pounding the dirt and rocks became a drumbeat. Home, home, war, home.

They were heavier than when they had entered Thranduil's woods. He had been more generous than Dain with supplies.

Ori winced away from that thought. But he came back to it again a moment after.

'Thranduil seems to sense that we do not enjoy the approval of Erebor in this adventure.'

He pushed that thought down, down, down. He did not want the approval of the Elf King in his swotty forest, on his laughably simple chair. He especially did not want the Elf King to be right about all the wonders he'd described hidden in Khazad-Dum. It hurt something in his soul that the elves had knowledge of Dwarrow greatness long passed that their scribes and chronicles had lost. It hurt his pride as a Dwarf in general and as a scribe in particular.

At night, he had dreams of gleaming mithril wonders and woke up feeling guilty that they had been inspired by Thranduil's words.

Regardless of his internal struggles the army was making good time. On they marched, a host thousands of Dwarrow strong. Ori bedded down near his fellow scribe Halif and talked with her about revisions and portrayals.

"Positive," she ordered him confidently. She raised an eyebrow that he had ever considered otherwise. "We portray the elves as good hosts and better conversationalists. No one wants the great histories to look petty. And whether we are friends or foes, it is more impressive if their capabilities are acknowledged."

Ori had to bow his head to that wisdom. He scratched out his personal interpretations of the music and the likelihood that Thranduil's motivations for the charity had been somehow avenging himself on Dain. That theory didn't quite make sense to him anyhow. Dain had disconcertingly good relations with the Woodland Realm. It didn't add to his popularity but he insisted regardless.

'I hardly think we will find ourselves acting that way in Khazad-Dum.'

Unbidden, an image of them inviting the witch in the woods next door over for tea floated through his head. Unlikely! Unlikely at best!

…Bilbo would have done it. Bilbo would have a dozen elf witches at his kitchen table if he could manage, and he'd talk to them about poetry.

Ori coughed and coughed. The sound was going to be a laugh until it hit his poor dry throat. They were rationing their water at this point. It was any day now that they would find the river, but until then all the dwarrow were a bit raspy and sluggish. They carried casks of deep red wine gifted by the Elf King. But it was pretty much impossible to open one of those and then carry it unless it had been emptied.

Balin was apparently a firm believer that an army marching to battle should not be more than tipsy. And so the barrels stayed closed!

"What is our plan?" Ori asked Flόi, who knew all of Balin's thoughts on the matter of war. "How do we break the gate?"

The older dwarf scoffed. "We don't want to damage our own gate."

Ori had to admit that seemed sensible.

Flόi made an airy gesture that seemed to suggest that cleaning out Khadaz-Dum would be the easy part. "You've seen orcs," he said easily. "Many orcs, even, and goblins too."

"Aye, I have." Ori repressed a shudder. Dreadful things.

"They hate us as much as we hate them." Flόi scoffed. "We don't have to rout them. We just have to let them know that we are there outside. The damn things won't be able to help themselves. They'll spill over themselves in their eagerness to spill Dwarven blood." His handsome face twisted with disgust.

Ori nodded slowly. That made sense. They just had to make a lot of noise. "I'll find a pot to bang on," he promised solemnly.

Flόi's face lightened and he laughed again. "Good lad," he praised, and then he was off before Ori could remind him that Ori was an adult, he was nearly 100 years old now and a Master of his craft besides!

He was still sulking when Balin's guard Frár meandered closer during the heat of the day. "Lord Balin wishes to speak with you."

Ori nodded. "Right now?"

Frár shook his bald head. The only hair on his face was a light brown mustache which trailed down to his neck. Ori privately wondered if it ever got caught in his helm. "When we stop at night," the guardsman said. He wasn't cold, but neither was he approachable. Ori thanked the other dwarf and didn't try to engage him in conversation.

He found Balin that night staring into the blackness around them. The flickering firelight cast strange shadows and made Balin look like a standing corpse. Ori had a strange premonition that he would see this lord fall, too. Dread stole over his heart. He didn't want to speak with Balin.

'Don't be superstitious,' he scolded himself. 'I will outlive Lord Balin, yes. I am 200 years his junior. That does not mean our quest is doomed.'

"Good evening, laddie."

Ori echoed the greeting and stopped a respectful distance away.

Balin heaved a sigh. "I suppose you have recorded our numbers," he confirmed. "And names of all?"

"Aye," Ori answered. "Both Halif and I have the information."

"Excellent. That's very good." Balin didn't look away from the darkness around them. "When the battle comes, I wish for you and Halif to remain away from the thick of it, and separate. If it comes to it…"

"We must have records," Ori agreed immediately. "So that we may know who has been lost after the battle." This was standard practice, though the last occasion that Dwarrow had both need for battle scribes and luxury to protect them was before Ori had been born.

Lord Balin confirmed a few more details and then dismissed Ori for the night. In the morning, their scouts returned with news.

"We are being watched," Frár said darkly. He did not look up. "From the mountains and from the woods."

Ori fought a grimace. "Orcs?" he asked.

Everyone else gave him a pitying expression. "Orcs and goblins in the mountains, yes," Frár confirmed. "But in the woods- golden clad servants of the elf witch have been following our travel." He spat on the ground. "They do not speak to us. They only watch. They do not hide themselves, at least."

Walking felt worse after that. Ori's shoulders seemed to work their way up towards his ears without his input. Everyone was affected. Halif's confidence seemed less easy and Lόni's impenetrable cheer was dampened.

"Would they aid us?" Halif wondered aloud. She kicked a rock. It flew ahead and dinged against someone's shin. They all pretended not to know why the soldier spun around to investigate. "The elves, I mean. If they saw us beset by orcs, they may leave their forest. No one benefits from the occupation of Khazad-Dum. They may welcome our help."

Ori tried not to sneer.

Lόni had no such compunction. "They tolerate the beasts within sight of their woods," he pointed out in disgust. "Surely they have seen many travelers fall to them."

Halif spread her arms. "I don't see bodies and devastation strewn on the rocks," she pointed out. "This could mean that the elves protect what they can see from their domain."

"I don't see any villages or signs of road maintenance either," Ori disagreed. "If the area was safe, people would be here." He looked over at the rocks, eyes catching on spots where the shadows and jutting angles might not be natural. "Humans go in all directions and if no one kills them, they stay."

Halif had to snort at his analysis. "That is a very good point." There was a laugh in her voice. "Humans would try to make a village in the shadow of a kingdom held by orcs and a forest of elves beholden to a famous witch."

"Probably wouldn't notice either was present," Lόni laughed. "They don't tend to be very interested in their surroundings. If the elves popped by, they'd be confused and indignant about the visit."

Ori laughed as well. "If we leave the gates open and unwatched for an hour, we'd probably have a human settlement in Khazad-Dum," he japed. "We'd find them trying to garden some type of grain and throw away the most valuable building materials because they don't like to build with pink stone." He paused in horrified and hilarious realization, because that wasn't quite right. With all that beautiful stone right there, the humans would actually- "They'd haul in witch-wood to make their houses, wouldn't they?"

Everyone surrounding them fell into an uproar of scandalized hilarity at that stereotype. It was true! Humans loved to build with wood.

He heard dwarves in front and behind asking what was so funny, and then the joke was passed along to what seemed to be the whole army.

The japery made him feel a little better about the quality of Dwarven education and their record-keeping. Details had been lost, aye. But you would never find a dwarf as wholly ignorant of the history of a region as you'd find in any randomly selected human village.

The day went on, and his friends dispersed. He was expecting nothing at all interesting to happen when an uproar was raised. Ori jerked his slingshot up to readiness.

Whatever was going on, it was causing anger but it wasn't causing bloodshed. Not yet, at least. He considered pressing his way up to the front of the army to investigate but he couldn't justify it to himself. Halif had already drifted that way hours ago. It could cause a panic or a press if people started moving about.

He had to wait hours to find out what had happened.

"One of those cursed elves," Lόni passed on. The musician had sharp ears. "A marchwarden came out of their gloom to speak with Lord Balin."

Ori heard someone grind their teeth. "Do the elves think to dissuade us?" someone demanded. "Do they offer us insult?"

Lόni grimaced. "They offer us assistance."

Everyone gasped. That was worse.

"What is wrong with elves these days," a black-haired soldier muttered. "I mislike it when they're friendly. Are we doing the wrong thing?" Doubts crept into his voice.

That had to be stopped immediately.

"Take heart!" Ori cried. He banged the dwarf on the back in encouragement, eager to shut down that line of reasoning. "It's just another challenge for us to overcome. Lόni, how did Lord Balin rebuff them?"

Lόni grinned fiercely. Sunlight glinted on the golden bells in his red beard. "Firmly but politely, my lads."

This was met by approval from all present. They thought it was very fine indeed that their lord was such a dignified statesman. No one wanted to be embarrassed by having to publicly support something silly.

Ori had unbidden thoughts of how politely Thorin would have rebuffed unwanted elven help. He snorted.

The great gates were visible at the end of the next day of marching. They stopped early, with plans to rest up. It would be worse to be close when night fell and they became tired. The monsters inside might be tempted to come out while the Dwarrow slept.

They had a watch, of course. Hundreds of soldiers were on patrol the entire night. Their halt was 12 entire hours so that everyone might get a long night of sleep despite spending time on the night watch.

They started early, packing in the first breaths of morning air. The sky was tinted orange and pink as the dwarven host descended the paths. They had to move in a more narrow line than was truly preferable: the old road only allowed for 8 abreast. It therefore took a very long time for the host to file down the road and fill up the great empty space in front of the gates that had hosted the Battle of Azanulbizar.

Ori shivered and pulled his sweater closer to his body. For the first time, he wondered how many of the fallen had been picked off as they approached.

Despite his mounting paranoia, they were not beset from above or below by orcs. No goblins leapt out of holes to shriek and wave rusted swords.

It was, Ori unhappily noted, quiet.

He swallowed hard. There was a terrible sense of being watched, but no amount of craning his neck and scanning the mountainside yielded so much as a hint of life or movement. There weren't even birds.

That gave him the shivers for true. How had the orcs managed that?

The great killing field of Azanulbizar stretched out in all directions for leagues. Ori felt the mood of the Dwarrow host turn inward and solemn. Eyes began to glaze over, especially among the older memories of the army. Memories and confidence began to turn to the black despair of the last cursed time that dwarrow had tangled with orcs here. A king had fallen here, and a prince besides. Hundreds of their people were killed and nearly as many disappeared, which probably meant they had been dragged away to use as slave labor or eaten. Or both.

Unwanted, Ori remembered Thranduil's comments about how quickly the orcs reproduced with access to the free races.

…Perhaps the difference was ready access to high quality food. There had been an enormous glut in the numbers of orcs after that battle, despite the number of skyhigh number of orc casualties.

He felt a little sick.

'Do they kill?' He wondered. 'Or do they eat their captives alive? The second sounds more like their type of tactic.'

"I thought that they would just… come out," someone muttered from behind Ori.

Another soldier coughed. Murmurs agreed that yes, they had also thought that the orcs would just throw open the gates and come out. After all, why not? Orcs hated dwarrow. They were right there in their full army and neat military lines.

After some time, Lord Balin sent a crier partway across the distance to loudly declaim that the dwarrow had come to reclaim their home. That accomplished very little but to prove that there were orcs on the other side of the door, because they reacted with hisses and jeers.

Lord Balin looked at the gates. He looked at his army. He seemed a little confounded.

"Perhaps we ought to annoy them," Ori said, who still hoped that banging on metal would be a good idea after all.

Lόni took the idea and ran with it. He started teaching several insulting songs, which caught on along the lines. Ori wondered a little guiltily if this was really the assault that Lord Balin had in mind, but it was no time at all before thousands of throats were bellowing poetically dubious lines in a meager tune. They were 6 verses into a particularly vicious number attempting to find the name of a race of people who could boast being as clever as the trolls, as beautiful as dog shite, and as charming as bread mold when the orcs finally cracked. The song unfortunately broke into screaming battlecries just as Lόni was starting to inquire who might be as flaccid as pudding.

"I rather wanted to know where that was going." Ori watched the black mass stream out of a slightly opened gate with a sense that history was happening and history was not very dignified.

Lόni elbowed him. "I'll give you the full verse later for your book." Then he unhooked the mattock at his belt. "I wonder if the fight will make it all the way back here?"

Ori had no answer. He didn't want to be left out, but it would be too ghoulish to actively hope that the line would break.