Hello! Monday's here, and so am I! Again, I have two chapters for you today, though one is entirely new! I really hope that you enjoy them both, and forgive any typos! As always, I'm running a wee bit late and should really already be in bed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Trench
Something was wrong. Glóin could feel it, a subtle tugging in his gut that set his hair on end. He did not know what it was exactly, but the higher he climbed, the faster his heart urged him to ride. There was danger ahead, but something beneath it. A reason to speed into the unknown. To hasten up the High Pass. His pony was uncertain, but followed its master's command. Lani rode beside him, her ears pricked up and her hackles raised. She made no noise.
Glóin would have felt better had she growled.
He did not like chasing gut feelings up dark mountains with no back up, mainly because his gut feelings tended to be rather accurate. There were clouds swirling overhead, drifting slowly up from the South – from Caradhras. He shuddered. That was not a mountain he would ever like to cross. The stories had ever been enough to chase him away. That said, the High Pass did not have a much better reputation.
So far, the road had not been too bad, but it was growing steeper, and more barren. There was a large wall of rock on his right, but he could see the top of it. Just ahead, there was a bottleneck in the path – a place where another wall swept down and narrowed the path. In such a place only one or two would be able to ride abreast.
Not that it would matter. Glóin was alone, after all.
Lani stopped, a single paw raised in the air, and her ears pricked up, twitching. At once, Glóin yanked on the reins, perhaps a little too hard, but his blessed pony stopped dead without so much as a whicker.
It was silent as a tomb. Even the wind seemed to hush, though it kept its strength, and its bite. Glóin slowly drew his axe. The pony stamped its feet.
The wolf darted forward onto a nearby boulder, and then leapt over the wall on the right, disappearing onto the other side.
Half a second later, the silence was shattered. The shriek of orcs, unmistakeable and deafening, ripped through the air, and Glóin's pony let out a shriek of its own, tossing his head and preparing to flee. But Glóin had already dismounted, and he charged after his canine companion.
He climbed the boulder and leapt onto the wall, staring down to see where she had gone.
For a moment, he was astounded by what he saw.
It was a trench – a natural one, if he was not mistaken. The other wall was that of the mountain itself. But it was not being used for any natural purpose now. It was teeming with goblins, at least two dozen, scrambling over each other towards Lani. They grasped at weapons with their scrawny hands, but Lani was quicker than death, and sank her teeth into the nearest goblin's jugular.
"Du Bekar!" Glóin roared, jumping down from the wall and bringing his axe down through the skull of the first foe he could reach. And then they were upon him, and more poured down from further up the trench, and he no longer had a spare thought to count them.
Filthy hands grappled at him, but he twisted around and threw his bodyweight upon them with such a force that three goblins cracked their skulls against the very rock they sheltered in. He swung at another, but after cleaving through its neck, his axe crashed against the stone, sending reverberations into his spine, and he cursed. It was too large a weapon for such a space – he needed knives.
Embedding the axe in an enemy's chest for safe keeping, Glóin pulled two daggers from their sheaths in his belt. He span, dodging a blow from a scimitar, ducked beneath an oncoming sword, and returned blows of his own, taking down three, four, six orcs in a matter of seconds.
But a blow struck the back of his head, dull and heavy and painful as sin, and he felt thick arms wrap around his neck, and the heavy weight of a goblin on his back. With a snarl, Glóin threw himself backwards, and the goblin shrieked as it crashed into the wall. He thrust his weight back, and stabbed over his shoulder with only training and a prayer to guide his hand. The arms around his neck let go.
A few feet away, Lani was tearing through goblins as if they were lambs, but they were teeming upon her like flies on a corpse, and he could hear her growls and snarls growing higher, and more frantic.
They were outnumbered.
Each foe he cut down was replaced by two more, and they would not wait their turn to die like civil folk. Instead, they swarmed liked insects, insects with blades as wicked as their master.
And one blade found its mark.
Glóin bellowed as a short dagger drove into the soft flesh of his inner elbow, and for a moment, he was blinded by white hot pain. He felt the knife wrenched from his body, felt his muscle tear and his skin rip, felt tears hot in his eyes – but then he felt a sure of something else. Adrenalin, rushing from the very depths of his soul to his mind and his heart, clearing his eyes.
And his mind.
Balin's gift.
Glóin threw off the hands that grasped at him, and retreated. His axe was feet away, if he could get to his axe –
A blade was thrown at his spine and hit true, but his mail was the best one could find, save Mithril, and the knife simply fell to the ground, leaving naught more than a bruise. Lani howled, an awful shriek of pain that almost turned him, but Glóin ran faster. His axe – it was there –
His fingers closed around the hilt, held it so that its blade swung by his feet. Reached up towards the gem that sat in the base. Towards Balin's gift.
The goblins were almost upon him.
He wrenched the ruby free, breathing heavily as a slick, clear liquid poured over the edge of his beloved weapon, over his hands. He spun the axe slowly, as slowly as he could bear to.
"Go too fast and you'll destroy your axe," Balin had warned him.
The first goblin reached him, and he grabbed it by the hair and bashed its face into the wall. Then, he grabbed the ruby once more, and turned it over to expose the flint fused to its underside.
"If this doesn't work, Balin, I'll kill you," he muttered.
He struck the flint against the pummel of the axe.
It lit up in an instant, blue flames leaping out with the ferocity of a dragon. He could feel the heat on his hands, but they did not burn – just as Balin promised. It was uncomfortable, but not unbearable.
Not for a dwarf, in any case.
He grinned.
Letting out a roar to rival Smaug's, he charged, but it no longer seemed like the odds were tipped against him. Screeching in terror, the goblins crushed each other in an attempt to escape from the burning blade, but if the fire did not catch him, the blade of the axe did.
It did not matter that Glóin could not fully wield his axe, that his movements were compromised, or that he was fighting single handed. It was easier to chop off heads when weapons clattered to the floor, and his enemy fled before him, and the flames leapt from orc to orc, and soon the scent of burning flesh was pouring into the night.
A whimper caught his attention, and he looked to see Lani, cringing away from him as he advanced. Her ears were pressed against the back of her head, and blood, both red and black, was smeared around her muzzle.
"Get out of here!" he ordered, and at once she bolted, racing in the opposite direction to the orcs, back the way that they had come.
He turned back to the retreating goblins. Only five or six were still fleeing. The others were dead, or writing on the ground in flames, or bleeding. Already, his adrenalin was beginning to seep away, and the flames were waning too.
With a final cry of exertion, he pushed his legs faster, and raised his axe high.
He cut down the last of his foes in two strokes.
And then he fell against the side of the trench, breathing heavily and staring at the fire he held in his hands. Before his very eyes, the flames shrank to those of little candles, and then spluttered out entirely.
He cast his mind back to his last birthday.
"This is where the oil lives," Balin said, showing Glóin the oil well beneath the ruby. "It is a blend from the Orocarni Mountains, very rare and worth its weight in gold. Because this oil will produce flames as deadly as any, but protect whatever it coats from burning. So, in theory, you can wield a flaming axe without losing your weapon – or its integrity. If you remove this ruby, the oil will travel down these grooves here, in the handle of the axe and the pummel. You ought to turn it a few times, slowly, for good measure – you want to make sure the whole thing is covered, and your hands, too, that's important. Then, you use this flint here, and bam!"
With that, Balin held his own hand over a nearby candle, and it immediately burst into flames. Glóin cried out and leant back, but Balin just grinned, staring at the blue flames.
"It's the strangest feeling. Very warm, and uncomfortable, yes, but it isn't painful."
Eyes fixed on the fire, Glóin frowned. "Then why is this not used in war?"
"It is not easy to come by, and not easy to make. And there's nothing to stop these flames from leaping up my arms, if I'm not careful. A wrong wind, and you've wiped out your whole army. A hobbit could not wield it – their skin is not tough enough to withstand the heat. Orcs and men would fare poorly, too, though goblins of the mountains might manage it… It is not a universal weapon. Oh, and in weapons such as this, it only works once – then, you must restock the oil. And it must be Oil of the Stars from the Orocarni, that is very important. It is not practical for warfare. It's a trick for desperate times, my dear cousin. Or to show off in front of your son, should he grow too big for his beard."
"Desperate times," Glóin muttered, staring at the slight charring around the metal blade of his axe. He rubbed at it with his sleeve, and it cleared. Soot, not charring. His axe was not damaged at all. "Desperate times…"
The sound of mewling and whining brought him back to himself, and he forced himself to stand up. There were goblins still living – writhing and burning or bleeding, and he put them out of their misery one by one. All save the last – the largest, who bore a badge with the symbol of a red eye upon his breast.
"Who sent you?" Glóin growled, pressing his dagger close to the goblin's neck. "Who posted you here? What was your task? Speak!"
The goblin's lips peeled back to reveal bloodstained teeth, and a smile that made Glóin sick to his stomach. "Your kingdom will fall. Your King will be destroyed, and your people will perish. No one will come for you. Your kingdom is dead already."
And then, quick as an adder, the orc seized Glóin's hand, and pushed the knife down and across. And ripped open his own neck.
The silence left behind was as absolute as it had been before the fight. Only the wind remained. The wind, and the sound of dripping blood. Pain was beginning to return to Glóin's shoulder, and he barely felt his axe fall from his fingers. Though he breathed deeply, his head was beginning to spin, and exhaustion was taking him quickly.
Now was the time to think – his shoulder. His medical kit was on the pony – he had to return to the pony, but there was no way he could climb over the way he had come. Not in this state. But this trench was here for a reason – goblins did not often make outposts, especially those that dwelt in the mountains. They broiled in their dark lairs, and waited for unwary travellers to slip into their nets. They would raid, or hunt, yes, but they had no need for outposts.
Yet here, there were areas that looked oddly like a camp, and the floor was littered with an arsenal of weapons that could take down a small company of dwarves. There was only one reason that orcs or goblins would camp out in such high numbers, in so small a space as this.
An ambush.
But to launch an ambush, they would have to meet the path – and quickly. So, the tunnel had to meet the outside eventually. Stooping despite the pain, Glóin picked his axe up from the floor, and leant on it heavily.
Alone and bleeding, he began to trudge through the corpses, deeper into the trench. There was food around, some fresher but most foul – mouldy and rotting, and there were the bones of small animals littered around the place. It stank of decay and refuse, and even as Glóin sank further into disgust, he registered that there had been a goblin station there for some time. Weeks, at least. More likely months. Glóin hurried on, until he kicked something that made the strangest sound.
Bells. It sounded like bells.
It was a light tinkling, carefree and bright, and so far removed from anything he would expect from this place. He crouched down, and peered at what seemed to be a crushed meal ball. Frowning, he picked it up, but as soon as his fingers touched the metal, recognition flooded his mind, and he gasped softly. It was a dwarven helmet, one designed for the messengers of Erebor. It had been crushed, by a hammer of some sorts, he guessed, so that it was spherical, and there was something inside. Something tinkling.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Glóin knew that he was still bleeding. That his brother, were he here, would be smacking him on the back of the head with his staff and ordering him to take care of his wound at once. But this was why he was here – to warn Dís and Bilbo, yes, but also to discover what happened to the other messengers.
His fingers found what had once been the neck of the helmet, and he began to prise it open. The edges bit into his fingers, but whatever tools the orcs had used had beaten much of the strength from the metal, and it gave easily enough beneath his grip. When he looked inside, his heart sank. He saw rings, some of copper and others of gold, and beads and earrings. A pendant.
As he shifted the helmet, they rolled around, and made that light, tinkling sound.
And they were all, unmistakably, dwarven.
Some of the pieces looked familiar, but he did not trust his ability to recognise such things while he still bled, so he tipped them all out onto his palm, and then into his coin purse. When he returned home, so would the jewellery. That way, at least some part of their former owners could have peace.
He walked on.
He could feel his heart quickening, and growing weaker as his blood pressure continued to drop. With a snarl, he pressed his hand over the wound. It shrieked in pain, but he gritted his teeth and held on. Walked on. There was sunlight dancing on the ground ahead, and he hurried towards it, emerging into the bottleneck in the rocks that he had seen earlier.
Then he groaned.
His pony was gone. Fled, most likely.
Glóin sank to his knees, and tried to breathe deeply, fill his lungs and his mind. It was not easy. Not when he was utterly alone.
He closed his eyes, and forced more pressure onto his shoulder. Blood dripped over his fingers. And then something back to lick the blood away.
His eyes ripped open, and Lani cowed back, but when he did not move again she crept forward, and nuzzled his neck, gently licking at the blood she could reach.
"I hope you're doing that for some canine cleaning reason, and not because you're going to eat me the moment I fall asleep," he growled. To his surprise, Lani coiled back for a moment, before tentatively returning and nuzzling at him again with an indignant whine. Her front legs were shaking, and Glóin frowned. He may not be an expert on the wolves, but he knew that Lani was fearless as they came.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
She gave a sad whine, and then laid her head on his lap. Beneath the black of the goblin blood, he could see gashes over her muzzle, and her several lacerations over her arm and chest. It looked like a knife had caught her rump, too, but there were no puncture wounds, that he could see.
"I'm still winning," he huffed, removing his cloak and coat, and then his tunic. He shivered in the wind, and Lani stood, walked around to curl up by his back. Her bulk shielded him from the worst of the gusts, and he was able to pull off his undershirt. This, he tore with this knife, and he retrieved his gloves from his pocket. Bundling them up, he pushed them against the wound until he knew that the blood flow had stopped. Hissing against the pain, he tried to tie it into place, but he could not maintain the pressure.
"Damn it, damn it to the very depths of Mordor!" he yelled, and Lani sprang to her feet. She raced around to look at him, and Glóin could see fear in her eyes, as plain as her nose. "What is it?"
Her eyes flickered to the axe at his side.
"It's gone," he said bluntly. "The fire's gone. I can't do it again. And I wouldn't burn you, would I?"
She hesitated, her paw hovering over the ground. Then, she limped forward, and pressed her head into Glóin's elbow. And held the bundled gloves in place.
"Thanks," Glóin grunted, manoeuvring as best he could to tie them into place. And managed on the second try. As he fastened the knot, Lani rested her face in his lap again. Glóin reached for the flask on his hip, and took a long swig of whisky. He thought about offering some to the wolf, but decided that she would not want any.
"Thank you," he said again, patting her shoulder. "Yours don't look they're bleeding too badly. Curse that pony! Couldn't he at least have left us Óin's cleaning balms?"
The wolf whined, and stared at him.
"So do we go on? Or do we go back for help?"
She met his eyes, and if Glóin had ever doubted how much Beorn's wolves understood of the Common Tongue, he doubted no longer. And he did not doubt her reply.
"Aye, I quite agree. Onwards it is."
I really, really hope that you liked that chapter – it was kind of brutal, but pretty fun to write. Do let me know what you thought, and what you think it means. And now, onto the next!