Hey all! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I really appreciate it! Sorry for the delay with this one, it's a long chapter and took me a good while to finish. I hope you enjoy it all the same, and please do forgive my inevitable typos.
Chapter Ninety-Seven: Fight and Flight
Thorin staggered back from the great gates of his city, clutching his hand to his neck. Blood was pooling against his fingers, and a searing pain burnt beneath them, but when Balin ran towards him with fear in his eyes, the king shook his head.
"Thorin-"
"It's a flesh wound, it is not deep," he growled, peeling up his hand to allow his friend to see.
As Balin fussed, Thorin glanced back at the soldiers still holding the door. By now, the army outside were not only barred from the mountain by a living wall of dwarves – Thorin's troops had managed to stack much of the rubble against the great gap, and stack it high. It would not hold to great force, and did little to deter the spider-like climbing of the goblins, but it was something, and sturdy enough for the warriors on the front line to stand upon it.
Their numbers were bolstered by thousands of regular folk; dwarves who had ripped swords down from walls, and axes from old wooden chests, and run to their aid of their city. Their skill was not insubstantial – all able-bodied dwarves were brought up learning to fight, especially after Smaug – but still Thorin tried to keep them from the frontline. Instead, he had teamed them with Bard's army, and tasked them with ushering the vulnerable into Una's Sanctuary like Fíli, or with moving further food stores into the bunker, where they could.
But Thorin knew that sooner or later, those regular folk would find themselves on the front line. Either that, or the front line would find its way to them.
"We cannot go on like this, Balin – we need a plan. Brute force will not win us this fight – he have not the strength, and we cannot hold broken gates forever."
"Aye," said Balin, his eyes still on Thorin's neck. "Aye, we need a plan alright."
Thorin cupped his hands over his mouth, roaring out orders in Khuzdul. The troops before him rotated, those who had been further back moving to the very front of the doors, and those who had borne the brunt of the enemy's attack falling back. Many were wounded, and swaying with exhaustion, and some were dragged away barely alive.
Thorin gave another shout, and at once Dwalin turned from the battle, running to the king's side at once with eyes that bulged with fear. "Thorin, your neck-"
"Is fine, we have more pressing concerns. We need a plan if we are to make it out of here alive, but I need someone I trust to stay here – will you lead the men while I am away?"
"Of course," said Dwalin sombrely, giving a quick bow. "I will not let them lose heart. But Thorin… you best be quick with this."
Thorin nodded, squeezing Dwalin's arm for a moment. Then, he turned. "Balin, come."
Sharing one last glance with his brother, Balin nodded, following Thorin to a nearby flight of stairs. With each step that he took up, Thorin's leg jolted in pain, the wound he had taken but moments into battle making itself known, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it. They did not have time for pain.
There was also no time to reach the royal chambers, no chance to get to Thorin's own office, so the nearest unoccupied guard room would have to suffice. As he limped his way towards it, Thorin saw dozens of corpses along the corridor – guards, mainly, though a few orcs were among them. Great hunks of rock and stone and rubble were strewn across the passage by the hole in their gate, reaching far down the passage, and Thorin thought of the poor soul who had survived to ring the war bell. They were not ringing it now, and he doubted they had the time to outrun the explosion at the gates. They were likely one of the corpses in the corridor, if they were not buried beneath the broken stone of the gate. Fury ground inside him, and he shoved open a nearby door. There was no one inside the guard room, but a map of the mountain was laid out on the table, and the lamps were still lit. It looked like someone had left in a hurry.
I wonder why, he thought darkly.
Balin shut the door behind them and Thorin sat down in the chair behind the desk, grunting slightly. He was getting far too old to do battle.
"So," he said, grabbing a bandage from the standard issue medicine box in the desk's draw and pressing it to his neck. "What in Durin's name are we going to do?"
"Well, let's look at the situation. The orcs outnumber us, near ten to one," said Balin, "and that's being generous with our numbers. And, apparently, they have a way to break through stone with fire – there's naught to say they won't throw down our doors again. They also have catapults, and though those have had little effect before, with the doors already weakened they may try again. We don't know how they brought down the doors, for that should be impossible. Perhaps if we knew how they did it, we could stop it from happening again, but we don't."
"They have every advantage," Thorin admitted with a growl, glaring at the map.
"Not every advantage," said Balin slowly. "The first they did was clear the balcony, but if we re-positioned soldiers there now, we'd have some chance of reducing their numbers, and slowing the assault on the door."
"Náli said they came from above," argued Thorin. "They will wipe out anyone we place there."
Balin said nothing, the twitch of his mouth belying his frustration. Finally, he said, "Could we send some lads out the back door, have them watch over the gates, wipe out those that would wipe out us?"
"You've answered your own question already." Thorin could taste the bitterness of his words on his tongue. "The enemy have catapults, and archers, and above the balcony there is no cover. Any men we sent out would be dead before they could cover anyone. We could launch a troop out of the back door, and attack from another angle…"
"But we don't have the numbers, and fighting on two fronts would weaken us more than it would them," finished Balin, kneading his forehead with his fist. "There must be something… unless…"
Thorin raised his eyebrow, but pain shot across his forehead from the cut above his eye, so he scowled instead. "Unless what, Balin?"
"It's a long shot," said Balin slowly. "But I might have an idea as to how we can get some men onto that balcony without it being a mission of pure suicide."
"I'm listening…"
"Above the balcony the edge of the mountainside – if we were to set that alight, the orcs wouldn't be able to come down from above."
"And I presume you have some idea as to how?" said Thorin, frustration growing as Balin failed to get to the point. To his surprise, however, an almost sheepish look came across Balin's lined face.
"Aye…" he said. "There's an, um – well. A fuel I've been working on. It burns hot, but the flames will last a good while – an hour, at least. What's more, it's in form more of a jelly – if we paint it onto the mountainside it will cling there until it is all burnt through. If we call some of Nori's Watchers, have them climb the ropes left by the orcs and apply the fuel, it might just work."
Thorin shook his head, rubbing his jaw and looking carefully at his cousin. "This jelly… what's the catch? Something as useful as that… you'd have told me before now, unless it was unfinished."
Balin gave a tight smile. "When I say 'highly flammable' I mean it. The smallest spark can set it to light, but we haven't figured out how to put out the fire. Water is all but useless, and it burns through sand, if you try to smother it. If it gets on your skin it will stick, and if it catches light it will burn through flesh and bone alike. There's naught you can do at all until the fuel is burnt through. Then, and only then, will the flames go out."
Thorin winced, absently running his fingers over a pale burn scar he had received in the forges. "Will it drip? If it is above us?"
"It shouldn't do, not if we're careful. Not if the lads apply a thin layer – then it should stick."
Thorin gave a heavy sigh. "Well, I see no better plan. How long will it take to get ready?"
As it transpired, the answer to the king's question was 'not long.' Within twenty minutes, Thorin, Balin, and six nimble young dwarves from Nori's Watchers were standing behind the door out to the balcony. Further down the corridor, fifty of Thorin's best marksmen and strongest soldiers were standing by, and beyond the rubble, across the gaping hole in the gate were fifty more warriors, waiting by the further door to the balcony with bated breath.
"Remember lads," said Balin. "Be quick, and be careful. If you're sloppy with this jelly, you may well blow up the ones who come behind you, and that wouldn't do now. Especially given one of those men is the king."
The Watchers bowed as one, and then they peeled away, slipping through the door like shadows, and Thorin held his breath. The sound of the battle below raged in his ears, blurring and confusing sounds that were closer, and Thorin closed his eyes, straining for any sound that might tell him more clearly what was going on. Was that loud thump a Watcher falling to his death? Was that crash more of the door collapsing? Was that scream from someone he loved?
A torturous minute passed, and then another, and a third, until Thorin was fighting against the instinct to charge outside and determine the Watchers progress. He opened his eyes, met Balin's gaze.
Waited.
And then, a shout came from outside, a word that rose above all the rabble of the noise below. "Idrinat!"
Go ahead.
"Zû!" Thorin roared, charging out onto the balcony. The others followed, their tramping feet like thunder as they spanned the length of the gate. Nigh on twenty feet above them, long blue flames leapt out from the side of the rock, crowning the mountain with fire, and already the Watchers were standing along the balcony, their bows at the ready. "Now!"
With the smooth synchronisation of a machine, the dwarves drew back their arms at once, hurling flash-flames into the air and aiming for the main cluster of archers to the right of the mountain. Bright flashes of red and white flame sprang up amidst the dark huddle of orcs, and Thorin relished the screeching squawks of pain given up by the creatures as they burnt. Another wave of flash-flames were thrown at the orc archers, and then Thorin brought his own bow up, ready to shoot.
"Archers, ready!"
A soldier ran down the line on both sides of the fissure, slipping torches into brackets on the side of the wall as the archers took position. Thorin took an arrow, touching its tip to the top of the nearest flame. It caught like a match, the flame hissing and fizzling down the arrow shaft as he readied to shoot, and by the time he released the arrow it was entirely aflame. Even as he prepared the next, he watched with grim satisfaction as his first shot burst through the skull of an orc.
"Fire at will!" he roared, and a volley of flaming arrows rained down upon the army outside. Orcs and men alike shrieked at their falling, and a few answering arrows shattered against the mountainside, and Thorin counted every foe that fell.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Balin rolling a barrel twice his size down the balcony, and he stepped aside to give his friend the central position above the gates. A few soldiers stepped in, helping him ready the barrel, and Balin nodded.
"Warn the lads!"
One of the soldiers ran back into the mountain, bellowing down in Khuzdul to their kindred at the gate. A moment later, he shot back onto the balcony and yelled, "Zû!"
In one smooth, practised motion, two soldiers helped Balin lift the barrel and tip it over the edge of the wall. As they did, a third warrior threw a lit fuse into the thick, black liquid that poured from the barrel, and at once it caught light, splashing down onto their foes in a blend of oil and flame. The orcs shrieked and wailed in pain and fear, and Thorin relished the sound, watching the foul creatures scramble away from the door. A few fought through the flames, or tried to, but they quickly succumbed and Thorin grinned. That should give those dwarves the door a brief respite, and a chance to pile on more stone.
He continued to shoot, sending arrow after flaming arrow down into his foes. They did not seem to even dent the size of the army, but one of Bilbo's favourite phrases was 'slow and steady wins the race,' and a dead orc was better than a live one. Shot after shot he fired, ignoring the wrenching ache in his arms, and the growing pain in his leg and head.
Something in the battlefield caught his eye, an odd huddle of movement making its way towards the gates, and he paused. It was a small troop of heavily armoured orcs, and they were carrying something between them, something that Thorin could not quite make out. Whatever it was dark in colour, dark enough to blend in with the orcs and black armoured men around it, but somehow Thorin felt it was something he had not seen before.
"Balin, what is that?" he called, nodding his head towards it and cursing that his eyes were not as good as they once were.
"What is what?" his friend replied, face bright red as he threw missile after missile down into the fray.
Rolling his eyes, Thorin nodded again towards the shape. It was coming closer now, within fifty feet of the gate, and his gut curled comfortably. Something was wrong. He could make out a vague shape, almost like that of a great mace or a boulder, and it curled his gut. "That!"
"What?"
Thorin growled, lighting an arrow and pointing it straight at the form. "That!" he let loose the arrow, and it streamed, flaming, through the sky, and struck the object dead centre.
An explosion wrenched apart the air from the very moment of impact, the force of its energy shaking the ground beneath them and knocking a few dwarves from their feet. Thorin clutched at the battlements to keep from falling, the tremendous sound still ringing in his ears. It was on par with the volume and violence of the roar of a dragon, and the light from the blast had seared across his eyes like lightning, leaving him to blink away stars behind his eyelids.
But it was worth it – it was beyond worth it, for where the object had been there was now nothing but crumpled, smouldering corpses, and all the foes in a twelve-yard radius were dead on the ground.
"Well," said Balin, his voice rather high. "I think we've discovered how they took down the doors."
"Look out for more of those things!" yelled Thorin in Khuzdul. "We don't know how many of them our enemy has – if you see them, do not let them reach the doors of the mountain, not under any circumstance!"
The dwarves beside him let out a cheer of understanding and assent, and he could feel their spirits lifting as the devilry of the enemy backfired. They shot with more determination than desperation, and jeered down at the orcs as they did. Some stuck to shooting, while others threw flash-flame after flash-flame. The little explosives looked like nothing beside the great blast of the orc weapon, but still killed more orcs at once than an arrow.
With a single-minded focus, Thorin kept shooting, his quiver constantly refilled by the errand soldier, his focus sweeping the battlefield for a sign of another weapon. He would not be surprised if the thing had been some black witchcraft of Saruman's – it could not be a coincidence that it reached their doors just one day after Mauhúr came to them, but if that was the case, it seemed odd that they would attack so soon, and not wait for a changed mind, or a ransom. He wondered if –
His thought cut off violently as something struck his shoulder with a strength that had him cry out. He staggered backwards, but his injured leg gave way, and he hit the ground, hard.
"Thorin!" cried Balin, even as Thorin pushed himself up, and shook his head, and stared at the arrow sticking out of his shoulder. "Tho-"
Thorin looked up sharply as his friend's cry cut off, and then felt the blood drain from his face. "Balin!"
A thick arrow shaft was sticking out of Balin's forearm, embedded dangerously deep, and he stumbled back, his hand rising in shock towards the arrow. Thorin scrambled up, ignoring the tugging pain of the arrow in his own shoulder to tug Balin down behind the battlements. His cousin was gasping in shock and pain, and Thorin reached up to a nearby Captain. The dwarf's eyes widened, and he ducked down for the moment.
"My lord-"
"I'm going to go and get this cursed thing out of my shoulder," Thorin growled. "It is not deep – I will return. Call for reinforcements when you need them, and keep the fires burning. Keep them back, now, and don't you let any of those explosives come close to our gates."
The Captain bowed, and Thorin rose, dragging Balin up and towards the door.
"I will send you reinforcements, and I will return," Thorin swore, striding back inside and using every muscle he had not to stumble again. He would not show weakness, not in front of his men and certainly not before his enemy. An equal stubborn pride seemed to have taken hold of Balin as he strode with him, but as soon as they were inside, his cousin's face crumpled, and he clamped his hand to the top of his arm around the arrow.
"This, this isn't good, Thorin," he said tightly. Balin's face was white as his hair, and tinged with grey, and his sleeve was growing turning from blue to a deeper red with every passing moment. "I can't feel my fingers – I think it's done some damage."
Thorin swore, taking Balin's shoulder gingerly in his fingers and twisting it to take a better look. Where the arrow in Thorin's shoulder did not seem all that deep, Balin had not been so lucky. The arrow had struck so deeply that it had gone straight through his arm – Thorin could see the bloodied metal of the tip poking out of the other side.
"This wouldn't have happened were you wearing armour," said Thorin pointedly, and Balin glared at him.
"Yes, thank you, mother."
Despite himself, Thorin smiled slightly. It had been a long time since he had acted the older cousin. His gaze returned to the wound, and his smile faded. "You've done a good job of it," he said, dragging Balin back into the guardroom they had used before, and tugging another bandage free of its box. Taking care to wrap around the arrow, Thorin bound his cousin's arm as best he could to slow the bleeding. Then, with great care, he cut the shaft of the arrow a few inches above Balin's skin, and secured the limb in a sling, binding it close to Balin's chest. "It's a miracle that it has missed your artery, and it would be a greater one if it has not caused muscle damage. We cannot remove the arrow here-"
"I know, I know, I could bleed to death. Very comforting."
Thorin pursed his lips. "I think you should retreat, Balin. Make for Una's halls, find a healer-"
"Not a chance."
Thorin raised his eyebrows. "A moment ago you thought you'd done real damage."
Balin glared back stubbornly. "And I'm sure I have. I am in considerable pain – but we have things to do, and this is not a battle I will bow out of, Thorin. It's my left arm, and I can fight with my right."
"Balin, if this is your choice… With a wound like that already, this choice could easily lead to your death." Thorin glanced down, and closed his eyes. "I would not lose you, Balin."
His cousin's good hand rested on Thorin's arm, and squeezed it gently. "I hope you won't. But if I retreat now, and the city falls, I will never forgive myself. And if I fall, then I know it will be with honour. I will never regret dying in defence of my home. This is my choice."
Looking back up, Thorin stared deep into Balin's eyes, and then he sighed. "Fine. Let's get on with it then."
"What about your shoulder?" protested Balin, and Thorin glanced at the offending wound.
It hurt, and intensely, but a simple prod from his thumb told him it was not too deep. No deeper than the head of the arrow, in fact. With his right arm, he reached up under his tunic and his armour, reaching up to find the wound. Gritting his teeth, Thorin closed his eyes and dug his fingers into the torn flesh of this shoulder until he could grasp the arrowhead. Balin cried out in protest, but Thorin ignored him, wrenching out the arrow with a growl of pain. He snapped the shaft in two, and the half sticking out of his armour clattered to the ground. The other half he drew out and examined for a moment, sniffing it suspiciously.
"It does not look poisoned to me, but time will tell," he supposed, meeting Balin's outraged glare. "Unlike you, I am wearing armour. It wasn't deep – the bleeding will stop soon."
"Bandage," growled Balin. "At the least. That's an order."
"We don't have time-"
"It'll only take a jiffy," said Balin firmly, pushing another white cloth into Thorin's hands. "Now."
"You're a damn nuisance, you know that?" replied Thorin, but even as he spoke, he acquiesced, winding the bandage around his shoulder without bothering to remove his armour. Every moment it took felt like a waste of time, but Balin stood stubbornly before the door, and did not move until Thorin was finished, and he was – apparently, satisfied.
"Right," he said. "Shall we go see how Dwalin fares?"
"My thoughts exactly," replied Thorin, striding out of the door. They hurried back down the corridor, and Balin made for the stairs down, but out of the corner of Thorin's eye he saw something move, and he paused.
Just a few yards away from them was the great hole in their gate, where the rock fell away to ruin, and piles of broken boulders were strewn across the corridor. By the hole itself they were highest, but the rubble stretched a good way, stoking Thorin's fury higher with every pebble. For a moment, it was hard to see what had moved, but then he saw it again, and his heart leapt.
There was a hand reaching out from the rubble, a dwarven hand, clawing against the ground, and Thorin burst forward, running towards it as fast as his injured leg would carry him.
"Balin, there's someone here!"
At the sound of his voice the hand stretched out further, waving so desperately that Thorin could see the poor soul's tendons stretching and shaking beneath the skin. He grabbed the hand and squeezed it gently.
"Hold on, we're going to get you out," he promised, glancing up at Balin gravely. If the dwarf beneath them had been trapped since the gates were blown, he had been there for well over an hour, and if the rock was crushing him, rather than simply pinning him down…
If the dwarf had already succumbed to blood poisoning, or if his lungs had been compressed for too long, or if the rocks were keeping an artery pinned, they had little chance of saving him. Thorin knew the horrors that came with such injuries, how many hundreds of things could go wrong.
But the fingers had some strength as they seized Thorin's hand. Far beneath the stone, he could make of the sound of grunting, the stuttering cry of the dwarf trying to speak, and then the hand let go of his own, and pointed left.
Thorin's eyes followed the direction of the fingers to another large pile of rocks, this one even larger than the first. Perhaps the poor soul was lying sideways, towards the left. Even if he was not, there was a great deal of rock above him, and Thorin glanced at Balin.
"I'll go get reinforcements," Balin said at once, racing away towards the stairs. The dwarf beneath the stone let out a muffled cry, and the hand reached out again, and Thorin squeezed its trembling fingers.
"It's alright, I'm not going anywhere." He patted the back of the hand and then stood up, moving the looser stones at the top of the pile, where he could. His shoulder screeched in pain with the effort, and he gritted his teeth, pulling down stone after stone. It was careful work, it had to be – if he moved the wrong rock at the wrong time, he could injure or even kill the dwarf buried beneath, and he knew it.
Careful as a surgeon, he moved a great deal of rock, and after a few achingly long minutes, he began to catch flashes of a guard's uniform, and glimpses of dusty blonde hair. When he could gauge the position of the body a little better, he focused on drawing away the rubble from his head and upper body, though he did not have time to glance at the guard's face. His survival was more important than his identity, and his survival may well be time sensitive.
As Thorin shoved a great boulder off of the dwarf's back, the poor soul dragged in a deep, choking breath. His neck, right arm and chest were free now, and the king moved onto his legs.
"Ink-" he gasped, his voice rasping with the effort. "Ink-"
"It's alright," said Thorin calmly, but as he rolled more rock away the guard squirmed, twisting his face up to meet Thorin's.
The king's heart clenched, painfully. He knew that battered face, those frightened eyes. Beneath the blood and the dust and the bruising, he knew who it was he stared at. He had known this guard for all his short life, had cradled him the very day after he was born…
"By Mahal," he breathed. "Ari…"
His late friends' son shuddered and nodded. "Ink," he choked, breaking off into a cough, before nodding towards his still buried left hand. "Ink."
Thorin's blood froze in a heartbeat, and understanding struck his heart like an axe.
Ari was not saying 'ink'.
"Vinca?" Thorin breathed, his heart dropping even further when Ari gave a pained nod, and gasped in another rasping breath.
Thorin stared in horror at the great pile of stone to the left of Ari. At its top was an enormous chunk of rock, larger than the corpse of a warg, and the king wanted to wail. Vinca was not a dwarf. If she was buried beneath so much stone, the chance of her still being alive…
A part of him knew he should wait for Balin, for reinforcements – he knew that he was already wounded, that he could do more harm than good, but even as these thoughts passed his mind he leant down, wrenching the stone away from Ari's arm.
One of his hobbits was trapped, and Thorin would wait for nothing.
He tore the stone aside to see a small, pale hand wrapped around Ari's – and then he saw the hand move, and pulse.
"Vinca?" he called, not caring if his voice sounded raw or desperate, not caring at all who heard. "Pervinca, can you hear me?"
The hand opened, though its thumb still clung to Ari, and Thorin's chest heaved with a sob.
"It's Thorin, I'm here," he said, taking her trembling fingers in his hand for a moment. "I'm going to get you out. Hold on." He began pulling at the smaller rocks around where her body must be, trying to clear something of a path, but then there was a horrific, grinding crunch, and the enormous stone on top shifted down.
From deep beneath the rock, Thorin heard a muffled scream, and Vinca's hand waved desperately for him to stop. He fell back, but somehow the stone was still sliding, the great chunk of rock grinding its way towards the ground. Thorin threw his hands beneath it, ignoring the shriek of his shoulder as he gripped the stone. He braced himself, but even that was near impossible. The weight of the rock was immense, and he was already wounded. He shifted his feet, trying to get a better stance, and then he heard Vinca scream again, her faraway voice brimming with terror and pain.
A surge of fear charged through Thorin's veins, and without pausing to think, he pushed with every muscle he had. Agony exploded in his shoulder, and his leg trembled violently, but still Thorin pushed. Slowly, half-inch by half-inch, the stone began to rise, and the sound of frightened whimpers grew clearer and clearer.
And everything else grew very dim, and very grey, and so very, very far away.
Thorin's entire body was burning, and his left leg was buckling beneath him. He could feel his arms being torn from his body, his back being struck like an anvil, and he could feel the warmth of his own blood as it began to flow more freely from his neck, and his shoulder, and his thigh. Darkness had clouded his eyes, broken only by fragmented flecks of moving light, and the sound of battle had melted away. His teeth began to grind against each other, clenched so viciously that pain shot through his entire jaw.
He lifted.
He pushed.
It rose, a little.
A little further.
And then Thorin's leg gave way altogether.
Gravity seized the stone, and wrenched it down, and Vinca screamed in terror. Thorin wrenched up with his left arm in a frantic attempt to offset the stone, to stop it from crushing her, but as he did, he felt the limb tear out of its socket. Roaring in pain, he threw his head back, and felt the stone sink beneath him. Blurry, disconnected sounds reached him – Vinca crying, Ari whimpering, someone far away yelling his name, but the pain was overwhelming. He could not see, or breathe, and he felt his eyes roll upwards towards the top of his head.
You let go now, and you kill her.
No.
Not Vinca, not his little hobbit.
Desperately, Thorin grappled for every last ounce of strength he could reach, and lifted. Agony screeched through every joint and socket of his body, and burnt through every vein, but he threw himself forward, heaving up the stone, and pushing, pushing -
And the stone tipped up, and rolled back, crashing to the ground with a great noise Thorin could hardly hear. His legs crumpled beneath him and he crashed to the ground, his entire being engulfed in pain. If he had freed Vinca, he could not say – he could not see, or hear, or breathe. His lungs ached for air, but he did not have the strength to draw breath, and for a moment all he knew was the pain wracking through him and the stars before his eyes.
And then he felt two slender, shaking arms wrap around his neck, and the tickle of curly hair against his cheek, and he found the strength to breathe. He could feel Vinca shaking and shuddering, he could hear her crying, and his uninjured arm wove around her, pulling her close.
"Thorin," she whispered, her small and breathless words music to Thorin's soul. "Uncle Thorin, Uncle Thorin..."
He tried to reply, to promise that he was here, and she was safe now, but breathing was still a struggle, so he settled for resting his chin gently on top of her head.
"What the devil was that?" yelled Balin, anger tight in his voice, but Vinca leant her head around Thorin's shoulder, and he heard a chorus of gasps, followed swiftly by the sound of running feet.
Vinca pulled back slightly and looked at Ari, and Thorin's eyes focused enough to examine her. There was a great lump on her forehead, and a smear of blood across her ashen cheek, and her shoulders and arms were soaked red.
"Ari," she whimpered. "Ari…"
"You're hurt," Thorin managed to gasp, but when his fingers brushed her bloodied blouse she blinked, and glanced down. Then, she looked at Thorin and whimpered.
"Thorin, your, your shoulder-"
"Vinca!" cried Fíli, and even as he did Jari let out a terrified scream.
"Ari!"
Thorin glanced up to see Fíli racing over, Jari and Aria all but tripping over his heels. Behind them ran Glóin, Dana, Bragi, Ehren, and Ragan, and each of them bore a look of utter horror. A deep gash had been carved into the side of Fíli's face, and the leather above his armour was slashed in more places than Thorin could count. The others looked equally dishevelled, but no one limped, and they did not seem badly harmed. The two remaining wolves were at their side, the fur around their jaws matted with black blood.
Fíli skidded to a halt by the base of the rubble, and all but threw himself through the stone to Thorin's side as Aria crashed to the ground beside her brother, sending a spray of rubble in every direction, and Jari joined her less than a moment later. With a little sob, Ari reached for them, and as Aria took his hand, Jari began to stroke his brother's hair, murmuring softly in a trembling voice.
"You're alright, you're alright, we're here. It's alright, sulliglukhul, you're going to be fine, you're going to be fine, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here-"
"Vinca, are you injured?" asked Fíli urgently, and Thorin looked quickly back at the sobbing girl in his arms.
"I, I'm alright," Vinca stammered, her round eyes swimming with tears as they flickered between Thorin, Fíli, and Ari. "I, every, everything hurts but I don't, I don't think I broke, I don't, I don't – Ari, Ari-"
"You're going into shock," said the unusually soft voice of Glóin, as he pulled off his coat and worked his way through the rock to Vinca, wrapping it around her and pulling her gently up out of Thorin's lap. "If you're not there already. Come on, let's get you out of these stones, there's a good lass, I've got you. We've got you know, it's alright now."
As Glóin moved away, Ragan hurried down beside Ari and his siblings, looking over what wounds the young guard had sustained. Fíli's eyes darted between Thorin's neck and leg and shoulder, and the king could see the fear burning in his nephew's gaze. He sent Fíli a wry smile, and then grimaced up at Glóin.
"Where's your damned brother when you need him?"
Those around Thorin stiffened, and he caught the look on Balin's face.
"No..."
Glóin hung his head and Fíli closed his eyes and turned his face away, and Thorin knew. He swallowed, hard, and bowed his head for a moment. He knew that he ought to speak, to say something, but what could he say? He knew the pain of losing a brother, of having your closest kin torn from you in battle, and the idea that Óin was gone was more than he could bear. He wanted to wail, to beat his chest and scream, but he could see Fíli trembling a little, struggling to hold it together, and he could see the agony etched into Glóin's face.
He had to be strong, now. He was the king, after all.
"I'm sorry, Glóin," he said, with as much strength as he could manage. As he did, he reached out with his good arm and squeezed Fíli's hand.
There was a pause, and then Ragan spoke softly. "Ari's wrist and ribs are broken, and badly. I think that's the worst of it, but I wouldn't be surprised if there's more. He needs to get to a healer, now."
Vinca sobbed, crumpling back against Glóin and reaching towards Ari, who offered a pale smile, and his bloodied right hand.
"'s… right," he coughed. "You're… 'live…"
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, but then she looked quickly back at the king. "Thorin – Thorin's hurt, you're hurt!"
"I'll be fine," he said, as smoothly as he could. He tugged at the bandage around his leg, pulling it tighter. Then, he poked his shoulder warily, wincing at the fire it invoked. "Glóin, you know how to reset a dislocated arm – help me."
Glóin nodded, easing Vinca into Dana's waiting arms, but when he reached Thorin's side his eyes bulged. "What the hell did you do?"
"I moved the rock," said Thorin, trying not to growl. "Just pop it back in-"
"You're bleeding, badly!" protested Glóin, and Thorin's nostrils flared.
"I am aware of that. Please, Glóin."
Glóin hesitated. "Did you get shot before or after you wrenched your arm out of place?"
"Before, nigh on half an hour ago," said Balin, before Thorin could speak.
"If try to reset the bone, I could do more harm than good," Glóin worried. "Moving the flesh around such an injury… Óin… Óin could, but I…"
"Leave it," said Fili strongly. "Thorin, you need a healer as much as Ari and Vinca, and Balin too. Take them back to Una's Sanctuary, see to your wounds there."
Thorin shook his head. "The others must go, but I cannot leave. Not now, not in the heat of battle."
"You can, and you will," said Fili sternly, his voice holding the rolling command of thunder. "Thorin, you will not hearten the army if you drive yourself to death! Go and see to your wounds, then return to the battle. I doubt it will be over. Glóin, Dana, Balin – you accompany Thorin, Ari and Vinca back to Una's Gates."
"Jari," whimpered Ari suddenly, but Jari shushed him, pressing a kiss to his brother's forehead.
"Obviously we're coming with you," he murmured. "Aria and I aren't leaving your side; Fíli only didn't say because it's obvious. We're not going to leave you, nadadith, never, ever."
For a moment, Thorin was stunned into silence. When had Fili become so grave, so grown? He shook his head slightly, ignoring the pain that caused.
"The people need a leader, Fíli, they need their king. They need me to rally them."
But Fíli did not back down. His jaw raised slightly, and his shoulders drew back, and he looked like a great king of old – grim, and noble, and fair. "They will rally. They will rally to me."
Thorin felt a lump rise in his throat, and his heart wavered. Fíli was right – the people would rally to him. They adored him, and he was more than capable as a fighter. Of course the people would rally to him, to their lion prince.
But that would put Fíli – Thorin's little Fíli – straight onto the front line.
Biting down his fear, Thorin swallowed, and took a deep breath. Then, slowly, he nodded, and rose onto trembling legs. Glóin pressed a staff into his hands, and Thorin leant against it heavily, limping towards his nephew. Not caring who could see or what was proper, he put his hand against Fíli's cheek, drawing him closer until their foreheads touched.
"Very well. But I will return to this battle, and I expect you to be ready to take rest when I do," he said, sinking his fingers into Fíli's hair. "I love you, Fíli."
Fíli closed his eyes for a moment, a small, pale smile spreading across his face. "I love you too, Thorin. I'll see you soon."
Thorin nodded, drawing back, and Fíli bowed low. Jari lifted his brother gently from the floor, cradling him in his arms, and Dana wound her arm around Vinca's waist, taking most of the young hobbit's weight. There was still the frightened glaze of shock in Vinca's eyes, and Thorin tried to smile at her.
"We'll take the shortest path," he promised. "This way."
His heart growing heavier with every step that he took, he led the small group away from Fíli, watching over his shoulder as his nephew returned down the stairs with Ehren, Bragi and Ragan on his heels.
Please, please let them be alright, he prayed. Let Fíli survive, Mahal, please, let him survive.
The wolves followed Thorin's group, but he was not surprised. If ownership were as simple as it was with dogs, Lani and Kenai would both be described as Aria's, and they rarely left her side at the best of times, let alone in the midst of a battle. They hurried down the corridor, and the wound in his shoulder tugged painfully. Between his silent prayers for mercy, he cursed the arrows of the orcs.
And then he froze.
Arrows.
Elves.
Shit.
"Balin, did you see any elves in the melee, or on the balcony?"
Balin stopped dead in his tracks, and he shook his head slightly. "No, I didn't."
Thorin swore. Tauriel was not the type to run from a fight, and the guest rooms that she and Elbeth had been given were just off this balcony. That they had not been seen did not bode well. He hurried along the corridor, the others jogging and stumbling behind him, until he saw the door he was looking for, and his heart sank. It was ajar.
"Stay here," he ordered Jari, Aria and Dana, motioning for Balin and Glóin to follow him. The wolves raised their hackles, but lingered by Aria's side, and Thorin pushed open the door.
He drew his sword, more out of habit than anything else. If the orcs had been through those rooms, there was no reason for them to linger there like jack-in-the-boxes.
The first thing he saw was the corpse of an orc, strewn across the floor, its eyes open and unseeing, its black blood pooled beneath his throat. Looking up, he saw three more orc bodies, and two empty beds.
But the bedsheets were red, where once they had been white.
And the elves were nowhere to be seen.
Thorin cleared his throat. "Tauriel? Are you here?"
To his utter astonishment, a small, weak voice made reply, and a bloodied hand raised from the other side of the bed. "Here…"
Dread growing in his heart, Thorin staggered around the bed, the clunk of the staff ringing like a death knell in his ears as he went. The moment he saw Tauriel, his heart sank straight to his boots.
She was sitting up against the side of the bed, her head lolling weakly on her shoulder, and as they found Thorin her eyes were a haze of confusion and pain. The bodice of her nightgown was crimson red, and torn in several places, the gashes in the fabric looking decidedly like the blows of a knife. On the side of her neck was a deep, jagged wound, still oozing blood, and her skin was so pale that Thorin felt he could see through it. Short, jagged knife wounds littered her forearms, and there was a great pool of blood beneath her.
Sprawled on the ground beside her, with her head cradled in Tauriel's lap, was Elbeth. Her eyes were closed, and a line of blood ran out of her open mouth, and Thorin was sure that she was dead. Like Tauriel, her bodice was torn, and soaked with blood, and her gown was ripped along the bottom. Black orc blood was smeared over her feet and hands, and by her limp fingers lay a small knife.
Thorin could not believe that either of them had spoken, but Tauriel's bloodied lips cracked open, and she spoke again, her voice weaker than a sickly infant.
"We got… them all…" she said, her eyes closing as her face pinched in pain. "Sur…surprised…"
"We were all surprised," replied Thorin, only a little shocked to feel the lump in his throat. "Come, let's get you out of here, to a healer."
"Dwarven healer?" Tauriel mumbled, a slight smirk tugging at her lips even as her words slurred together. "Doomed…"
"Very funny," drawled Thorin, not missing a beat. "Balin, grab something to wrap around her chest. If we can slow the bleeding…"
"And grant a bit more modesty," said Glóin, the teasing in his words nulled by the heavy sorrow of his tone. "Never seen an elf in a nightgown, before."
Tauriel's eyes opened a crack to find him, but the glare was so weak that it did little to comfort Thorin. She did not protest as Balin hurried over with a long scarf, and as Thorin pulled her forward so that Balin could reach behind, her head fell onto his shoulder.
"Alright, then," he murmured, as Balin tied off the scarf. "Let's-"
"Elbeth," she whispered, looking up beseechingly at the king. "Please…"
With a heavy heart, Thorin glanced down, and put his fingers to Elbeth's neck. Her skin was warm to the touch, and after a moment he felt a small flutter, like the beat of a fading butterfly's wings. She was alive – barely.
"Balin-"
"Here!" said Glóin, thrusting another scarf into the king's hands, and helping raise the elf's torso off of the ground. They bound her chest as quickly as they could, but soon, the scarves too were red.
"We must move," said Thorin, trying to get Tauriel to meet his eyes. "Now. You need healing, we cannot linger here. Come, let's go. Come now. Glóin?"
Glóin sighed heavily, and for a moment Thorin thought he was going to grumble, but then he rolled up his sleeves, and glanced at Thorin and Balin. "Balin, you ought to take Vinca, if you can. Neither of you have the strength to carry a full grown elf, get Dana."
Balin nodded and hurried out, and Glóin stepped forward, studying the elves for a long moment.
"I'm afraid this won't be the most comfortable of journeys for any of us," he said, crouching low and carefully slinging Elbeth over his shoulders, before standing back up carefully.
On any other day, in any other place, Thorin would have found the sight hilarious. The elf was so much taller than Glóin that her fingers and toes brushed the ground on either side of his body, but today there was nothing funny about it.
Tauriel's face pulled into a feeble look of fear. "You'll… hurt… her."
"Naught else to be done, lass," said Glóin sadly. "I can't carry her in my arms, there's too much of her. I'll do my best not to hurt her, now."
Dana and Balin hurried into the room, and Dana's face grew ashen.
"By the Valar," she breathed, glancing at her husband. "Glóin…"
"Can you take Tauriel?" asked Thorin, and Dana nodded hesitantly.
"Of course, I… Forgive me, Tauriel, but this won't be a comfortable journey."
Once again, a tiny trace of a smile tugged at Tauriel's cheek and she nodded a little, but as Dana walked forward and pulled the elf over her shoulders, Tauriel let out a small cry of pain.
"I've got you, pet," Dana murmured, even as she shifted the weight more evenly over her shoulders. "I've got you."
Tauriel did not reply. Worry growing stronger in his heart, Thorin hurried back out of the door, leaning more heavily on the staff by the moment. It was not particularly quick, the pace that they set through the halls. Aria was supporting Vinca, her arm around the hobbit's waist to take her weight, and Vinca's head was nestled against Aria's shoulder. Jari, of course, had his brother cradled in his arms, and Glóin and Dana were carrying the injured elves. With the addition of Thorin's leg and Balin's bound arm, no one was moving fast, but they hurried as much as they were able.
No one spoke, and the tramp of their feet sounded all too loud in Thorin's ears. Also loud was the sound of the staff striking the ground with every step that he took, and then Thorin made the mistake of looking at it.
It was not really a staff at all – it was a spear.
Óin's spear, to be exact.
Thorin felt a lump grow in his throat, and he glanced at Glóin, who closed his eyes and looked away. Steeling himself, Thorin hobbled faster, taking the lead of the group and hurrying down the hall as best he could.
But as he turned a corner to the straightest path to Una's Gates, he saw a glow of flame, and he froze in fury.
"The bastards are burning my city!" he snarled, even as he stormed through an arch to cut off the road. "This way!"
But the next road he tried to take was also wreathed in flames, and he was forced to lead in a different direction, one closer to the Royal Chambers. It was a longer way around, but it should still get them there.
And then, from behind, came the cry he had been dreading. "Thorin, Tauriel will not wake!"
Thorin paused, and took a step back towards her, but then the wolves growled, and their hackles raised, and Aria gasped.
"Orcs! That, that means orcs!"
"Move!" ordered Thorin, ushering the others past him. "Balin, lead, move now! Fast as you can, do not wait for me! Go, go!"
Desperately, the others began a hobbled run, stumbling forward, and Thorin took up the rear. He could hear the orcs behind him now, hear their cackling growing closer. So close, in fact, that he could hear their words.
"This way, this way! I can smell blood in the air!"
Thorin tumbled around a corner after the others, only to find that they had halted. Before he could protest, he realised where they were, what staircase they had come upon, and why Balin was looking at him expectantly.
"Go," he barked, nodding up the stairs to the Royal Chambers and hurrying towards them as fast as he could. There was no time now, no time for Una's Gates, and the Royal Chambers would offer them refuge for a good while at least.
Unless they have any of those giant flash-flames, said an unpleasant thought in his head. The Guards of the Royal Chambers were already helping to carry the elves upstairs, but just as Thorin reached the base of the stairway the orcs rounded the corner behind him, and squawked with glee. There were nigh on a hundred of them – how so many had escaped the dwarven army, Thorin could not tell, but they had, and they charged forward with hungry eyes.
Thorin turned to face them, and the six soldiers outside the healing halls rallied around him and before him, lowering their swords.
"Go, your majesty!" one yelled. "We will hold them, go!"
Thorin paused, gazing at the black-bloodied tip of Óin's spear. His cousin was dead. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of his people were dead.
And he would not flee.
He turned, lowering the spear as the orcs charged forwards –
"Thorin!" screamed a voice, and he looked at the top of the stairs in shock. Dís was hanging out of the doorway, her face white as a ghost and taught with fear. She thrust out her hand frantically towards him, and cried out again. "Nadad, khasamhili!"
Brother, please.
Thorin glanced back at the spear, and then turned, dragging himself up the stairs.
"Retreat!" he ordered the guards. "This way, quickly! Get inside!"
The guards scurried up the stairs after him, and Dís dragged Thorin inside. The guards flooded in afterwards, and the last to reach the top slammed the door behind him, breathing heavily. Only moments later, they heard the pounding of the orc fists against the stone, but Thorin was able to breathe for a moment.
It'll take you a while to break down that door, he thought with grim satisfaction. Aside from Una's Sanctuary, there was no safer place in the city.
Unless, of course, the orcs had the giant flash flames.
And if they did, Thorin had just led a hundred orcs straight to the heart of his family.
I hope you enjoyed that chapter, it was a mammoth one! The next one probably won't be next week as I'm away, but we'll see. Please do let me know what you thought, I really appreciate it!
Until next time, do take care!