Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
15. Friend or Foe?
It was well into mid-morning of the next day before Thorin, Bofur, and Dwalin were able to make their way through camp toward the stairs and the council room they had been in yesterday. To the king, every moment and call of his name had seemed to grate upon already taut nerves, making him a less then pleasant companion to be around once more. Despite the light-hearted attitude they had shared last night, there was an eerie feel of doom hanging about him today, as if something was only marking time to impending disaster, and Thorin was in a race to thwart it. There was only one problem – no one had told him the rules or marked the course.
The missing patrol had not been found despite multiple searches, nor was there any sign of a battle, which had favored Dwalin's assumption that the fools had become lost, until this morning. The dawn had come early, and with it, the discovery of one of their sentries, dead in his position, though from no visible wound. The healers, who had been the latest to delay him with another report, had still not come to an agreement as to what had killed the man, leading to mutters and suspicious looks from some toward the dwarrow and elves.
Heightening the tension was yet more items missing, and this time, they could not be blamed upon carelessness as the camp was moved. It was nothing critical, a shirt left to dry after washing, a loaf of bread one of the cooks turned his back on, or a blanket, but fingers had begun to point and tempers flare. Had Thorin not been feeling the overwhelming need to return to where he had been yesterday, he would not have dared to leave the camp, no matter how much he wished for a moment away from sneering elves, condescending men, and temperamental dwarrow.
He needed to be away before time ran out, or his own short fuse burned to the nub and flared at less forgiving targets then Therin and Fíli, as it had this morning. It had not been anything important, either. Therin had tripped, stumbling and knocking over the soup Fíli had set aside for Kíli, leading the two to snap at one another, an argument that ended abruptly when Thorin had strode between them, threatening to knock heads together if they did not quit. He had also added a scathing remark about Therin being less than helpful as a prince, words he regretted moments later, but by then, his youngest nephew had already stormed off. He really needed to sit down and have a talk with the boy, but it was never the right time. Preoccupied, the king made a curt nod of acknowledgement to the pair of sentries he had ordered to replace the lone watchers at the edge of camp, then cursed as a voice called from behind.
"Thorin!"
Anger scorched as hot as a goblin's whip as he turned, just barely holding back a snarl when he identified the source. Frodo Baggins was headed toward him with a trio of scholars in his wake, one representing each of the other races in the army. At least they did not seem at one another's throats! More importantly, if Frodo deemed it important enough to seek him out, it would probably prove worth the delay, no matter how much it grated upon already raw nerves.
"Yes, Frodo?"
He rarely called the young hobbit 'Master Baggins' anymore, not since Bilbo's death. That would always be his brave, stubborn, infuriating burglar to Thorin, no matter how much he respected the nephew. He had originally insisted upon called the younger Baggins 'Lord', a title Frodo had earned many times over, but had relented when the hobbit retaliated by calling him 'King' at every turn. Now, it was simply 'Frodo' and 'Thorin'. Frodo skidded to a halt, face pale and a piece of parchment clenched tightly in one hand.
"Did someone locate your missing bag?"
The young hobbit blinked stupidly at him for a moment, mind obviously not following the question before he shook his head impatiently.
"It was only writing supplies, anyway, nothing that cannot be replaced. No, we have been able to recover two new passages in the Book of Mazarbul, and I think the second one could be important."
"I thought the rest was destroyed."
Dwalin growled, eyeing the assembled scholars irritably. Thorin swiftly stilled his friend with a hand on his shoulder, knowing that this was a topic that had proven very difficult for the warrior.
"Most of it was, Lord Dwalin, I doubt we'll get anything beyond this."
The man, a thin, older gentleman from Minas Arnor, squinted down at the dwarf from behind heavy lenses, the image of one who spent their life in books and scrolls instead of the harsher realities around them.
"It aided us greatly that the one who recorded most often wrote with a large, neat hand, or even our techniques may have been for naught. T'was not a task easily undertaken in any case, for the tome is fragile and some of the early methods used very crude."
"Must you always make a cache of diamonds out of a few lumps of quartz?" The dwarf, Dagrûn, Erebor's lesser Lore Keeper, huffed, staring sourly up at the elf who had just spoken, Istuinir. "Ori's writing was easier to piece together from partial characters, that's all. Here."
Long brown beard bristling, he took the parchment from Frodo and thrust it at his king. Thorin could not help the slight shake in his hand as he took a breath and dropped his eyes to the paper, reading the words out loud. The actual fragments were printed in a bold, clear hand, while speculations as to the missing letters were in a lighter charcoal.
'[D]urin's Ax [f]ound this day by L- [unintelligible]. Cache op- [unintelligible] by Balin.'
"Bah! Scholars! We already knew they found the ax. It was in the first dispatch to Dain!"
Dwalin bit out, his scowl deepening to hide the deep pain only close friends would detect, but Thorin's eyes were caught by one word in the second entry. Cult.
"Listen."
He cut off further comment, clearing his throat as he began to read the next part of the recovered text.
'[Unintelligible] signs of Death [unintelligible] cult. Took Alfr. [Unintelligible] –eader dwarf known to Balin. It is [unintelligible]. He despairs. [Unintelligible] message to Dai-[n]. Tomorrow Balin will seek guidance [unintelligible].'
"'Known to Balin'…"
Thorin murmured, mind turning over the possibilities even as he looked to his companions for their reactions. Bofur's lips were pressed so tightly together that they were turning white, while Dwalin had closed his eyes, leaning on the head of his war hammer as he seemed to simply listen. The king had known the other dwarf for far too long to be fooled, however. Dwalin was on the verge of an emotional cliff, hanging on as tightly as he could.
To those who did not know the sons of Fundin well, they had always appeared to be a mismatched duo, with little overt care for one another. Dwalin's gruff manner and needling comments could be misinterpreted as impatience at best, or jealousy at worst, for the clever and silver-tongued Balin. The truth, as with so many things, lay hidden beneath the surface. Both were independent, capable dwarrow in their own right, but when together, they naturally played upon each other's strengths with a trust and surety only those closely attuned to one another could reach. Balin was missed, deeply and daily.
The warrior had also confessed late one night, when both of them had too many ales, that doubts still plagued him. Would Balin be alive today had he insisted upon going with? Ori? Óin? It was a natural guilt; one shared by anyone who had survived while others had not had they any conscience to speak of. Knowing that, however, never made it easier when staring into the darkness in the wee hours of the morning, the red of blood all that could be seen when the eyes grew too heavy to keep open any longer. Thorin only prayed that whatever this new information might mean, it did not add more such nights to his shield brother's burdens.
"Does that help? Certainly it should narrow down who could be the leader!"
Frodo was obviously expecting a 'yes' in reply, but it was not one Thorin could give, the king instead rereading the critical sentences silently before saying anything.
"Yes and no, Master Hobbit. Balin was a main envoy in our diplomacy for well over a hundred years, often travelling to other kingdoms. He knew most of the nobles of all seven clans, so that may prove of little use. This passage about him despairing and seeking guidance is more troubling to me."
A cold spear of ice settled in the king's gut as his mind supplied a horrifying sequence of events. Turning back to the others, he held up the sheet in a fisted hand, eyes catching those of the three scholars with an urgent demand.
"Where in the book was this?"
"The entry before Balin's death."
The Lore Keeper met his monarch's eyes, a shared sorrow there as the old dwarf had been the one to mentor the scholar after the retaking of Erebor. A thought also lurked that neither would say aloud in this mixed company; that if Balin were troubled enough by the revelation of the cult leader's identity to seek the reassurance of the ancient ritual of kings out by the Kheled-zaram… What secrets had been hidden in the depths?
"Whoever it is, there's more to it than some noble my brother met once or twice."
Dwalin's rumble only confirmed Thorin's own thoughts, but before either of them could do or say more, the ring of steel upon steel caught their attention. Back the way they had come, a large gathering was forming, the voices of angry men, dwarrow, and elves vying to drown each other out, then came the clash of weapons once more. Thorin shoved the parchment at Frodo as Dwalin swore and took off at a run, the king right behind. Together, the two began to shove through the gathered dwarrow, several curses and raised fists abruptly ending when their identities were noted.
As he burst through the last bunch into the center of the commotion, Thorin inhaled sharply at the sight before him. There were two large groups, one of men and one of elves, facing off with the enraged dwarrow, the glint of weapons held at the ready warning the king what was at stake. Only one, however, had yet dared to strike, and Fíli had blocked the fine filigree knife with one of his falchions, though the elf would not yield. Next to the combatants, glowering at the other two sides, were Therin and a somewhat pale and shaky Kíli.
"HOLD! What is the meaning of this?!"
His bellow echoed through the chamber, taking on a power that it never seemed to contain back at the Lonely Mountain, the others falling into stunned silence as he pushed aside the last dwarf in his way to reach his nephews. Thorin's arrival appeared to convince Fíli's opponent that continuing to cross weapons with the dwarrow prince was unwise as he stepped back, knife disappearing in a flourish of whirling wrist. Several of the dwarrow of Erebor at least had the sense to avoid meeting the eyes of their lord, contrition replacing anger in their posture. Others were not so intelligent, the leader of the men's contingent glaring at Thorin while the elf sniffed, looking down his nose at something foul.
"Answer him!"
Legolas did not so much shoulder his way through as slip, as if able to magically fit his body through any opening. The twin sons of Elrond and Mablung, the Ithilien Ranger, followed, their own scowls of displeasure firmly in place. The elf in front, the same one who had been making trouble this morning over a missing tunic, sneered.
"The fresh lettuce sent from Lothlorien has been burned, and much of the lembas taken! No doubt it will mysteriously appear at the bottom of some crack or crevasse later!"
If anyone else saw the flinch and heard the gasp given by Frodo, they showed no sign, though the king noted Therin took a step closer to his hobbit friend. Thorin pushed that concern aside, knowing Frodo would have support for the memories those words might provoke, though it was Samwise who had told them of the incident originally. The elf, meanwhile, had spun to face his audience, seeking support for his words.
"All know of the dwarven opinion of such things and the dirty tricks to which they will stoop, surely they did this to drive us off!"
"Dwarrow!"
Before the king could stop him, Dwalin had marched up to the offender, who, probably being Sylvan if the russet hair was any clue, was actually only a few inches taller than the big warrior. To Thorin's private amusement, the elf seemed to shrink in a bit, body twitching as if he wished to step back but was blocked by the others at his back.
"W-what?"
"The plural of dwarf is dwarrow, elfling. Must we provide your schooling, as well?"
The ancient plural had not been used in hundreds of years, but many dwarrow saw their relatively new instance upon it as a way to retake their identity from the sometimes derogatory labels of others. 'Dwarves' were vagabonds and wandering smiths, run out of villages and scorned. 'Dwarrow', however, were a mighty people who would return their mansions to their former glory and once again be begged to visit the halls of far-off kings. The elf's spine stiffened in outrage, the ugly twisting of the lips returning.
"There is nothing you could teach to me, dwarf, for I do not wish to learn greed and ill-manners!"
"Aye, I'd say you were a master at those already."
Thorin had to bite his lip to prevent a chuckle at Bofur's dry comeback as Dwalin just rolled his eyes and walked over to the princes with a huff, muttering about stupid idiots and pointy ears under his breath.
"What actually happened here? Fíli? Kíli?"
The blonde stepped forward as Dwalin and Bofur managed to persuade Kíli to take a seated position against a barrel someone hastily rolled over. The golden haired prince, who had finally relaxed his stance, though he did not sheath his swords, answered without ever taking his attention from the elf who had challenged him.
"I was walking with Kíli back from the privy when we smelt smoke from the middle store room." They had been using three of the old stores as storage for provisions and other items, one for each race, thinking that this might provide more protection from thieves. "There was nothing we could do other than put out the fire. The food had already been destroyed."
"Nothing you wished to do, you mean."
"Serion!"
Tauriel, who had joined her prince, rebuked the elf sharply even as Legolas moved to confront the offender with his face only inches away. From Thorin's position, he could see Serion automatically begin to back away from the fierce light blue eyes only to freeze, forcing himself to hold in place. He could hear a murmur begin behind him as the dwarrow took note of the amazing sight of an elf defending a dwarf.
"Challenge the word of one of the Princes of Erebor and you also challenge me! Shall we continue this with steel, Serion?"
As the other elf blanched, the king's eyebrows shot up in surprise and he heard a low whistle from Bofur, though he noted that his nephews did not seem all that shocked. In fact, Kíli had a small smile playing about his lips, as if vastly amused by the whole thing. Serion, for his part, did not verbally answer, though he did step back and give a short, reluctant bow in the direction of the royal dwarrow before melting back behind his own kind. One group having been somewhat cowed, the king turned his attention upon the men.
"And you? What call do men have to blame dwarrow?"
A man, taller than most, and with odd steel-colored eyes and hair the black of an approaching storm, shouldered his way to the front, looking first to Mablung before answering the dwarf king.
"I am Lurdo, of Lossernach. One of our ale barrels is missing, and several more of water and ale stove in, and some of our cram and bread destroyed by the resulting flood. I was the first to make the door when we heard the sound of wood breaking, and I swear that I saw a short figure hide behind the stack when I did so. It could only have been a dwarf!"
"And did you find this dwarf afterwards? Or perhaps you would blame a hobbit?" Kíli asked sharply, forcing himself to his feet.
An ugly, restless energy took over most of the gathered warriors as whispers repeated the words the prince had spoken from one to another as a single vibration upon the web of a vast, deadly spider. Frodo Baggins was held in high esteem by almost all the free peoples of Middle Earth; to suggest his involvement in such a petty thing…
Thorin's teeth bared in a predatory grin as he realized what Kíli was trying to accomplish with such dangerous words. Very clever, to play upon what would unite instead of divide. It was only too bad that the man was quick to see the trap despite his anger and outrage. Still, it gave Thorin an inkling of an idea even as Lurdo's chin came up, proud and defiant, as he answered his accuser.
"Never would I suggest such a thing of Lord Frodo, Prince Kíli. You twist my words to your own end. Just because we did not find the dwarf does not mean none was there!"
"So you blame a dwarf you cannot find, which may well be a figment of the ale you have drunk!"
Therin growled, tone remarkably similar to his uncle's in a foul mood, hand resting provocatively upon his ax.
"There is only one door to that room, Lurdo." Mablung pointed out sharply before Thorin could say anything. "If a dwarf was in there as you claim, where did he go?"
The challenged man scowled, tensing up defensively.
"How should I know? Everyone knows they come from stone, captain, maybe they can hide in it, too! Greedy, secretive sorts, not wanting us here even when we come to aid 'em! Probably had some help from them superior pointy ears over there, too good to share provisions with us when we asked!"
That did it. The babble of accusations and insults overrode anything Thorin might have said, even should the elves and men respect his rule. Still he was about to try when the ring of steel being unsheathed rang through the room, three sides surging forward on the verge of all-out war. Thorin exchanged a grim glance with Dwalin, both preparing to put themselves between any attacker and the three princes, when a single voice rang out through the tumult.
"I have seen this before, men, elves and dwarrow upon the verge of spilling the blood of those who should be allies!" Kili's hand was tight upon his staff as blazing brown eyes caught all around him with accusation. "Have we learned nothing from the past? Are we so petty that now the stone would run red over bread and ale instead of silver and gold?"
"Do you not see that you do the work of the enemy for him?"
Fíli added, stepping to his brother's side to present a united front, Therin half a second behind. Thorin felt pride well up even as fear played at his nerves, sweat trickling down his brow as he tried to watch all sides at once, alert to any threat against his nephews. The king was more than willing to allow them to attempt to defuse the situation, as the results would not be good for anyone if he were required to step in. Besides, it was excellent practice, a sincerity oozing from every word of the young princes that Thorin knew he could never match. He was too practiced at the art of politics now, and too bitter from past events.
"It would be easy to dress a goblin in scavenged garb. If it kept to the shadows, who could say it would not easily be mistaken for a dwarf? Or they might have sent one of the cult!"
Therin added, making Thorin snort at the image that came to mind of one of the creatures drowning in one of Dwalin's shirts. The king decided to step in as many of the crowd once more began muttering among themselves.
"The points made by my nephews are valid, though we cannot know for certain without the culprit to hand. Instead, I ask you this, will you do as the cult wishes, arguing amongst ourselves? Or will you defy the darkness that seeks to divide us and trust in my word that all possible will be done to protect our supplies, starting with the consolidation of everything brought for the benefit of all? Any who wishes to use supplies may request whatever they prefer, but all food will be held in common for the army. If one must face short rations, we all will."
"And how do we know that whoever is in charge of this won't short the race they don't like?"
The call came from among the dwarrow, probably to prevent renewed accusations from the men and elves. Thorin's mind raced to come up with an acceptable answer when he realized Frodo had come to stand nearby, that the seed of idea he had had before blossomed full grown. Reaching back, the king steered the hobbit forward with a large hand on his shoulder.
"All of you know of Lord Frodo and his sacrifices for Middle Earth! Could you think of a more impartial and trustworthy being? Each race will then assign one of their number to serve as his assistants." Thorin took in the startled visage of the hobbit and hastened to add, "That is, if he would consent to take up this thankless task?"
Frodo nailed him with a reproving roll of the eyes that clearly said, 'little late with that question, aren't you? and 'you will owe me for this!'. Thorin simply smirked, proud of himself for that rather brilliant idea. In a further burst of inspiration, he began to search for one particular dwarf only to find the slightly pudgy figure already making his way to the front, pushed by his father's cousin.
"Yes, I will do this."
The hobbit finally called out, both hands raised to quell the chatter of people pressing close. Thorin grabbed the young dwarf's arm, giving a nod of thanks to Bifur before herding his charge over to Frodo.
"Here is your assistant from the dwarrow!"
The king turned away before anyone else could address him, collecting Bofur and Dwalin with a tilt of the head back toward the stairs. His triumph was already draining away to a renewed anxiety, a need, really, to return to the council room. He could not afford to get pulled into the minutia of setting up the system he had just so blithely ordered. Before the three older dwarrow were out of earshot, they all heard the young one the king had just pushed to the fore introducing himself to the rather overwhelmed Frodo Baggins.
"Tombur, son of Bombur, at your service, Master Baggins."