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.

17. Hidden Passages

Thorin could hear the restless shifting of the two other dwarrow with him as the wall cracked, revealing the long hidden door to one of Durin's inner chambers. The king could not immediately look, however, as he doubled over coughing from the stale, dead air coming from the ancient hiding place. Even as he felt Dwalin's large hands steadying him, the ghost of other, smaller hands were felt there, as well.

Second Age, 699

Tears sprung to Blain's eyes as he gasped, choking a bit on the dust, and Frey's always supporting arm about his waist. He took a hesitant step forward, knowing what he would see before he even thrust the torch in to light up the ancient space.

To the right was a forge, its furnace cold now for almost seven hundred years, yet with a ready supply of coal still to hand, bellows waiting, as if someone had just stepped out. Right in front of him was the main anvil, supported upon a seven sided pillar of bedrock carved with the history of their race, so beautiful and intricate that Frey broke away to kneel before it, hands gently caressing the different scenes. The tools were carefully racked nearby, waiting along with a large pile of bars of various shapes, sizes and metals, ready to be worked. Against the back wall were several stone basins with a lever just above, undoubtedly to bring fresh snow-melt from the peak for slacking. To complete the workshop, there was a low table to the left side with a wood chest full of small drawers, spools of drawn silver, gold, copper, and mithril wire, and yet more tools. It was a master's set up, one Blain had only dreamed of having, and not just for blacksmithing, but for white smithing and fine work, as well.

The dwarf could not help taking a moment to run work-scarred hands over the wood, leather, and metal of the tools, at once as familiar and welcome to him as an old friend whose absence he had not known until now. He knew that the heavy hammer needed its head checked before striking, as his last apprentice had been a ham-handed idiot with such things, though a genius with wire and gems. If he closed his eyes, he could reach out unerringly and put hand to any item he wanted, the contents of each drawer already known to the last ruby.

It was an eerie sensation, trying to separate what he, Blain, knew from this sudden invasion of feelings and memories not his own. Shudders wracked his body as his mind rebelled, attempting to thrust away the strange, new intrusion, cold merely the first physical manifestation of the shock. He almost bolted, then, heedless of Frey's tearful, worried voice and loving hands, as he came to realize with a moment of stunning clarity that these memories were not as new as he had first believed.

How many times had he known how to change a design or alter the way he struck the metal, though none had shown him?

Thorin shuddered, cold settling in his stomach as he murmured to himself the contradiction that he had long refused to face.

"How did I know of what was coming that day, that it was a dragon, when no living dwarrow had ever seen one?"

"What? Thorin-"

It was so much buzz in his ears, unacknowledged, as Blain's memories pulled him back in.

Somehow, a part of him had always known, always been Durin, with his knowledge and skills. It had simply been locked away, coming to him only in dreams and hunches that he had learned to trust. Too many times as a young apprentice, he had been scoffed at for trying such things, only to have them work better than the accepted, 'traditional', techniques.

For one moment, Blain, who would be Durin II, could let out his weary sigh, the tension draining, as he reveled in the feel of finding his place and coming home.

To Thorin's disgust, the sight that met his eyes was vastly different than that which had greeted his ancestor long ago. The anvil was still there, sitting in the middle of the room, tools racked nearby, but it was clear that it was only because someone could not be bothered to move them elsewhere. Instead, Durin VI had filled the space with a private treasure horde, chest after chest stacked against the walls, hiding the furnace, bellows and slacking tanks. Undoubtedly, they were filled to the brim with different precious metals and gemstones, awaiting their greedy master's return. To the left, the work bench had been removed, racks for weapons replacing it, filled with magnificent examples of every type and style known at the time Khazad-dûm was abandoned. At any other time, Thorin would have been fascinated. Now, however, the sight served only to curdle his stomach, every part of him rejecting what it implied. Durin VI had been no creator, but a hoarder instead, as bad as any dragon!

Dwalin, of course, was immediately past his king and running hands over various weapons, muttering comments to himself as he went. Thorin watched, amused, as the warrior lingered over several swords, some clearly meant for men or elves, before grunting as he struggled to lift an immense mace, its head larger than his.

"A weapon of the skin changers, Beorn's kin."

The king commented quietly, drawing Bofur over to examine Dwalin's find with a low whistle. The councilor, however, was quickly diverted by something half-hidden behind the others, hand drawing out a tall bent steel shaft. Awed, the hatted dwarf ran his hands over the limbs before holding it out for the other two to inspect.

"This bow is made of metal! I've not heard of such!"

Thorin smiled, accepting the weight in his hand as a scene out of legend played in his mind.

Second Age, 3434

The prince of men ran his hand along the bow, eyes gleaming in wonder and covetousness as he flipped the weapon upright, giving the string an experimental pull. Grunting, he strained to draw it to its full, then slowly relaxed, nodding at the shorter, stockier dwarf king.

"'Tis a heavy pull, but some of my archers will manage. How do you get the steel to bend?"

Durin IV snorted at the idea that he would so freely give away such a secret even if he had known it himself, blue eyes running up and down the overly tall form of the lad, though he was not so lanky as his giant of a father. This was the first time he had met with the elder of Elendil's boys, and so far he was not that impressed. The boy was just too cocky!

"The limbs are hollow. We've made two hundred and fifty so far, but one hundred of those are already pledged to Gil-Galad and Elrond, with equal that made smaller for my own troops. You can have the other fifty if you think you've men enough able to draw them. That thing will punch an arrow through anything except mithril, even chain armor."

If the prince was skeptical of that claim, he did not show it, merely raising an eyebrow before returning to caressing the bow with a velvet touch usually reserved for a lover's skin.

"I will take them, gladly, and any more you can make of a size for men between now and the end of battle."

Durin pursed his lips, considering what the other could mean by that even as he cursed the crick in his neck from staring up so far. Truthfully, the bows were not easy to make, with one failure for every two successfully made, and took the combined efforts of a dwarrow and an elven smith for each, but they seemed to be worth it. The prince, as if suddenly aware of the scrutiny, flushed as he sank down onto the low bench nearby, face saddening.

"You and I both know 'tis likely to be a long siege, even after we breach the gates of that cursed land. I think we will have need of your bows and any other weapons your smiths may forge ere it is through."

Durin gave a short, tight nod, glad to hear that Isildur, at least, had a more realistic grasp of what they faced then most of the men, including Elendil. Sauron was too clever to go down at the mere appearance of a vast army at his gate, no matter what platitudes the king of men fed to his balky councilors!

"You may keep that one, since I doubt I'll get you out of this room without it!"

Thorin's lips twisted in sadness at the memory, knowing too well what Isildur's fate would be, even as he extended the bow back to Dwalin.

"Most of these were lost in the battles of Dagorlad and on the slopes of Mount Doom. This was the smaller of two sizes, meant for dwarrow archers. Unfortunately, the secrets of their forging were lost with the smiths of elves and dwarrow who created them, Durin never knew it."

"Not all these weapons are for dwarrow, nor so well made. Look at these!"

Dwalin waved a dismissive hand at some tall pikes leaning against the wall, disgust clear. Even from where Thorin stood several paces away, he could see the rough forging of the iron heads, flaws that could prove fatal in battle. The quality ranged from barely acceptable to downright abysmal, making the king wonder what could have possessed his ancestor to give such junk pride of place with some of the legendary weapons of ages past.

Thorin began to turn away, but paused as he caught movement among the pikes out of the corner of his eye. As if long balanced upon the cusp of falling, the shoddy things began to slide down the wall, landing in a tangled heap with an almighty clatter that signaled the breaking of at least one head. Behind him, a guard darted into the room, weapon at the ready even as his mouth gaped open at the scene before him. Dwalin gave the lad a firm nod of satisfaction at the response time, waving him off, though Thorin barely gave them a glance. His attention had been firmly hooked by the sight of a familiar weapon resting forgotten in the small horizontal wall rack that had been hidden by the pikes.

Carefully, the dark-haired dwarf lifted down the sword, grimacing as the ancient leather of the finely tooled scabbard cracked and crumbled at his touch, leaving the sword bare to sight. The blade of mithril gleamed in his hand, as if newly oiled and polished, edge proving razor sharp when Thorin laid a scrap of leather across it as a test. Beside him, one of his companions gave a low whistle as they crowded around their king to see the weapon for themselves.

"Now, that's more like it." Dwalin smiled, dark eyes gleaming as bright as the blade. "That thing would probably cut a piece of parchment in half without any pressure."

Thorin nodded, easily recalling the common test used to prove blade quality to skeptical, and occasionally dishonest, customers. Its veracity was accepted in most towns throughout Middle Earth, lending at least some protection to the indigent smith and blade-sharpener so that they were not cheated out of yet more promised commission payment.

It was a simple enough test, the parchment held up so that the blade could be applied to the edge. With heavier weapons and dull small knives, the parchment would crumple and rip more than cut, but blades that were of the highest quality and sharpness could cut cleanly through without a problem. This one, as Dwalin had noted, would probably not even need any pressure applied to do so, a test both Sting and Orcrist had also passed.

Tossing the hilt from hand to hand restlessly, Thorin marveled at the exquisite balance and lightness of the weapon. It was clearly long enough that most would need to use it two-handed were it made of steel, but with the mithril… The king passed it to his shield brother, who almost flung it across the room, having certainly been braced for a much heavier weight. Instead, Dwalin easily twirled it as Bofur ducked, backing away as the blade slashed perilously close to the flaps of his beloved hat. At a nod, the councilor threw another scrap of leather into the air, all three dwarrow grinning with satisfaction as the blade passed cleanly through.

"'Tis lighter even than that letter opener of Bilbo's;" Dwalin told him, "Blades of a quality with Orcrist, if not a shade better."

"Worth a bloody king's treasury, too." Bofur added, raising an eyebrow at the king as he deemed it safe to his headgear to approach them once more. "Didn't think I'd live to see the day that you voluntarily gave up Orcrist, though, Thorin. After all, you resurrected with the bloody thing!"

"It's not for me." The king told him, ignoring the comment about his fondness for a certain ancient elvish blade. "Dwalin, when we get back to camp, see if you can find a new scabbard for it, I want-"

"ATTACK!"

The breathless shout preceded the young dwarf into the room, two others on his heels. All three dwarf lords spun around, hands tightening on weapons hilts though there was no visible danger.

"Where?"

Thorin demanded harshly.

"C-camp!"

The king did not bother to wait for further explanations, turning away to begin tossing aside several chests from the far right wall near the furnace.

"Thorin! What are ya doin'? We need to go!"

Dwalin's voice buzzed urgently in his ear, but the king brushed it off, pulling his arm from the warrior's grasp.

"No! There is another way!"

At that, his friend thankfully ceased argument, he and Bofur lending their weight to shift the last of the wood chests, ignoring the spill of gold and mithril coins as its top split open upon impact. Thorin put a shaky hand to the wall, fingers once more instinctively seeking out the proper catches to release yet another concealed door. Inside was a narrow stair full of cobwebs and dust, leading both up and down.

"Bless me!" Bofur spat out, eyes wide as he thrust a torch in to light up the area. "Where does that go?"

"Down!"

Dwalin snapped impatiently, a hearty shove propelling the other dwarf forward just seconds before Thorin's own temper would have snapped.

"Market!"

Thorin added, not bothering to explain the new knowledge suddenly awakened within him. This had been the private stair used by the later Durins to access the forge from the new royal apartments on the sixth level, but the shorter downward stair also created a discrete entrance to the busy market hub in the back of Blain's old shop. If the enemy had already cut off the stairwell, the smartest strategic move, this was their best chance of joining the battle without having to wade through their foes first.

As the three dwarrow approached the lower level, they could clearly hear the ring of weapons even through the muffling stone, making Thorin redouble his pace. Above them, several guards were having a hard time keeping up without tumbling down the stairs, but Thorin was not inclined to wait for them. Instead, he and Dwalin hit the bottom door at the same instant, a growl of frustration erupting from both throats when the mechanism seemed to grind and jam.

"One more time!" Dwalin shouted, and Thorin braced himself, waiting for the count. "Three, two, one-"

With a clatter from the other side, whatever had been blocking the door released, sending the two dwarrow stumbling right into the middle of a dozen or more goblins. The axes of the warmaster glinted as Dwalin bellowed in rage, wading into the enemy before his king could even straighten up. Thorin was right behind him, however, shouldering aside one of the creatures before swiping through another with the mithril blade he still held. It slid through boiled leather, flesh, bone, and rough metal armor with ease, leaving Thorin with a moment free to unsheathe Orcrist with his other hand.

In less than a minute, the small shop they had come out of the stairwell in was awash with black blood and corpses as the king, the warrior, the councilor, and their handful of guards made short work of their foes. Goblins had never been the most dangerous creatures upon Middle Earth, relying more upon their overwhelming numbers and unconcern if another fell then any intelligence or great skill, so they were quickly cut down by the veteran warriors they faced. This allowed the king's party a moment to collect themselves and assess the situation they had barreled into, the young guard who had warned them of the battle the first to speak now.

"Sire, you should not-"

Thorin cut the dwarf off before he could complete the suggestion, not interested in leaving others to fight a battle he had begun. His concern was focused elsewhere. If the fighting was already this far into the camp-

"You stay with us, all of you. Our priority is to find Prince Kíli, then-"

The floor beneath them shook, sending dwarrow scrambling to keep their balance. An elf came flying in the doorway to land atop the pile of slain foes with a wince before leaping fluidly back to his feet and back out into the fight. Bofur, the closest of them, leaned out the door after the departed elf, jerking his head back in with a wince as a massive hand swiped at him.

"Cave troll!"

"Du Bekar!"

Thorin's yell led them out into the melee, where the giant brute was swinging wildly with an enormous hammer. The king dodged, barely avoiding a flying body as he aimed for the legs. Not even as intelligent as their mountain cousins, the huge cave trolls were little more than killing machines, especially when injured or cornered. Unfortunately for the dwarrow and their allies, this one was both.

Thorin swung both weapons at the back of the troll's leg, grimacing at the power needed to get through the thing's hide, even with the razor sharp blades he wielded. It was akin to hacking into a boulder! The creature at least gave him the satisfaction of bellowing in pain for his trouble, one hand alternately swatting and fishing for the one who would be so bold. It forced Thorin to pull back even as Dwalin scored a hit on the other leg. If they could hamstring the beast, bring it down, it would be easier to deal with.

Several arrows bouncing off the troll's face gave it a new distraction, allowing the king to step in again, black blood spurting this time as he succeeded in slicing through its hide. The creature tumbled backwards, knocking several other fighters from their feet as the stone shook again. Dwarrow and elves mobbed the fallen figure, leaving the king free to turn away, looking for the heaviest fighting. If their foe recognized his nephews, they would most likely be targets.

Movement from the corner of his eye and a bellow of rage made the king twist to defend himself only to pull his blow when he saw the silvery-grey fabric tied around the other dwarf's upper arm. The advancing fighter flung a dagger past his monarch to lodge in the throat of another, finding the unprotected area between the breast plate and helm. Nast gave his king a nod, pulling the knife free.

"There are cult among the dark creatures, be careful." Nori's son warned his king solemnly as the fighting weaved around them for a precious moment. "The bands were a good idea."

Fearing a repeat of the Death Warrior's favorite tactic, sneaking one of their own close to a target in the confusion of battle, Thorin and the other army leaders had come up with a solution. Every warrior was given a strip of cloth made in Lothlorien, and rarely seen outside that realm, to tie about their upper arm if an attack began, distinguishing friend from foe. It was far from fool-proof, but so long as the cult did not know of it until the first engagement, it would work.

"Kíli?"

Thorin demanded, kicking the dead dwarf Nast had just slain aside. The younger dwarf nodded, acknowledging his monarch's concern for the most vulnerable of his sister's children.

"They were trying to get him to the stair, that way."

That was all Thorin needed, plunging through the mass of bodies. He shoved aside more than he killed, working toward the stairs with single-minded purpose, dread growing in his belly. All of the attackers, with the exception of the one dwarf Nast had killed, were Mordor's creatures. He saw orcs and Uruk-hai, goblins crawling down the walls and up from the wells, another cave troll and two hill trolls, even a giant wolf, but no dwarrow or men. Where were the rest of the cult's warriors and what were they up to?

"Thorin! To the right!"

Head jerking around at Dwalin's shout, he saw the mass of distorted, ugly creatures literally crawling over the bodies of their dead to reach their intended target. The dwarrow guards had formed a wedge in front of the three lords and now began pushing through in the direction the armsmaster had indicated. All their strength, however, was no match for the sheer number opposing them, the eight dwarrow were eventually forced to stop and press themselves into a rough circle of defense.

For several unending minutes, the king's party was fighting hard, pressed upon all sides as their entire concentration narrowed to taking down the next foe before them. There was nowhere to move, the group lifting higher as they were forced to stand on the fallen to battle the still living. It made for treacherous footing, but Thorin would not give up or give way, both swords now thick with the stinking, sticky black blood of the enemy.

A body went down next to him, but Thorin could spare nothing more than a fleeting hope that Bofur had merely tripped and not been wounded. It left the king open on the right, however, and he spun, sending an orc head flying as two more snarled at him, clawing their way toward him. There were simply too many, the dwarf bracing himself even as he sought some escape or glimpse of hope. At that moment, a sudden indignant squeal from several Uruk-hai attracted Thorin's attention. To his shock, several lithe figures were not only killing the dark attackers, but using their heads as a pathway to the beleaguered king!

"There he goes again!" Dwalin shouted, having marked a familiar white-blonde figure, kicking a goblin who had the gall to try to wrest Keeper from him. "Bloody elf!"

Just now, Thorin could not imagine a better sight than the elven prince and his compatriots, but that momentary distraction almost cost him dearly. A blade flashed in the corner of his eye and he spun, literally disarming an opponent even as Legolas dropped nearby and beheaded its partner.

"This way!"

Legolas directed the call to those behind him even as he nodded to the king, Thorin giving a grim smile in appreciation as he realized what the elves had done. Each had dropped into a knot of foes in a line, killing all around them to open a path to a barricaded half-circle of barrels. Thorin narrowed his eyes, using the lull to assess the situation even as he kicked another goblin who had slipped under the prince's guard.

From atop the small mound of the fallen that he stood upon, he could see that the main concourse was still flooded with fighting figures. Two trolls and the giant wolf had taken positions at the stairs to cut off any aid coming from the part of the army still camped on the first level as well as barring their escape. The path back to the store and its hidden stair was equally impossible, though one of the team on the upper level must have led more of the patrols working up there down it as dwarrow and men were flooding out of the doorway.

"No! Back behind your barrier!" His deep call stopped the first dwarf who had made to climb over the protecting barrels. "We hold here!"

"Agreed!"

Legolas called, scrambling to cover the dwarf king as he marched toward the barrier himself through the shield wall of elves. He waved his group forward, noting grimly that only six others responded instead of seven, and one of those was being supported by a slightly bloody Bofur. The goblins were pressing close again as he slid down the pile of orcs that had been giving him the vantage point. One of the elves went down, and Dwalin grabbed her, shoving her toward Legolas as the dwarf took her place.

An arrow whipped past the king, skewering another dwarf without an armband who had tried to join their band. So, the cult were here, just allowing their allies to do the bulk of the fighting once again. For dwarrow who prided themselves upon being warriors, they were doing an exceptional job of showcasing their cowardice instead. Another arrow followed the first, ruffling the king's hair as it went by, and he grinned nastily. Someone had obviously ensured that Kíli had a bow and a good place to stand!

Quickly and expertly, the elves and Dwalin collapsed in the safe corridor behind him as Thorin scrambled over the last barrel comprising the makeshift protective barrier. The dwarrow guardsmen stepped up to the perimeter as the last of the elves lightly vaulted into the dubious safety area, taking over the fighting to allow their allies to catch their breath.

"We hold! Here!"

The king repeated, aiding Kíli down as an elven archer took his perch with a fresh quiver of arrows. He was heartened as Fíli, Therin, and Lis all greeted him, Gimli already back upon the battle line with his elven friend, roaring the ancient cry of the dwarrow as he sent another head flying. Family accounted for, Thorin turned back to his pocket of fighters, relieved that they had a sturdy rock wall to their backs, at least.

"Relief is coming!"

Even as he sounded that hopeful note, however, two of the defenders in the middle of the barrier went down, goblins eagerly flooding the gap. Thorin took one swipe with Orcrist, then spun, thrusting the mithril blade into Kili's hands.

"Here!"

Fíli had already taken a position upon Kili's other side, the three senior members of Durin's Line standing together with their weakest fighter, Kíli, in the protected middle position. For Thorin, it was almost eerie, as the three had once stood in the same manner upon another field far to the north, facing the same foe, but with the two younger dwarrow insisting upon taking the guard positions to protect him, their king. All three had fallen then, but Thorin vowed to himself that it would not repeat this day.

Kíli stumbled, momentarily thrown off by the light weight or keen edge of the new blade, and Thorin was forced to swing Orcrist around sloppily, deflecting a large Uruk-hai into Fíli's capable hands as he covered the brunette prince. Inwardly, Thorin cursed the circumstances, as picking up an unfamiliar weapon in the midst of battle was difficult for the most skilled fighter, let alone one who had not been able to practice for nigh on fourteen years. The prince, however, recovered quickly, as he had been drilled since he was only ten to use whatever came to hand and adjust, a lesson not easily forgotten by one who had grown up in exile. Within moments, his nephew had returned to the fight, showing the grace and agility he had not been able to display with heavier weapons since his injury.

Good thing, too, as the king gasped, a line of fire drawing over his ribs where an opponent took advantage of his distraction to sneak through his guard. It was only in that moment that Thorin realized he had neglected the habit of a lifetime, leaving camp with no more armor then the metal plated leather over-tunic, a stupid, and critical, lapse. He could feel the blood beginning to run down his side as he kicked the orc in the shin, then sliced its throat, gritting his teeth against the pain and further tearing of the skin. Wandering around a war zone without armor on, where had his head been? Was he trying to get himself killed? Again?

When no other opponents presented themselves, he allowed a moment to feel and accept the pain, though he refrained from putting a hand to his wound lest he give away a weakness to the enemy. Shouts rang out more than the clash of metal and he looked around to see the enemy fleeing the field, goblins scrambling straight down the wells they had come from while the last of the orcs and other creatures had bulled their way through to the stairs. Hopefully, more of his army would be lying in wait for them upon the first level. Around the once orderly camp, the dead lay in piles, too many to count, but Thorin saw many more pools of blood glinting black than red.

Still, the king could not prevent the shaking that took him as his stomach threatened to rebel, especially when several of his companions could not deny their own such weakness. Fíli was white faced and sweating, swallowing convulsively even as he held his younger brother, supporting Kili's exhausted body as the brunette heaved, tears streaming down a too-pale face. Senata, whom Thorin did not even remember seeing earlier, was already at their sides, crushing herbs in her mortar and pestle. Therin and Lis were slumped next to one another on one of the supply crates, the dwarrowdam in a two-fold hug from her husband and twin as she cried, Legolas standing a silent guard over them. A presence at his side and hesitant touch upon his shoulder made the king instinctively begin to turn with sword to hand before he realized it was Frodo Baggins.

"Fíli is worried that you are wounded."

Thorin grimaced, sparing a glance for his blonde nephew, whose haunted eyes connected with his over his brother's head, the panic barely held at bay. He gave the lad a reassuring nod, but could tell that it did little to calm already taut nerves.

"A flesh wound only, hardly life threatening." He told the hobbit, wearily scooping up a scrap of cloth to wipe down Orcrist so he could sheath it. "What happened here?"

"They came from nowhere. We were in the midst of moving the supplies, cataloging them, and then-"

Frodo gestured around, a glint of mithril showing through one tear in his sleeve. Good, at least one of them had the sense to keep armor on even when they were supposedly in a safe camp. Thorin could not hide the bitterness of that thought. This place was secure, untouchable. That was what they had all told themselves, even when the sentry was found dead this morning. He should have known better, should never have brought his people to a place where slaughter was their only reward!

"Thorin!"

The shout brought him around to see Bofur approaching with his son, Kifir, and nephew, Tombur, trailing behind. The councilor looked unscathed except for a small cut on his forehead which streaked blood down the side of his face, but his young kin were showing signs of graver injuries. Tombur limped on one leg while the opposite arm was already in a dirty sling, and Kifir was showing the beginnings of what would be a lovely black eye, the lids already swelling closed. It was the devastation on their faces, however, that made Thorin's gut clench in fear.

"W-who?"

He could barely force the question past numb lips, though he thought he already knew the answer. He had not seen Nast since the lad saved his life in the middle of the fighting.

"Bifur."