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.

34. Race for Safety

No sooner had Dwalin's disgusted voice rung out then the howls and shrieks of their enemies picked up in volume behind them. Goblins and orcs flooded the tunnel, only the arrows of the elves keeping them back for now. Taking in the situation, the dark creatures hooted and stomped their feet in glee, the commotion attracting more of them. They knew that their prey was cornered, jostling to push forward even as another fell to an arrow in the forehead.

Soon enough, the sheer weight of numbers would turn against the small company, even in this narrow corridor, and they would fall. The one who had once been Frérin would delight in his triumph over them as he claimed the ancient city as his own. It was the thought of that face, twisted with hate and wild glee in the torment of one he should have cherished, which broke through the last of Thorin's control. The king grit his teeth, vowing to die himself before he allowed those foul creatures to take any more of his kin from him.

His hands tightened on the hilt of his sword as he prepared to charge the foul creatures, fully willing to sacrifice his life if it allowed Dwalin and the others to flee with Kili. Thorin's muscles were tensed to move when he stopped short, something nagging incessantly at him. Glancing around one more time, his sharp eyes picked out an ancient symbol subtly worked into the rock, indistinguishable from the surrounding stone for all but a dwarf and a thrill of hope made his nerves tingle.

"Move!"

Thorin ordered curtly, shouldering his way to the front, where a solid wall gleamed with threads of silver in the torchlight. Yes, this was exactly as he had thought. Now, all he had to do was find the proper spots before their foes crushed the other defenders against the unyielding barrier. No pressure. Even as he reached for the stone, questions from the others ringing in his ears as loudly as the clang of steel, the memories broke through, no longer held at bay by desperation and stubborn willpower.

Second Age, 1697

Durin III stalked carefully through the slumped forms of the elves and dwarrow, peering into dirty, pain-twisted faces as he searched. As time stretched, his stomach knotted more and more. Where was that fool of an elf, anyway? He must be here! Finally, a quiet word to one of the more alert elves who was not being hovered over by a healer produced a nod toward the far side of the small hall. The king wasted no time in stomping over there, but the tall figure he found slumped wearily against the wall was not that of his missing elven friend.

The stranger was dark haired, and lithe, with the strong build of a warrior and the grace inherent in any of the Noldor Eldar. As if aware of the scrutiny, the elf glanced up, dark eyes assessing his approaching guest as one eyebrow raised, giving him an oddly temperamental look. He made no move to rise, either, though from the blood and dents littering the armor he had already removed, Durin could forgive that. Even the linen tunic he wore underneath looked to be ready for the rag bin. This must be the one Gil-Galad had sent to lead aid to Eregion when it came under attack.

"Where is Celebrimbor?"

Durin choose not to mince words with this one, bluntly demanding as he stood over him, hands on armored hips. The elf shook his head, a hint of anger shining deep in the dark eyes. So this one, at least, had the spirit still to rail against their fate. Good. They would need that anger if they were to survive. Their foe knew them too well.

"Captured or fallen, I know not which, Durin King. Ost-in-Edhil is in ruins, the realm lost. Only we few survive, and that only because of your warriors holding a secure retreat through the mountains."

The king exhaled hard, the news a body blow to all who valued freedom in Middle Earth. They should have known never to trust that stranger and his seemingly overly generous offers of spell weaving and forging! Around his neck, the ring seemed to weigh on him, pulling at the chain upon which it hung, and Durin bowed his head, knowing what that must mean. Celebrimbor must have been captured and tortured into revealing the hiding places of the Rings of Power by Morgoth's most powerful lieutenant, showing that one's true nature in all its cruelty.

When it had been realized that their benefactor was, in fact, Sauron, Celebrimbor, Durin, and Galadriel had wasted no time in taking steps. The three, which Celebrimbor had forged with only the assistance of the dwarf king, had been sent away into hiding. The seven and the nine, made with Sauron's aid and not actually as powerful as the three, had presented a more difficult conundrum. They could be influenced too easily by Sauron's dark will, and through that, their bearers. At least, that had been the theory. Reality had been more interesting.

Six of the seven and all of the nine had been borne by elves, several of them easily captured by the dark forces in the first weeks of the war. Others had fallen to him in the years since, until he had them all now. Word had come that the nine had been presented to the kings of men, who easily fell to Sauron's dark purposes. The other six of the seven had been given to the other dwarrow kings, though they had not proven as weak-willed as the men. They had pledged not to side with either army, staying neutral by selling to both to enrich themselves. Durin had tried to warn his fellow kings, but his messages had been dismissed as one too close to the elves, and jealous of any other who threatened to become as wealthy and powerful as he. He feared what would become of them with such fell sorcery upon their fingers.

Durin's hand crept toward his breast, and he had to berate himself sternly before it dropped back to his side. The last, most powerful of the seven, Durin himself wore around his neck upon a chain bespelled to fight the will of the dark lord, but it was growing more difficult as the days passed and more of Middle Earth fell under the shadow of Sauron. Celebrimbor had sworn to him that this ring had not been touched by the Deceiver, else he never would have accepted it, but now he had begun to doubt his friend's honesty. The elf in front of him seemed to read the dwarf king as if he were a newly written scroll, nodding thoughtfully.

"Captured, then. I must send word to Gil-Galad."

Durin grunted, not offering the other any assistance as he forced his lean body to his feet.

"Good luck with that! A courier alone, traveling by stealth, may make it through, but I will not ask such a risk of my people. That foul army is even now surging north and Mount Gundabad is under siege. My grandfather did not go to all the trouble of taking it back from those bloody Ironfists just to see it fall into the hands of stinking orcs!"

That incident had been before his birth, but the deceit practiced by a fellow dwarrow king still rankled. Durin had deliberately chosen the gaudiest, most elven looking of the seven to send southeast to the new Ironfist king. The elf nodded again, apparently not one for many words, making the king grimace. He tended to ramble when upset or excited, or well, most of the time, really, so this silence was irritating.

"Well? Aren't you at least going to tell me your name, master elf? Or has Gil-Galad's court forgotten even the most base of courtesies? And just what do you intend to do with this bunch now? Do you wish quarters here? Or do you intend to go through the mountains to the Golden Wood?"

That would not be his first choice, even though he was friends with many that they walked past, exchanging nods or a hand on a shoulder. So far, Sauron had seemed content to leave the vastness of Khazad-dûm un-assailed save for an influx of those foul serpents of his, and Durin wanted to keep it that way. The knowledge of large numbers of elves taking refuge here would most certainly draw the dark lord's attention, given the grudge he held against that race.

"I do not deem our long-term presence here any wiser than you do, Lord Durin, but I am also reluctant to abandon all resistance in Eregion. My scouts have already located a valley that may be easily fortified and hidden from our foe's sight." As they approached the map table, several others of both races bowed out of the way, allowing the two leaders privacy. The dark haired elf rifled through several of the maps before drawing one to the top, a slender finger coming to rest upon a spot to the north. "Here."

Bending to peer at the small markings, the dwarf king grunted again, this time in satisfaction.

"Aye, I can keep a route open to there easily enough. We farm this valley here, and the rock is easily worked, it can create a hidden passage. We can put a back door out onto the plains from your valley, too, as an escape route. The Bruinen is wide open on the front of where you want to settle, though. How are you intending to defend that?"

The elf straightened, smiling as his shirt front flapped open where he had removed his armor, giving a glimpse of a chain about his neck with something weighing it down. As he moved, a blue ripple of light seemed to dance about the silver links and Durin's eyes widened in shocked realization.

"Leave that to me, Lord Durin. I am Elrond, Herald of Gil-Galad, and I am very pleased to meet you."

Second Age, 1697, five months later

"Just because we have sealed Khazad-dûm does not guarantee no enemy will win their way in, Father!"

Durin III kept a tight rein on his temper, reminding himself firmly that the boy was young yet. Worse, he was at the stage where he assumed those older than he possessed half his wit. Instead, he settled upon an answer rich with sarcasm, which his son may or may not grasp.

"Do you think your old father so removed from battle and in my dotage that I would not see what a ten year old just beginning his training would?"

The other flushed hard, but Durin merely grunted, turning away in disgust.

"Come and see with your own eyes, maybe you will learn something, dwarfling!"

The king clomped away, the heavy tread of steel soles on rock drowning out any protest his one hundred and thirteen year old son might have made to the deliberate insult. It was his own failings that made their relationship so rocky, and the king knew it. He had set his hopes high upon another Durin following him, as he had his grandfather, Durin II, and that had always made his son a disappointment, though he loved the boy dearly.

The two dwarrow had been standing next to the great stone and metal gates of western Khazad-dûm, made early in his grandfather's reign, both closed now as they had not been in the almost 1000 years since their forging. Beyond the thick wall, Durin knew, the two holly trees still stood, no longer the symbol of the mighty elven nation that had thrived there, but a forgotten remnant of a newly destroyed past.

No longer could the great gates stand open, welcoming all, irrespective of race, as they had done since before his childhood, and no longer would the markets of the stone city bustle with the voices of peace and prosperity. Nor would such blessings return soon; perhaps not until well after all who lived here were returned to the stone from which the dwarrow had been made so long ago.

Durin's heart was especially heavy at such a thought, for he knew the isolation he had just ordered would diminish them, the sections of the great city falling silent one by one as Durin's Folk dwindled without exchanges with the other dwarrow clans. Well, except the Ironfists. They could easily do without that bunch!

His plans, of course, held the hope of staving off such a fate for years to come, with secret passages even now being built through the mountains to the outside. Whether it would be enough had yet to be seen. His son was naturally walking one of the two familiar paths straight through the great realm from west to east, one passing to the north and ending in the market concourse and the other to the south, through the mining district. The boy stopped dead, inhaling sharply as he gazed at a newly constructed room with confusion.

"Father, what…?"

Where there had once been a continuation of the straight path, three archways were being built, though one only framed a blank wall as of yet. To their left, a crew was busy hewing out the walls of a small guardroom as another on a rope popped his head out of a new stone well. More dwarrow took the waste rock being removed, and were using it to raise the floor of the center hall, which actually led down to the mines.

"Construction has just begun here. Come!"

His son's mouth snapped closed with an audible click, making Durin grin in satisfaction. Ahead of them, the corridor was abruptly cut off with a solid wall, looking to the naked eye as if it had always been a part of the mountain itself, not recently built. The prince spun in confusion, fingers twitching as he mentally tracked their route.

"This shouldn't be here!"

The mutter was undoubtedly not directed at the older dwarf, but he answered anyway.

"No, it shouldn't. We have blocked Durin's Way permanently. The northern, lesser, way, will now serve as the main path into and out of the city, while the key to our southern route will be known to a select few, including you and I, trapping invaders well away from anywhere they can do great harm."

"And the northern route? Do you intend to block it, as well?"

"Not directly, no. It will be lengthened, and misdirection will be added to slow any invaders. Instead of coming out on the market level, it will angle up to connect with the Hall of Feasts on the uppermost level, a very indirect route into the main city, but it is the most likely path for invaders, so it is better so."

His son scoffed at that, running a hand over the new wall, as if trying to feel out its secrets. Durin let him, knowing there was no way he would succeed.

"If they breach the gates, surely our enemy will know enough of Khazad-dûm to know the shortest route lies to the south!"

"Our foe prefers misdirection to brute force, only employing the latter when the former fails, my son. Should he set his sights upon us, he will first attempt to locate the secret routes from our food valleys, or perhaps the track from Rivendell, not the main gates. All of those exit only onto the northern halls."

"Rivendell?"

The king refrained from rolling his eyes as he silently showed his heir the correct trigger points to open the wall.

"The common name given to that hidden valley the refugees of Eregion are settling. Did you not meet Lord Elrond when he was here earlier this year?"

"Aye, but I thought we'd cut off all contact with the elves! It was their folly that brought the Dark Lord down upon us, after all.""

Durin made a rude noise deep in his throat, fingers flicking out to snap the younger dwarf on the side of the head as he moved past his sire. As the prince turned, Durin yanked him back, allowing the hidden door to swing closed with them still on the wrong side.

"Use that lump on your shoulders for once, boy! Without knowledge of what occurs outside these walls, we could sit here and rot long after the danger is past, or be set upon without warning! And what are we to do with all our work other than pile it in treasure rooms as useless junk to be gawked at? Our contacts will be limited, and secret, but we must have them."

The younger dwarf flushed, but fingers found the correct triggers without needing further guidance from his elder, the door starting to move…

The grinding of long unused gears made Thorin blink, the present reforming around him in time to see the door stutter and then slide up, allowing them passage. Behind them, the goblins howled in anger, surging forward only to be stopped by Nori casting flash flame into the center of the corridor. Blinking away the afterimage, the king grabbed blindly for those nearest, shoving them past wordlessly.

"Go!"

None argued with the spymaster's order as they piled through the blockade, the elves bending low to fire arrows under the descending door as their pursuers attempted to follow. A dull thud signaled the closing of the heavy stone door, and silence descended, all sound from the other side cut off by the clever dwarrow engineering. Darkness and cool, fresh air bathed a sweat streaked face, and Thorin allowed himself a moment to slump in relief against the wall, knowing that there would be no further pursuit.

They had made it.

"Kíli?"

Fíli's anxious voice cut through the darkness as someone unshielded a lantern to fully light the corridor. All eyes turned to the precious burden in Dwalin's arms, breath held as Senata carefully peeled back the blankets, checking upon the injured prince.

"Alive. I only hope we can keep him that way. Is anyone else injured?"

Headshakes or weary shrugs answered. They were all beat up, tired, and dirty, but none looked to be on the verge of collapse, so anything more could wait until they reached the main camp. As the exhausted, but triumphant group began to make their way back up the levels to the rest of the army, Thorin overheard a short exchange between Ori and Fíli that seemed to him to sum up their latest experience.

"Fíli?"

"Yes, Ori?"

"Is this really real?"

A short laugh, strained, but more natural than anything he had heard from his nephew in days.

"Yes. What makes you think it might not be?"

"Well, every time I join you Durins in a quest, we wind up running through dark tunnels from something after our enemies offer to torture and kill us. I thought maybe it was a nightmare."

As Frérin's face flashed through his mind, Thorin did not have the heart to tell him that the greatest nightmare might have just begun.