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.
42. One Step Forward…
Thorin glanced around at the gathering at the ancient stone table, tallying the faces before giving Bofur a nod. It was late evening, the delay caused by the necessity of allowing Kíli some rest after the strain of the court this morning. The stone door was pulled closed with a dull boom, sending a vibration through the council chamber, like the warning rumble before an earthquake. Except this disaster was one the king hoped to not only ride out, but trigger precisely where and when he wished!
Bofur, of course, was there, as was Einarr for the Blacklocks; Bodil of the Ironfists; Eirik, Warmaster of the Stonefoots; Iari for the Broadbeams, a friend of old; Prince Ónar, cousin to the Firebeard king, with his fiery beard and temper to match, also known to Thorin from the past; and Njord, a Stiffbeard who looked as if he wished to be anywhere but where he was. Fíli and Kíli slid into their seats to Thorin's right hand, Kifir an ever hovering presence at the younger prince's elbow. For the elves were Legolas, Tauriel, Elladan and Elrohir, all of whom the gruff dwarf king had surprised himself by thinking of as friends. Next to them sat the tall, broad figures of Faramir, Wyvern, and the old Ranger, Balan, representing Gondor, the healers of all races, and the men of the west respectively. Frodo and Ori, looking nervous but less fearful, were to the side, taking notes, and Nori stood a silent sentinel near the hall door, while another guard, anonymous in his full helmet, guarded the other entrance.
"I have called this conference so that we may discuss plans to deal with the Death Warriors and their leader, the so-called Lord Naragel, once and for all time. Some of you have come to me with rumors spreading among your warriors – that Naragel is of the Line of Durin, he is, or was, dead and returned, that we have traitors among us, that the very stones of Khazad-dûm favor this evil creature. That he might even command an army of the dead."
Thorin heard the mutters at that, knowing he must start with some of the more outlandish whispers running through the camp first. Kíli winced at the one about the stone, while Fíli rolled his eyes.
"I wish I could tell you that all were false. Unfortunately, they are not." He held up a hand to forestall the exclamations he knew were coming. "The truth is that yes, he was once of the blood of Durin. My brother, Frérin."
"Was?" Lord Bodil demanded sharply, arms crossed and face set in disapproval. "Was he either kin wrecked or banished, then?"
There was an almost hopeful mutter at the question, deepening the king's unease. It was almost as if his brethren were grasping at any legal twist they could find... No doubt who was instigating the trouble, either. Thorin heartily wished the Ironfists had either sent anyone else, or better yet, no one. That one had always been more trouble than he was worth, delighting in stirring contention at the rare meetings of all Seven Families.
"No!" Thorin spat that out, disgusted at the very thought, then continued in a softer tone. "He was not, as we had no idea he had been captured, not slain. I, myself, held what I believed to be his body in my arms. Additionally, he had no choice in the betrayal."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
The Ironfist snapped, lip curled in derision.
"It means that my uncle was a victim of Sauron!" Fíli spat out, leaning forward intently. "It is well known that the evil of Mordor could corrupt those it touched, killing them and capturing their shades as servants, or playing upon the greed and anger of the living, but those were not the only ways Sauron destroyed souls. Those who were too strong to be turned to wraiths and too moral to be corrupted were made to drink a... taint. Similar to morgul poison in origin, but much more difficult to make and rarely used, as it supposedly killed more than it successfully...burned. It destroyed all that was good and moral in its victim, leaving him or her a loyal servant of Sauron with the memories of their former life intact, making the most twisted, evil acts seem logical and necessary."
At the skeptical looks cast around the table, Thorin retook the floor, Fíli sinking back into his seat. Kíli laid a hand on his brother's arm, leaning over to murmur something in comfort. Of them all, Fíli had the best understanding of what had happened to Frérin, having been touched by a much weaker version of the foul brew and almost killed Bofur and Thorin as a result.
"Durin IV lost his only son to such poison, and I believe that it was used on Frérin after his capture at the Battle of Anzanulbizar."
"Or you do not wish to admit that the Line of Durin could fall to more than gold sickness, as if that wasn't bad enough!"
The snide comment came from the Stiffbeard. Before Thorin could calm himself enough to respond, Legolas stood, cool and regal.
"Perhaps you were not aware that such foul corruption leaves a taint easily felt by the Eldar, Master Dwarf. I assure you, Lord Thorin speaks the truth, this Naragel reeked of it."
"And we are to take the word of an elf?"
Lord Njord bristled, dark eyes fixed on the elven prince in open challenge.
"Whether you believe or not is irrelevant." Kíli cut in, re-bound eyes turning sightlessly in the general direction of the offender. The healers had been adamant that if he would not rest, he would at least not further strain his recovering eyes. "What matters is what we plan to do about it. Our foe knows Thorin, knows how he will react, what tactics he will use. We cannot win that way!"
"So, we draw him into an attack and kill him. That's the way dwarrow have always done it. We are not a subtle people."
Ónar shrugged, looking almost eager to begin such a bloodbath.
"Which is exactly why we can't do that, you idiot." Einarr huffed, pinning the western lord with a look of utter contempt. "Goblins and orcs breed faster than rabbits, we'll be vastly outnumbered!"
"Why is that a problem?" Another scoffed, "Any dwarf who cannot account for at least ten by himself should be ashamed to name himself a warrior!"
"And when there are twenty or thirty to one? What then?" Fíli's soft question was chilling to those who had seen such battles. "I have stood against those odds, Eirik. It ended very painfully."
"Whatever!" Lord Bodil spat, one hand waving such things away as if of little import. "I want to get back to this supposed taint. If it truly exists, why have we not seen it? The Ironfists are no strangers to the works of Mordor's lord!"
"Nor to his money."
Einarr grumbled, just loudly enough for the others to hear. Bodil's face instantly went purple with rage, hands grasping emptily for weapons that had been banned from the chamber for just such a reason.
"Why you no good, greasy, cowardly, back stabbing-"
Einarr simply rolled his eyes, unruffled by the insults while the Stiffbeard on the other side of the livid lord reached up and pulled him back down into his seat. The Blacklock snorted, meeting his antagonist glare for glare.
"Oh, go jump down a mine shaft, you stubborn idiot. You're nowhere near as innocent or as ignorant of this as you claim! The orcs called it the Blood of the Master, and you know it!"
Obviously, the other easterners also recognized the name, as Thorin saw several blanch and others shift uncomfortably. Bodil flushed, but made no move to refute the smug Blacklock.
"It makes no difference to the problem we face, anyway." Lord Iari finally broke the silence, grave and quiet, as Thorin sat forward, eyes narrowing at the Broadbeam. "My lore keeper pointed it out to me the moment the rumors started. The ancient laws set down by Durin and the other Fathers forbid our interference in a dispute between claimants of the proper bloodlines for a throne in any of the seven kingdoms. We cannot favor either Thorin or Frérin, and must withdraw our warriors until such time as it is settled between them, lest their fight draw in the entire dwarrow race."
Thorin swore silently and sulfurously, wishing he dared call them such to their faces. This was about as conservative an interpretation of Durin's Laws as he had ever suffered hearing, and what was worse, many of them would most likely heed it. Even now, he could see the consternation on the faces of lords who had but moments before been debating the best way to end the war and now realized that they should not be in it at all.
The king gravely came to his feet, knowing it was a fine line he was about to walk. He must protest this, but could not do so as vigorously as he wished lest he be seen as defying the laws set down by Durin himself. Yet, he was also genuinely angry that any would doubt his word at what had been done to Frérin, and it was hard to contain that.
"All of you acknowledged me as both Durin Returned and the King of Khazad-dûm. Do you now deny that?"
Phrased that way, he would be justified in challenging any who said yes to personal combat. Iari had the grace to look embarrassed by the whole thing.
"Thorin, we have no choice. So long as Frérin leads the cult and is not outcast, we cannot be in the middle, you know that. You should have called this council the moment that you found out!"
"Forgive me for being more focused on the well-being of my tortured and almost murdered nephew!" Thorin shot back in rage, then forced himself to calm. "Very well, then. Go! And think twice before you ask aid of the Longbeards in the future!"
He just barely restrained himself from adding 'elven-giver', the usual epithet among dwarrow for one who goes back on their word at a critical- and disastrous- time. And speaking of elves...
"We, too, will withdraw, Lord Thorin, though we will return in a few weeks." Elrohir gave the dwarf king a half bow as Thorin merely grunted, anger bubbling up once more. "Our people find the strain of being constantly underground and away from light for long time periods burdensome. We must return to our forest homes to renew ourselves."
As much as the thought of losing more allies galled him, at least the pointy-eared pains had the honesty to tell him instead of falling back on an old law as a flimsy excuse!
"Very well. With the reduction in numbers, I believe it best to move our main camp back to the lower market concourse. Easier to defend."
Thorin deliberately made a show of slamming down the map cases to roll them up, glaring furiously as all the other dwarrow leaders, with the exception of Einarr, took their leave of him. A few at least looked embarrassed. With only those from Erebor, the Iron Hills, and men, his army was less than half of the original size. Alone except for the guards and the Blacklock, Thorin allowed his frustration to boil over, making a sweep of the maps and papers from the table.
"Bah! Cowards and idiots! We are better served by their leaving! They would not support my return to Erebor, either, but when the war was won, they were first in line for the spoils! I do not know why I expected a mere ninety years to have changed them."
"Can't say I'm surprised by the Ironfists or Stiffbeards, they've always been opportunists." Einarr shrugged, gathering a few of the maps the king had just so petulantly sent to the floor. "I thought the Firebeards and Broadbeams might stay, though. And the Stonefoots. They've always been allies of the Longbeards."
Thorin smiled faintly, his rage draining away to leave him sad, exhausted, and feeling very old. What was done was done, and he had but to make the best of it. He had done it before, after all, with only thirteen.
"Not always. Why do you stay? Are you not subject to the same laws?"
Einarr snorted, rolling a map a bit more forcefully than strictly necessary.
"Hardly. We don't have a king right now, so we came as individual dwarrow, not actually representing the Blacklocks. Most of us have ties to ancient Khazad-dûm somewhere in the family, or just want the cult and their orc minions to suffer. Besides, I know too well that there was nothing left of your brother from the moment they made him swallow that stuff, so the ancient laws don't truly apply, do they?"
The warrior gave him a shrewd, penetrating gaze that let Thorin know not everyone would be so easily fooled. The king gave the barest hint of a nod, deliberately pointing his helper toward some of the papers scattered on the far side of the room.
"I thank you for that." Thorin stared blindly at the maps in his hands as his mind considered a hundred different possibilities. "I'll need you and your second to substitute for Dwalin as we move camp. We'll use the stairs as our main route, but there is also a secondary on the maps. Familiarize yourself with both of them, then burn the marked map. Find whoever is free to take your patrol."
Einarr's eyebrows shot up, and he froze, staring at the king in absolute shock.
"You want me to step in for Dwalin? A Blacklock?"
"A warrior who has proven willing, able and loyal. What care should I give to the blood that runs through your veins? Especially when it matches some of my own."
That was obviously not the answer that the other had expected.
"What do you mean?"
Thorin chuckled, pleased to have finally confounded the other.
"Have you not learned your histories? Durin is the only Father who woke alone, without a mate. He married the daughter of Blacklock."
"That's the legend, but-"
Einarr stopped, flushing as his eyes took on a bit of awe, and then he gave a profoundly formal bow.
"Forgive me, Lord Durin, I had forgotten to whom I spoke."
Was it Thorin's imagination, or did the guard in the full helm look a bit familiar? The king shrugged it off, knowing that Dwalin kept careful track of who served in here.
"Come, we have other things that must be seen to. Guards, make sure the rest of these papers are picked up and turned over to the Lore Keepers."
Out of the corner of his eye as he left, Thorin thought he saw the helmeted guard stuff something into his tunic, but fortunately, his body blocked the move from Einarr. As they made their way down the corridor, an agitated Fíli met them.
"Fíli! I had thought you would be with your brother!"
The golden prince shook his head.
"He's with the healers, Mother's there. Thorin, Therin is gone! Einarr's second just reported it to me. Well, as soon as he became conscious."
"Conscious?"
Einarr questioned sharply as Bofur and Nori pelted around the far bend, breathing hard, axes to hand.
"Treason! Thorin, that little brat knocked out one of the guards and stole his armor! We just found him in the store room! He probably heard everything you discussed in council!"
"Come, all of you!" Thorin commanded, waving them into camp, where they had already caused a stir. "If Therin truly means to betray us, then he is long gone by now. Nonetheless, we will not use the main route, falling back to the secondary."
It was only when the others had turned away that Thorin allowed himself a sigh of relief deep inside, the first step of his plans apparently having come to fruition with the unwitting aid of the cult itself.