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.

Author's Note: No Internet for three weeks and only spotty service now makes Scribe a very cranky lady. Thank you so much to all who favorite, follow, and especially review! I am sorry if I can't answer everyone personally this time, I am sneaking this in as I have Internet!

43. Ambush

Thorin tried not to allow his uneasiness to show as the large group moved into the hall on the fifth upper level. Changing their route off the main stairs had placed them in the perfect position for an ambush, though it was much less predictable, so they might sneak by. Unfortunately, sneaking past was exactly what he did not wish to have happen, yet the thought of the slaughter if this went badly…

Thorin struggled to distract himself by glancing around, taking note of every stone and fallen column. The old learning hall was full of debris, including the remnants of wooden tables and chunks of rock from destroyed columns. The ceiling soared up another level, with a balcony running along both of the longer walls, accessible from sixth level upper. It was almost identical to the one on the lower deeps where Durin V had died, a coincidence Thorin tried hard to thrust from his mind. He felt as if he were walking to his doom.

"Stay sharp!"

Einarr's second bellowed from the front, the call echoing through the ranks of the much reduced army. All the wounded except Kíli had been evacuated with the dwarrrow who were returning home, as well as many of the noncombatants who had been supporting them. This had included Vili, Dis and Dwalin, who had developed a fever from the arrow wound. Senata had drugged the large warrior, probably the only way the healers could remove him without threats raining down upon their heads. Thorin almost pitied the elves who were about to be his involuntary hosts. Almost.

"Thorin..."

Fíli was walking with his brother, one hand hovering near Kili's good arm, just short of grabbing him. Stubborn as always, Kíli had insisted upon walking with the aid of his cane, mithril sword gleaming on his back. With the damage to his shoulder, there was no way he could draw a bow, and even the blade would require he drop the cane, but at least he was not defenseless. He had not wanted either of the princes here, but had to concede when Fíli pointed out that his plan might easily fail without them.

"Yes?"

The king prompted when his oldest nephew hesitated. Before the blonde could answer, however, Einarr came closer, a scowl on his face.

"Is it just me, or is there more debris in here than there was last week?"

Thorin forced a smile, shaking his head as he cursed the observant Blacklock.

"I think that you confuse it with the one on the lower-"

"Attack! Dwarrow, to arms! To arms!"

The yell from the back of the army snapped Thorin's head around in time to see goblins, orcs, men, and dwarrow pouring through the doors of the hall.

"Form up!"

Einarr's deep call cut through the first rings of steel upon steel. In response, the dwarrow and men of Thorin's army backed into a compact half-circle anchored by one wall. The cult members crowded every open space, jeering and catcalling at the surrounded army. Seemingly endless in number, he could almost feel their thirst for blood. This would be short, messy, and brutal.

"Kifir! Bofur!"

At Thorin's sharp call, the two dwarrow each grabbed one of the princes by the arm, pulling them back toward the innermost layer of the semi-circle. The most protected spot in a dangerous situation, but more importantly, next to the escape tunnel teams had been quietly unblocking for two days now. A tunnel unknown to the cult. Should Thorin's plan prove a disaster in fact instead of just by appearance, Erebor's leadership would survive. Kifir and the rest of the princes' guard had orders to do whatever was necessary to ensure that.

"Oakenshield! Brokenshield! Death! Death to the false Durin!"

The chant earned a growl from someone to the king's right, and he turned to find Einarr at his elbow, a dark, more compact shadow of the one who should have been there. Same attitude, though.

"You want me to shut that filth up?"

Thorin's smile was feral.

"No, let them savor their supposed victory a moment or two more before we collapse the tunnel on them. Has anyone spotted their leader?"

Thorin adamantly refused to soil his brother's name by attaching it to the creature opposing them.

"His banner is near the back, protected."

No, he would not be one to gloat until he was certain that he had the upper hand. To move himself before being certain would be folly, however. A bit of provocation was in order.

"Force his hand."

He ordered the Blacklock curtly. Einarr turned and barked one short word in Khuzdul, making the king's banner dip three times. It was the traditional dwarrow signal asking for one last attempt at diplomacy. Or, rather, the trading of insults that served in that capacity for the pugnacious race. Silence spread over both armies as those few engaged fell back, eyeing one another uneasily. There were a few grumbles about what the two sides could possibly have to discuss, but Thorin simply bided his time, staring at the black banner across from him.

A stir, and a single figure stepped forth from the cult, clad in somewhat battered mithril and steel armor. Thorin allowed his lip to curl even as he stepped out to meet the other, ax of Durin to hand and Orcrist on his back.

Frérin had never had the patience to learn any kind of smithing, attending Thorin's lessons only because his father said he must. Thrain had been unusual in that he believed his sons should have at least a rudimentary knowledge of what their subjects did, lessons Thorin had been grateful for in exile. Frérin, however, had always viewed them as time wasted from his weapons training.

Obviously, no one in the cult had taken care to learn, since the fine looking armor worn by the other leaders clustered behind him were in equally poor shape. Then again, Thorin was uncertain if any living smith yet knew the secrets of mithril forging besides himself.

"Brother." Naragel sneered.

Thorin kept his temper in check and his face impassive, knowing the other sought only to rile him. This was not Frérin, could never be his mischievous, opinionated, stubborn, silly little brother, just a dark shadow who had stolen his face. Naragel made a show of looking around, then held out his arms in puzzlement.

"My dear Thorin, what could we possibly have to discuss unless it is your surrender? Your army is surrounded, with only cowards and invalids left free to rescue you. Bit careless, that. Unless you planned to be a stubborn fool as Thrór was and get them all killed? I can arrange that if you truly insist, but it would be such a waste. Not to mention the clean-up... Well, I can let the orcs and goblins take care of-"

An arrow clattered as one of Naragel's guards deflected it from the air with his shield. A low growl surged through the ranks of the cult as they pushed forward, only to be halted by a harsh order from their lord.

"Tsk, tsk, brother, very tacky. One would think you an elf to allow such an assault. Besides, do you not wish to know how I learned of your supposedly secret secondary route? You should."

Thorin feigned surprise, knowing of old how Frérin had enjoyed showing off how much cleverer he was then his opponents, especially his older brother. It was a common failing among the highly intelligent or arrogant, and the trait of Gandalf's that most irritated Thorin. Add to that the wizard's love of secrecy and misdirection... Bah! It had been excellent practice for this encounter.

When the king refused to answer, his opponent said something in the stomach curdling speech of Mordor, an insult just coming from the mouth of a dwarf. His followers parted, allowing another dwarf in salvaged mithril armor and a crowned helm to step forth. As he drew closer, his features were easily recognized under the helm.

It was Therin.

In that moment, Thorin was glad he had insisted Dis evacuate with the wounded, as the sight might have killed her instantly. The king sighed heavily, allowing his head to momentarily drop as if in dispair. It was not all an act.

"Betrayed twice over by your own blood, Thorin!"

"Am I?" Thorin raised his head, surprising Naragel with the almost bemused expression upon his face. "Is it truly betrayal when I allowed it to happen? Or was it the best, though unconventional, use of the resources I had available?"

As that phrase from Frérin's lips had once enraged Thrór, Thrain and Fundin, so now did having it thrown into his own face make the one who had been Frérin snarl in anger. It was a bestial sound that would never have passed his brother's lips, no matter how angered Frérin was. Next to him, Therin's eyes widened and he stepped away from the dark leader, placing him directly between his two older relatives.

The bemusement gave way to a predatory grin as Thorin raised his ax over his head, torches glinting off the mithril so that it almost looked to be on fire.

"Durin!"

At that cry, most of the boulders along the upper walkways and atop broken columns seemed to rise and elongate. The concealing cloaks of Lothlorien were cast aside to reveal elves, each with a bow at the ready. Naragel let out a bark of laughter, as if unexpectedly delighted by the trick.

"Very good, brother! I did not believe you would actually trust elves to such a degree. For your sake, let us pray to Mahal that they remember who to shoot."

Thorin returned smirk for smirk.

"I think they will have no problem. That's a very nice colored band yours wear. Too bad we changed it. Among other things."

Several yelps and short clashes of steel upon steel resounded from all four doorways and two spots on the wall directly opposite Thorin's army. Strange dwarrow flooded any inch of space given up by the cult around the perimeter, shedding blood where the others would not give way. Thorin waited as the incidental skirmishes finished, lesser leaders on both sides bellowing at their troops to hold position. Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin caught the bright reds and yellows of the battle standards of the Firebeards and Broadbeams to the right, with the blue, green, and grey of the eastern families to the left, only the black of Einarr's people missing. Above, an elf lifted a horn to his lips, blowing a welcoming fanfare, answered immediately by horns from the dwarrow and men. As the last notes echoed from the stone, an uneasy silence washed through the room once more and Thorin raised an eyebrow at the now visibly unsettled Naragel.

"You did not truly believe that the other houses would desert both Durin Returned and the Bearer of the Arkenstone, did you? I would not have thought you to be so blind."

His enemy's response was another bestial howl of rage, the clang of ax upon ax almost sending Thorin to the ground as he fought to block the blow. Foam and spittle flew from Naragel's snarling lips as his eyes gleamed with insane hatred, nothing left but the rage. Around them, fighting erupted into a frenzy as forces kept too long at battle pitch were at last unleashed. Underfoot, Therin had dropped to the ground between the two leaders, shoved aside in Naragel's furious lunge at his tormentor. Unable to crawl away with the fierce fighting on all sides, the boy did the smartest thing and stayed where he was, curled up to protect himself as best as he was able.

The former brothers exchanged blow after blow over the form of their nephew, ignoring any other who came close as they sparred, searching for any weakness in the other. Thorin thought briefly about attempting to draw Orcrist, the sword a bit better suited to this close range fighting, then discarded the notion. His opponent was both too quick and too strong for such a risk. On and on they when, both faces now dripping with sweat and streaked with blood, both their own and from those killed nearby.

The end came as abruptly as the fight had begun. Thorin had been trying to avoid stepping on Therin the entire battle, but his foot finally came down on something that jerked out from underneath him. Another clang and shower of sparks as the axes met sent the king stumbling to land hard on his back, the worst possible position for a warrior in heavy plate mail, even mithril. There was no way he could quickly regain his feet, especially as he was still seeing stars from his helm hitting stone.

A tug at his belt, and his vision cleared to show not one, but two dwarrow standing over him. Therin had grabbed the mithril dagger from his belt and now stood there, hatred and despair warring in Durin blue eyes.

"Do it, child, and I will make you my heir, just as I promised. I will restore what he stole!"

Before Thorin could counter the dark temptations of Naragel, Therin struck. With one fierce, perfectly placed blow, he drove the mithril blade through the damaged part of his uncle's armor and straight into his heart.