The Price of Brotherhood (4/8)
It happened as they were crossing a river that had grown deep and dangerous with rain. Gandalf, who knew its nature, had lead them to a ramshackle house were an elderly ferryman kept a long length of rope stretched across, and a raft large enough for a heavy cart. He accepted their passage fee and they clambered aboard, hauling Óin, who muttered fearfully at the swift floodwaters.
They were at the far bank making their landing when they heard the first howl. It echoed across the empty stretch of unforested land, swiftly followed by pounding feet as beasts boiled over hill on the river's opposite side. Wargs, dozens of them, carrying orcs with scimitars and axes. All of them were calling out in their filthy language, a sound that brought the heart of every dwarf swarming into his throat.
"Cut the rope," Thorin heard himself say, and when they did not comply: "CUT THE ROPE!"
Glóin's axe came down, once, twice, and then the raft's lead-line severed, the craft banging clumsily into the shore and catching there, unable to be pulled back. The ferryman was rigorous with terror, but – thank god – he lived alone, for at that moment the thatch of his house was being set aflame, wisps of ember already drifting up into the evening sky.
Timidly but gladly, Ori asserted, "They can't get across."
And it seemed to be so. Cut off by the swollen river, the orc party cursed and sent their wargs to the edge, but when one tried to ford it, the beast was overcome and was carried away in the heavy swell of branches and debris. Thorin fought a feeling of triumph. He knew he orcs would eventually find a way.
Swinging around to the petrified ferryman, he demanded, "Is there a ford? Some other way they might pass through the river?"
Hazel eyes were stretched wide. Wretchedly, the man nodded. "An hour's journey by horse. That way."
Thorin nodded. An hour, and wargs would make the short journey even more quickly than a regular mount. He looked to Gandalf for counsel, but the wizard was staring fixedly across the river, his face set in a look of dread. Confused, Thorin turned, seeking what new turn had befallen them.
What he saw was beyond his belief. He stared, his mouth falling open, and heard himself say, almost in a whisper, "It cannot be."
"Uncle, what is it?" Kíli was beside him, his bow already strung.
However, it was Balin who answered; Balin who looked across and saw what Thorin had seen and gasped out the cursed name: "It's Azog, the Defiler!"
But though it seemed impossible, though every fiber of Thorin's being cried out that it could not be true, yet when over the rise that huge figure came, its pale shoulders silhouetted by the blazing hut, Thorin knew it could be no other. He rode on a warg as scarred and pitted as he himself, and the pink rings around his eyes were blood-red. His own warriors flinched aside as he made his way to the very edge of the river. There he dismounted and bore his teeth, looking directly at Thorin.
Then, for the first time in almost one hundred years, the dwarves heard the Black Speech, the corrupted language of the uruk and their kind. Azog opened his lips over pointed tips and rasped out a greeting: "Many years have passed since we met, Thorin dur Thráin. For an age, I waited for you to creep out of your hole in the ground. Now I will have my revenge. For this."
He thrust out this arm, and firelight reflected on black iron speared through flesh. The wicked prosthetic was in the place of the arm that Thorin had taken at the Battle of Azanulbizar, and though the words were filtered through the faded specter of long years, he understood. This was vengeance.
Without thinking, Thorin worked free the oak branch that had given him his name and now served him as a shield. It came to his hand instinctively, even as the rest of him still reeled to see this enemy whom he had thought dead. But – had he ever really believed that? Years of terrors in the night might serve as proof that there had always been a secret fear. And now that terror was before him once more, separated by a meager stretch of ground.
Azog laughed so loudly that it echoed in the hollows of the land. "I can smell your fear, heir of Durin. Just how Thrór smelled. Just how Thráin smelled. But –" He bowed mockingly at the river. "You have put yourself out of reach. I could make a bridge of corpses to meet you in battle. But instead, you will come to me."
Gandalf flinched violently. It was clear that the words Azog spoke were not mystery to him. "What does he say?" Thorin asked.
"He says you will surrender to him," the wizard answered. Glamdring glowed fiercely in his hand, and the blue light made Gandalf's face wane and ill. He said, "Thorin, something is wrong."
Thorin sensed it too. He remembered this foe from the battlefield at Moria, a raging animal baring a mace; a berserker. This smug comportment did not seem right at all, yet Azog appeared entirely relaxed. Only the taut cords of muscle in his neck betrayed his excitement. Thorin could almost see the throbbing artery there, and his sword arm itched to sever it. Only the sudden wet pull of the current on his boot stopped him as he was drawn to the river's extreme edge.
Azog watched him shrewdly. "Are you so eager to fight me, Thorin? Or do you see something familiar?"
The orc lifted his arm, revealing more of the thatched leather kilt he wore as his only garment. The thick belt was braced tightly, without ornament – or almost without ornament. In the wavering light and heat, Thorin thought he caught sight of cord and a glint of silver. He narrowed his eyes as Azog wrapped the object around his hand, caressing it with a broad thumb. Then, without warning, the orc tore it free and hurled it across the river, where it landed at Thorin's feet.
"Do you recognize my little trinket, son of Thráin?" Azog bellowed in triumph.
Thorin looked at the object that had been cast, and blood began to roar in his ears. A silver clasp, an heirloom of his own house. And bound by it, headed by a bit of scalp and blood, a woven golden plait.
With trembling fingers, Thorin picked it up. The soft braid caught against his calluses. It was matted, but there could be no doubt what it was that lay in his hand. It was hair. Hair the color of wheat ready for harvest. Thorin lifted his head in horror. No. It could not be. It was unthinkable.
Kíli's grip was fierce upon his, forcing open his clinched fist, then staggering back as he too realized what had been returned to them. With a ragged cry, his eyes flew across the river to the pale enemy who sat, drinking in their pain. Thorin saw his youngest nephew's mouth open, and lost all hope at the word that staggered out, destroying all doubt: "Fíli."
The pale orc leaned back against his beast and laughed. He snarled, "You left something behind when you fled the goblins, Thorin. But don't worry. I've brought it back to you."
A signal, and the seething bodies parted. From between them, an orc stalked. It had something slung over its shoulder, which it threw down before its master's feet. A maimed corpse, only recognizable by the matted fringe that remained, dark with stains but still pale. Azog picked it up by the scruff, and Thorin heard Dori's cultured voice rasp out, "By Dúrin –"
Kíli was choking, the sounds harsh in his throat. He reached out his hand toward the travesty brought before them as Azog let the head fall back, and the bashed, bloodied face was brought to bear. A face that Thorin knew, had seen at every stage of life. A face he had never expected to see again, alive or dead. Yet there he was in the hand of their greatest enemy, the killer of his grandfather and the murderer of his father.
Fíli.
In the broken visage, Thorin could see vestiges of him. He traced the bent limbs, the skin so hurt that its pallor could barely be seen through overlapping wounds. Even from so far, with their sharpness blurred by distance, Thorin could barely look at them.
The Defiler shook the limp body, sniffing contemptuously. "Mukgulkat!"
A skin pouch was produced, and while the dwarves watched helplessly, one of the orcs forced the spout down Fíli's throat. The response was instantaneous. From a lifeless hull, Fíli came suddenly alive, gagging and convulsing. His back arched against his captor, and he barked out a sound like agony diluted in anger, struggling for one frenzied moment. Futilely. For Azog's hand never left off its grip, holding the dwarf on his knees before his kin and his king.
It was too much for Kíli, who suddenly broke free of the paralysis that had seized them all. He was moving before Balin's warning could pass his lips, but Thorin had already lunged, grabbing his nephew and holding him back while the lad writhed and raged and fought to plough himself headlong into that river. Thorin pulled them back to more sure footing, even as a piece of super-heated metal was set blistering in the core of his own heart.
Azog watched as he wrestled with Kíli, his teeth still resting in that simulation of a smile, but no longer with levity. Now his gaze was contemptuous, and arrogant. Looking down at Thorin, he drew his captive near and rested Fíli's cheek against his thigh. "Would you have him back, Thorin? I've enjoyed ruining something of yours, but this –" He dug his claws into the tender jaw, drawing beads of blood. "This is not my true prize. It's your head I want. And you will surrender it to me."
Even without full comprehension, Thorin heard and he knew. Helplessly, he watched that animal hold Fíli – loyal Fíli – and threaten even what remained of him with further harm. Unless he agreed to a trade. Suddenly, Gandalf's large hand was on him, like a leaden weight. He felt another gripping his belt: Bilbo. The rest of the company had also drawn near. He felt Dwalin's tall shadow, heard Ori muffling his sobs through a bitten lip.
Azog saw. His cruel blue eyes met Thorin's and seemed to read all that was there. "We will not cross the river," he rumbled. "You will come to me, Thorin, 'king'. Then I will release this one. But take your time to decide. I don't think any of my orcs will mind one more night of sport."
At these words, he cast Fíli back into the waiting arms of his hoard, a captive of their wicked appetites and merciless whim. Thorin's hoarse protest choked in this throat. He couldn't tell if it was he or Kíli who jerked forward, or who held them back. Azog cast one more long look at his opponent of old, and then he turned his mount and retreated the way he came.
"Decide soon, Thorin," he said over his shoulder.
And then he was gone. And, once more, Fíli passed out of Thorin's sight to a fate worse than death.