The Price of Brotherhood (5/8)

"We cannot leave him with the orcs!" It was the first thing that passed Kíli's lips, and if his eye had been wild before, it was nothing compared to the gleam that possessed it now. He prowled the fringe of the group under Dwalin's watchful eye, taken up entirely with mania.

The dwarf company, Gandalf, and Bilbo had retreated to the nearest tree line beyond the river. Beyond it, the hazy, dying ashes of the ferryman's hut could be made out, and when the breeze blew from the west, it carried the faintest sound of warg, guttural speech, and scrapping metal. The orcs had not gone far.

Thorin was seated, hunched over with his hands entwined, his head bowed as though deep in thought. The eyes of his followers alternated between watching him and the scowling, pacing form of his nephew.

Finally, Bofur spoke, echoing Kíli. "The lad's right. We didn't know he was alive before, but now we do. We have to get him back."

"Easier said than done!" snapped Gandalf, whose mood had turned sharp and black. "Would you storm the camp, twelve dwarves and a hobbit against a score of mounted orcs? You would all be killed. And who's to say that Azog has even kept his word? At any moment, we might expect an ambush."

Since they'd stopped under the deeper shadow of the trees, Glóin had been fingering his bushy beard, his gaze far away. Now he raised his voice. "Risk or no, we have to try. He's barely of age. To think that I almost brought my Gimli –" He stopped as though he could say no more. His brother, Óin, clasped his shoulder.

"I'll go!" declared Ori. He raised his fists, muffled as they were by his ludicrous, overlong knitted sleeves. "I'll fight."

Dori cuffed him over the head. "You're not going anywhere!" His eyes were ringed with terror, and he gripped his younger brother by the hand, like a child. "You'll not get anywhere near that thing. Over my dead body!"

"But –!" Ori tried to argue.

"There is another option." Thorin's deep voice cut through all others, silencing them in a second. Even Kíli stopped pacing. "Azog made it clear what he wanted. A trade. If I go to his camp, he may release Fíli."

With a sound of disgust, Gandalf stood, casting out his arm as though just restraining himself from violence. "Save me from the foolishness of dwarfs. He's not inviting you to negotiate a peace, or even to face him in battle. He wants your head! And he'll have it too, if you're so foolish as to set foot in his camp." Stepping nearer, he quieted his voice and spoke more earnestly. "Your death will not save Fíli, Thorin. Orcs know no honor, nor are they bound to honor their promises."

Thorin looked back at the wizard and his heart ached in denial of this truth. His knuckles turned white as he increased his grip.

"What hope is there, then?" The despairing question came from Kíli, whose hands had dropped limply to his sides. He was shaking, his eyes overly bright. "You're saying we should leave him. Again, we should leave him. But I won't. I won't –"

Since the foothills of the mountains, they hadn't seen the young dwarf break down, but now he did. The sustaining anger failed and Kíli sunk down onto his haunches and cried, his forearms covering his face. The painful sounds of mourning drove a spear through every heart. Bifur moaned wordlessly in sympathy. Others turned away.

It was Bilbo whose small voice spoke out of the oppressed quiet. "If we can't fight them, we'll just have to try something else. I could go to their camp and search for Fíli. They wouldn't see me."

Thorin lifted his head. This was the second time their hobbit had suggested something of this kind, as though he believed himself invisible to the enemy. Curiosity worming past even the heavy walls surrounding him, he questioned, "And how exactly do you expect to sneak past an entire pack of orcs without being seen?"

"I'm supposed to be a burglar, aren't I?" Bilbo's eyes shied away from his evasively. Instead, he turned to the wizard. "I'd have to be careful, though. The wargs...would they be able to smell me, Gandalf?"

The wizard gazed at Bilbo with eyes that smoldered like the embers of a lit pipe. "It might be done," he said finally. "With precautions, and if the wind is with you. It might be done."

A tiny pinprick of hope threatened to rise in Thorin's bosom, but he smothered it immediately, not daring to let it seize hold. "No." He laid down his final word. Almost without noticing, the halfling had crept into his confidence and his heart, and even the thought of him in the hands of Azog was enough to make his stomach heave with nausea. It absolutely could not happen. "You would be caught, and then we would have two of the company lost."

Glóin was shaking his head too. "Even if you did manage to sneak in and found Fíli, how would you get him out? With all the will in the world, I doubt you could carry him, and what about those hobbles?"

The entire company felt cast down at this reflection. They had all seen the heavy chains. And, though his title was 'burglar', none had any notion that Bilbo could open them.

"I could get them off."

Unexpectedly, Nori stood forward. His scallywag reputation made him somewhat of an outsider in the group, and he so rarely offered any commentary that it took everyone by surprise. The swarthy dwarf searched his belt, and came up with a long, thin piece of metal. At first with an abashed glance at his brother, but then with defiant confidence, he flourished it. "I've gotten past a lock or two in my time. If Bilbo thinks he can get me to Fíli unseen, I can cast him off, I promise you that."

The dwarf company looked around at one another, the plan forming behind their eyes. Thorin had to stop it before it could go further. "This is madness. The hobbit cannot do it."

The wounded look in Bilbo's brown eyes was enough to make Thorin feel a sharp stab, but he refused to let that pain turn to regret. He stood, his hands clasped behind his back. "I will not ask anyone to risk their lives. I alone will go –"

"I beg your pardon, Thorin, but I'm afraid we can't accept that," Balin interrupted, stunning Thorin to silence. Never had any of the dwarfs challenged him, not from the beginning. Yet his old friend said to him now, "When we chose to come with you on this journey, we knew that it would be dangerous. But you called for dwarves loyal to the line of Durin, and we came." He paused, glancing at the others, who all nodded agreement. Balin turned and looked directly at Thorin with his warm, wise eyes. "And if it's all the same to you, we would rather not lose our king before we even get to Erebor."

Something had lodged itself in Thorin's throat. It stopped his speech. He could not answer.

Taking advantage of his momentary silence, Bofur grinned cheekily. "After all, it would be a shame if you were killed by anything less than Smaug himself, eh? Now that would be a story worth telling."

"A bit depressing, though," Dwalin offered his opinion, fingering his axe. "To get all the way to the end of a quest, and then be eaten."

"Or incinerated," Bofur piped up again, winking at Bilbo. He wiggled his fingers. "Puuf."

Gandalf heaved a sigh, eyes rolling under his brows. "The sense of humor of dwarves. Our enemy stands at the door, and you still find time for joking." However, anyone could see that he wasn't truly cross. A liveliness had come back to his eyes. He took new grip on his staff. "If conditions were right, a rescue might be possible. If Bilbo could find Fíli, and free him with Nori's help –"

"And me," Kíli spoke suddenly. He stood, His face was as black as a thundercloud. Everyone saw his mulish, wrenched expression and did not dare contradict him.

"And Kíli," Gandalf acquiesced. "It would require that they escape detection entirely. A distraction would be needed – and not a clumsy show of force!" he snapped at Glóin and Óin, even as they raised their axes. "We would be entirely at their mercy if we charge into their camp. No, we need to outsmart them." He drew his cloak around him. "I need to think. I need –"

Even Thorin flinched when the wizard unfurled, suddenly seeming to grow twice as large, towering over the company.

"Fire!" he declared. "Nothing disorients a warg so much. You saw them on the other side of the river today. As shy as ponies. And the orcs won't like it either. It would be chaos."

"Fire?" Ori wondered, rubbing the side of his head. "But, how could we set a fire big enough to disrupt the camp without getting so close that they just cut us to bitsies?"

"Pinecones!" Gandalf pointed to the woods all around them, coniferous trees with large cones stuck in bunches. "Ori, Kíli, Bofur, up you go! Pass them along to the others. We need as many as we can carry. Where is that poor ferryman? Glóin, Óin – start a small fire, just bright enough to attract the attention of the forest creatures. This task is beyond our strength. We need help."

It was pandemonium from the first flaming missile that arched into the orc camp and exploded into a blazing streak of flame. Orange sparks hissed off the impromptu mortar shells like fireworks – undoubtedly helped by Gandalf's skill – igniting everything they touched. The wargs squealed like pigs as their coats burned, tramping some of their handlers, who were trying to respond to their master's call to battle.

Kíli, pressed down on his stomach in thick undergrowth, watched their panic and confusion grow. The heat touched on his face as the fire increased, and he could feel Nori's restless squirming, but it was as though his body had been separated from his spirit. Everything essential to who he was had already departed with Bilbo, who at this very moment sought the place where these animals were keeping his brother.

Since the moment he had seen that tangled braid of hair twisted in Thorin's hand, Kíli had been back in the goblin tunnels – careening. He had left Fíli there, and somehow the evil giant from Balin's horror tales had taken possession of him. How could he have allowed that to happen?

To prevent his hand from shaking, he dragged his sword closer to him through the soil, clenching his fingers around its pommel. His lunatic heart was beating so hard and fast it hurt. As an adolescent, he had been terrorized by the warriors' stories about what happened to those who fell captive to orcs. Even with an ale warming his belly and his brother's shoulder near his, they had made him shiver and poisoned his dreams. Now –

A whisper of grass close to their ears, and then Bilbo appeared as though out of thin air. His face was distorted, but he gestured for them to follow. By that time, most of the enemy had gone to the river, and with the burning and the shadows, covered by the screams of the wounded wargs and orcs, they were able to move unseen.

Then Bilbo hissed into Kíli's ear – "Here" – and he and Nori leapt as one, the blade of sword and axe bringing an undeservedly quick end to two guards standing hunched, watching the fires. They fell without even screaming.

On the ground by their feet, curled on his side, was Fíli. They had staked him there, iron pegs piercing through the chains and deep into the earth. Kíli fell instantly to his knees. He took Fíli's face between his hands and called his name, but there was no answer. He had to press his cheek right against his brother's mouth to even know he lived, for his skin was so cold.

Drawing back, Kíli almost wept to see the wounded scalp where Azog had torn the braid free, a spongy mess of blood. A long knife wound had been sawed across his face – fresh, only a few hours old. It traced the eye that was too swollen to open, and ran below the other, which was webbed with lines of pain even in this deep unconsciousness. A trace of wet, black orc blood was on his lips and teeth, and Kíli felt a surge of anguish and love, knowing that even bound like this and so hurt, his brother had still fought.

As for his body, Kíli could barely stand to look. The marks of the scourge were the worst; they drew his eye over the raw meat of his brother's back and sides, so wickedly gouged that there was no place to put his hand. Ugly wounds like bite marks on his shoulders, thick rails of bruising on his arms and legs. That he'd been beaten – oh, so badly beaten – was apparent, but there were also burns, weeping and yellow, blistering the tender skin under his arms. His chest yielded under the gentlest pressure. Worse, and worse. There was no end to it.

He heard Nori retching, and followed the older dwarf's gaze to his brother's hands. Then it was he who was fighting not to gag, for they were destroyed. The fingers of the right were so distorted and swollen that Kíli knew right away that at least some had no hope of being saved. Was there one bone they had not broken? One inch of flesh they had left untouched?

Kíli felt his cheeks grow hot and wet, and knew he could look no more at what the orcs had done. Lifting his chin, he saw Bilbo across from him. He met the Kíli's gaze, and there were tears streaking down his face.

Withdrawing the cloak they had brought and stretching it out by his brother, Kíli put every ounce of his will into the task at hand. "Nori," he said hoarsely. "The chains."

It took a long time. Orc craftsmanship was crude. The barely worked iron had cutting edges that left Nori's fingers slippery with blood, and the moving parts were ungreased and stubborn. Sweat dripped down Nori's long nose, his braided brows dampening, but then, finally, the heavy yoke released, and with utmost care and gentleness, the two dwarves moved Fíli's body onto the cloak.

Kíli though it heart might break when Bilbo took off his own jacket and cushioned it under Fíli's head. It was too small to do anything to cover his nakedness, still less to put the terrible wounds out of sight. However, the small dignity that it offered moved Kíli deeply.

The hobbit stayed beside them as Nori and Kíli each took their side and lifted. Between them, they made their way towards the greater darkness beyond the fires, for though the smoke they could see striding figures, the outline of weapons. Strikingly clear, Azog's voice roared up, and Bilbo's hand on his shoulder was the only thing that made Kíli realize he'd stopped, his head snapping around like a wolf scenting its quarry.

"We have to take care of Fíli," Bilbo whispered, pressing him forward insistently. He tugged. "Kíli, he's what's most important."

Nori chimed in, sounding terrified. "We have to go now. Kíli, they're coming."

And indeed they were. The fires had not stopped burning, but limping and wounded, some orcs were coming back. Kíli stepped up his pace, but their burden was awkward to carry. He cast a look behind him, and his heart froze to see one of the wargs staring at them, its eyes illuminated with fox-fire. Snarling, it bunched the muscles of its shoulders and prepared to spring.

However, it never got its chance to attack, for in that moment an enormous wall of black fur collided with the beast's side. Tearing teeth, and then the warg split open. The black animal reared up – thirteen, fourteen feet tall – and bellowed a hoarse roar so loud that it rattled Kíli's teeth. It charged again, its paws shaking the ground as it fell to all fours, and then Kíli heard the whinnying of horses. The high, murderous squeal of a boar. The scream of a mountain lion. The bawling of hounds.

In the following absolute bedlam, Kíli, Nori, and Bilbo ran, their precious burden slung between them. They carried it across the long, dark miles until they reached the ford, where they met the rest of the company and Thorin. His uncle's dark head came up as they approached, searching greedily and seeing Kíli alive, but his relief was clearly tempered with fear. After all, he could not help but see the cloak, hanging low.

Kíli answered his unspoken plea for reassurance with bleak, unblinking eyes.