The night sky was clear and chill, and the stars glittered in the inky blackness. Lathron, lying with the twins and Dwalin on the ridge overlooking Skorgrím's tomb, looked up at them and shivered - their light, usually so comforting to him and his people, suddenly felt cold and distant. One star, however, felt all too near, and it burned like a livid eye in the night - the Gil Agarwen. Ever since that night, hundreds of years ago, it had hung there, a grim reminder of events to come. He had long since learnt to ignore it, but now... It pulsed, seeming to taunt him. 'Remember me? I appeared, and Talagan died. Who's going to die this time?'

Suddenly, he was filled with fear. Who knew what was about to happen inside that tomb? Last time, many people had died. Talagan had sacrificed himself. An ancient store of knowledge and lore had been lost. He couldn't risk losing his new friends too.

Then, in the west, another star caught his eye. It blazed brightly suddenly, and he turned to look at it - Ëarendil, ferrying the silmaril across the sky. Hope rekindled in his heart. His thoughts turned to Dorongúr, lying asleep in the healers' tent back at camp. He owed it to the old Elf - an end to the suffering they had both shared. Then he remembered Galadriel's vision: 'Your fate is tied to that of Middle Earth... we will stand or fall with you.' If the Dourhands were not stopped, if Skorgrím did indeed come back to life, there was no telling what evil they might unleash. More would suffer, and it was his duty to stop that. He remembered Talagan's words to him on the night of the Gil Agarwen: 'The hunter stalks unseen by all unless he chooses, and that gives him great power... it is the hunters, the rangers, those overlooked in the shadows and on the sidelines, who win wars'. He had a responsibility - to Talagan, to his friends, to all the people of Middle Earth whom he hadn't met. He was a hunter, and he had the power to prevent this evil. He must not fail.

Elladan tapped his shoulder urgently, drawing his attention back to the tomb. A large company of Dwarves - Dourhands - were making their way up the valley. Men and women, all wore robes of black, although their heads were bared in respect, and each carried a black stone.

"Every Dourhand in the valley must have turned up," whispered Dwalin. "Gormr wasn't lying when he said it wasn't one to miss."

At the head of the company walked Gormr, resplendent in ornate, enamelled armour, that Lathron recognised to be modelled on Skorgrím's. 'The repulsive man really fancies himself, doesn't he?' he thought disdainfully, readjusting his scarf over his face.

Before the doors, Gormr halted and turned to face back the way he'd come. He appeared to be waiting for someone. Before long, Lathron heard the tramp of feet coming up the road. The Dourhands parted to allow a small party of armoured Dwarves through. The one at their head wore a heavy ceremonial greathelm, with tall horns curving up from its brows. They marched up to Gormr and stopped smartly at a raised hand from their leader. He strode up the steps to face Gormr and the two of them bowed. Then, he pulled off his helmet, and Lathron gave an audible gasp.

It was Fírndall.

The Dwarf's face was lined, and a gold eyepatch was fixed over his missing eye, but it was unmistakeably him. His hair was still braided with the same golden hendrevail. He raised his arm, and a live one swooped down to land on it. As one, the watchers ducked below the ridge, hiding themselves from the hawk's keen gaze. All knew the tales of the Petty-Dwarves of old, who were said to talk with the birds.

They heard the clanking of gears and chains, then the boom of the doors swinging open and a tramp of marching feet. Elladan got to his feet and, motioning for them to follow him, crept down to the valley entrance. They peered round the archway as the Dwarves entered the dark tomb, then, as the last few disappeared, swept down the gully and in through the doors before they clanged shut.

Inside, the tomb was vast and high-ceilinged, with many towering pillars and criss-crossing staircases leading to tunnels high in the walls. Down the centre was a wide path lit by the same crystal lamps as in the Silver Deep, and before a large iron portcullis in the far wall was a high dais. The Dwarves clustered around it, while Gormr, Fírndall and their guards climbed up onto it.

"Follow me," Dwalin whispered. "I know a place where we can get closer without being spotted, and still be able to reach the dais when the time comes to act." He crept up a small flight of stairs to their left, and along a ledge that ran the length of the room. They stopped where it overlooked the dais, just high enough that they would not be seen, but low enough that they could jump down quickly. For the moment, their plan was to watch, and see what Gormr and his folk planned to do. When the moment came for the Dwarves to perform whatever they were planning, they would jump in and stop the ceremony while they were distracted.

The Dwarves on the ground were arranged in semicircles before the dais. As one they knelt, touching their foreheads to the ground. "Skorgrím, great king," they murmured. "We honour you."

On the dais, there was a rumble, and a patch of the seemingly seamless stone cracked open and slid down and to the sides. From below rose a stone bier, on which lay the corpse of Skorgrím. He was perfectly preserved - eerily so. But for his pallid face, it was as if he was merely sleeping. The Dwarves sighed in reverence.

Gormr stepped forward. "It is time," he called, "for our moment of glory. We nearly had it, long ago, but the hated Elves took it from us. They killed our king as he was about to triumph, but now, we have what he sought. Their sacrifice was in vain; his was not." The Dwarves cheered as a guard walked forwards carrying an iron box. Gormr lifted the lid and raised what was inside. Lathron and the twins gasped in horror - it was Ivar's relics.

Dwalin was confused. "What are those?" he asked.

"Relics of great evil and power," Lathron explained. Skorgrím sought them when he came to Edhelion. We thought them destroyed forever. Clearly, we were mistaken."

Elrohir made to spring from the ledge but Elladan held him fast. "Wait, brother," he commanded. "There is more to come, and there are far too many."

Fírndall had stepped forward. "Brothers and sisters, it is time for the ritual to begin. Place the binding stones on the ground before you."

The Dwarves did so, and a silence seemed to fill the tomb. It seemed to Lathron that a network of black lines deep within the rock seemed to connect the stones. Gormr took seven more - the ones that Lathron himself had collected - and placed them in a ring around Skorgrím. A ring identical to that in Rockbelly Pit. Alarm bells began to ring in Lathron's mind. "I think we should stop them now."

"Nay," Dwalin whispered. "There is no danger yet, and I do not believe there will be. What can a pile of black stones and some ancient artefacts do?"

The black lines were becoming clearer now - a matrix of dark flaws within the rock. They spread up the steps of the dais and linked the circle of stones together. Gormr raised the relics high. "The hour is upon us," he called. "Ivar, it is time. Come forth."

With a clanking of chains, the portcullis was raised, seemingly on its own. From the shadows behind it, a figure emerged, walking with a slow, shambling gait. It was very tall and thin, with pale skin, wearing faded red robes and a tall, spiked iron crown, and carrying a long, iron staff in its left hand. Its right hand was missing. Suddenly, a wave of icy cold evil rolled through the chamber. Lathron froze in terror, and felt his companions do the same.

The figure stalked forwards and stopped before Gormr. The Dwarf bowed. "My Lord, it is good to see you again. At last, it is time for you to restore our fallen king to glory."

Ivar glared at Gormr with dead black eyes, and his shrunken lips peeled back from rotten teeth in what might have been a cold grin, but came out as a disgusting grimace. "Be silent, and talk not of things thou dost not understand," he snarled, his voice a wheezing rattle. "First, I must have what is mine."

Gormr offered him the relics and he snatched them greedily. "So long it has been," he crooned, clutching his stump. "The pain... but that is over now." He held his severed hand against his stump and uttered several harsh words. The skin of his arm and the hand began to writhe. Tendrils snaked between them, finally forming a new layer of skin. Lathron saw the flesh and bone knit together beneath. Ivar sighed and flexed the appendage, then slid the ring onto his index finger.

"Ah, such power," he grinned. "I have not felt it for an age and more. Thou hast my thanks, Gormr, and therefore my reward. I shall perform the summoning."

He bent, stalking around the bier and dragging his spiked staff around the stone circle with a whine that set Lathron's teeth on edge, chanting spells. Lathron tried to move, but whatever power Ivar had released, it held him spellbound.

The Gaunt Lord stood at the head of the bier and placed his ring hand over Skorgrím's face. With the other, he raised his staff high. His chanting reached a climax. Then, in the common tongue, he cried, "Come my servants! Long have you waited in the dark! It is time for you to walk forth in the light once again! Accept my sacrifice and enter this vessel I have prepared!"

There was a tremor, and the light of the crystals flickered. Gormr and Fírndall stepped forward in anger. "Sacrifice?" Gormr growled, "What sacri...?"

From the stones and along the black lines, lightning leapt. For a moment, the air was unbearably white and Lathron jammed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, a skeleton stood in the place of every Dourhand but Gormr and Fírndall. Then, the bones collapsed into ash. The two stood frozen in shock as Ivar cackled. The lightning crackled along the black lines to the circle around Skorgrím's body. With a rush of wind, a cluster of spirits appeared, glowing brighter than Lathron had yet seen them. Ivar raised his arms, and Skorgrím's body floated into the air to hang upright, his head lolling back.

The spirits swept in like a pack of barghests, circling the corpse in ever-quickening loops. Then they stopped, rearing as one before it, before with a howl of triumph they plunged into its chest. Lightning shot from the seven stones and disappeared into the corpse.

Skorgrím gave a shudder. His back arched and his limbs spasmed. His mouth gasped, and his chest heaved. Slowly, he descended towards the bier and lay upon it. Then, his eyes snapped open. They glowed green.

Gormr and Fírndall rushed to him. "My king, my king," Fírndall gasped. "You have returned to us in our hour of need! It is time for us to claim these lands, as we should have done long ago."

Skorgrím sat up and pushed them aside. "Who... are these?" he wheezed unsteadily.

Fírndall looked taken aback. "Do you not remember me - your cousin? Your faithful servant Fírndall? Long have I awaited your return, King Skorgrím."

Skorgrím stood and pushed past him. "We are not Skorgrím," he stated.

"Of course you are!" Gormr knelt at his feet and kissed them. "King Skorgrím, I am Gormr Doursmith. I am your most faithful, your most devoted..."

Skorgrím kicked him in the face, sending him sprawling. "We are not Skorgrím," he repeated.

Fírndall turned furiously to Ivar. "What is the meaning of this?" he snarled. "You promised us that you would return our king to us. For two long centuries, we have served you, helping you grow in strength, finding and returning your relics to you. Is this how you would repay us? How can Skorgrím lead us against the Ered Luin if he can't even remember his own name?"

Ivar chucked coldly. "Return thy king to you? Nay, I promised no such thing. I did indeed promise to resurrect him, but that is a different thing entirely. As for taking the Ered Luin, pah! At first, maybe, but it shall be in the name of Angmar, and besides, my masters and I have greater plans by far for 'Skorgrím'." He gestured to the Wight. "Come, my servant, we have much to discuss."

"We come, master." Skorgrím stumbled after him into the dark behind the portcullis.

"No! Wait!" Gormr sprang after them. "You can't do this! You can't take our king from us!"

"He was never thine!" Ivar cackled. "Thou thinkest thou hast been plotting? I have been preparing for this night for far longer than thou." The portcullis began to fall. Just before it closed, Ivar looked back. "One last thing. There are three Elves and a Dwarf hiding on that ledge. Kill them."

At once, Gormr and Fírndall's eyes snapped up to where Lathron and the others were hiding. As Ivar disappeared. Lathron felt strength return to his limbs, and he sprang to his feet. Gormr and Fírndall began to run towards the stairs, but Elladan and Elrohir leapt down to confront them on the dais. Dwalin and Lathron followed them. While Dwalin made for Gormr, swinging his axes and yelling the Dwarf battle cry - "Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!" - Lathron stood at a distance and trained his bow on Fírndall, who was battling Elrohir. Dimly, he could see his mother's death again, but now, it was merely a shadow in his mind's eye. Instead, the Dwarf filled his vision. He shook with rage. His vision reddened. With difficulty, he forced it back down - Elrohir stood between him and Fírndall. If he didn't calm down, he could hit him instead. He took a deep breath, and his mind cleared. With practiced precision, he drew, aimed, let fly.

The arrow passed under Elrohir's falling arm and buried itself in Fírndall's exposed armpit. With a bellow he parried Elrohir's strike clumsily on his axe haft, then staggered away. Lathron took another shot, but this time, the Dwarf was ready. He deflected the arrow with his axe, then wrenched out the first with a grimace. He glared at Lathron and growled. "You'll pay for that."

He raised his axe and charged. Elrohir lunged but was knocked aside. In one movement, Lathron placed his bow in his quiver and drew his swords, a grim smile on his face beneath the scarf. The two of them clashed in a spray of sparks. Fírndall gave a grunt and pushed him backwards, then followed with a heavy swing towards Lathron's neck. He leant away from the attack and Fírndall's momentum carried him round another half-turn. Lathron stabbed at his neck, but Fírndall moved slightly and the sword skated off his gorget. Lathron attacked again with a scissor-cut from both sides, but Fírndall simply raised his arms to his neck and the swords glanced off the thick plate-metal of his gauntlets with barely a scratch. "Give up," he hissed. "This is Dwarf-forged steel - your swords cannot penetrate it - and you are unarmoured. I shall crush you like the vermin you are."

"I don't need armour," Lathron spat, stabbing at Fírndall's face. The Dwarf knocked the attack aside lazily with his axe, but then Elrohir sliced at the back of his neck. The metal braids were thickly interwoven, and the sword could not cut through them, although a few hanks of hair fell to the ground. Fírndall roared and began raining blows on Elrohir, whose slender curved swords were little help at parrying the heavy axe.

"Your people have plagued mine for far too long, son of Elrond!" Fírndall roared. "It is time for us to end you once and for all!" He gestured and his hendroval swooped down from the roof, raking Elrohir's face with its talons. Lathron raised his bow again and shot it through the breast. With a final shriek, it flew through the air to be impaled against a column. Fírndall turned from the cowering Elrohir to bear down on Lathron again, his eye livid. "What have you done?" He spat in apoplexy. "How dare you? Oh, I'm going to enjoy this very much, Elfling."

He began his hail of axe-blows again, but Lathron managed to parry or dodge every one, darting about like a lynx and pricking him in the chinks of his armour. Fírndall's eye got madder and madder the more he missed. "Stand still, damn you!" he bellowed. "Fight me properly, you coward!"

"Watch who you're calling a coward!" Lathron growled. "You're one to judge, killing the defenceless, sneaking in at night to burn and pillage. You're ten times the coward I am."

"How dare you?" Fírndall howled. "I am Fírndall Dourhand, cousin of the great Skorgrím. Who do you think you are to accuse me thus?"

"You should know, Fírndall, or don't you remember?" Lathron lunged under a blow and shoved Fírndall in the chest. The heavy armour overbalanced the Dwarf and he went sprawling. His axe clattered away and he made to grab it, but Lathron knelt on his arms and held a sword to his throat. With his other hand he wrenched his scarf down, and brought his face close to Fírndall's. Recognition dawned in the Dwarf's face.

"Now do you remember me?" Lathron hissed. His voice shook with rage and pain. "Do you remember how you slaughtered my friends and burned my home? Do you remember how you killed my mother, and laughed as the flames licked closer? Do you remember how you fled in cowardice, and left me to burn? Because I do." He pressed his sword into Fírndall's neck, drawing beads of blood. He could his face in the Dwarf's eyepatch - the reflection was distorted, hideous.

"It was Skorgrím," Fírndall pleaded. "He gave orders... I couldn't refuse. Ivar must have been controlling him. It wasn't my fault. Please, let me go!"

"You disgust me," Lathron spat. "A coward and a murderer. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."

"Because you're not a murderer. You'll spare me, won't you? Let the past be?"

Lathron cursed inwardly - Fírndall was right. If he killed him now, when he was helpless, he would be as bad as the Dwarf. He remembered Talagan's warning on the night of the Gil Agarwen: 'When you find your prey at your mercy, spare him a thought, for against you he is weak and pitiful'. At the time, he had been certain he would show Fírndall no mercy, but now... Fírndall certainly looked pitiful, whimpering on the ground, his one good eye wet with tears. To his left, he saw that Elladan and Dwalin had dispatched Gormr, and they and Elrohir were watching him with interest. Dwalin growled. "Cut his throat, Lathron. He deserves it, and it is your right." Fírndall sniffed and closed his eye.

Lathron gave a snarl of frustration and stood up. "Very well, you may go," he told the cowering Dwarf, "but if our paths ever cross again, I will kill you, I swear."

"Thank you! Thank you!" Fírndall grovelled, scrambling to his feet. "You are too kind. It's more than I deserve."

"Just go." Lathron turned his back on the Dwarf.

A noise behind him, and he turned to parry Fírndall's attack. "Coward!" the Dwarf jeered. "You couldn't even finish me off like a man. You're still the child you were before."

Elladan shouted a warning. Suddenly, Lathron was aware that the cavern was shaking. He and Fírndall leapt apart as a stalactite crashed to earth between them, showering them with splinters of stone. More chunks fell from the ceiling all around, and the columns shivered. Fírndall turned and ran for the exit. "Should've killed me while you had the chance, Elfling!" he sneered. "Now it's your turn to die."

Lathron let an arrow fly, and it stuck in Fírndall's fleeing heel. He staggered and limped the rest of the way to the exit. Lathron made to chase after him, but a giant pillar fell across the path, cutting him off.

"Let him go," Elrohir instructed. "We must find another way out of here - Ivar's magic has made this place unsafe. Dwalin?"

The Dwarf hefted his axes. "There's a way round through the side-tunnels over on the right-hand side," he admitted, "but I don't know how stable they'll be."

"We must trust they will hold." Elladan took off at a run to where Dwalin had indicated, the others hot on his heels. They stopped before a pair of heavy wooden doors, which were locked.

"What now?" asked Lathron.

"Watch and learn, my boy." Dwalin raised his axes high and, with a bellow, brought them crashing down on the lock. The wood splintered, the iron buckled, and the doors swung inwards. Dwalin ran through into a dark, rough-hewn passage that climbed up to the left.

As they climbed, rocks and dust fell all around them. Through the debris, Lathron saw a pale figure. "Look out!" he cried.

Dwalin paid no heed, barrelling into it with a clatter of bones. The Wight's skull bounced off down the slope, trailing vapour.

Ahead, the passage split in two, one tunnel stretching on towards light, the other switching back on them. They made for the first, but as they approached it shook violently, then collapsed. "Back!" Dwalin shouted above the noise, "head upwards!"

They doubled back on themselves, climbing a steep slope. Ahead, two spirits rose from the earth, eyes blazing. The twins charged forwards, hands outstretched, shouting words in Quenya in unison. The spirits shrieked and fled.

The ground had just levelled out when the roof cracked over their heads and another Wight dropped down towards them. Lathron shot its head off in midair. The rest of it shattered with a scream as it hit the floor.

Finally, they emerged high above the central chamber and ran down a shaking staircase. Rubble rained down on all sides, and as they reached the floor, a huge stalactite fell, destroying what mere seconds before would have been their only escape route. They flung the doors open and collapsed, panting, in the snow. Lathron took only a few breaths before he was running again. The others shouted but he paid them no heed - Fírndall's tracks were clearly stamped in the snow. He followed them across the court and through the town to a small stables. The ponies were rearing and whinnying, clearly spooked, and Lathron saw signs that one had been saddled and ridden off in a hurry. In frustration he kicked a pile of hay and fell to his knees. What a disaster. Ivar had succeeded, Skorgrím, or a copy of him, had been resurrected, and Fírndall had escaped. A sob escaped his mouth. He had failed - his mother, Talagan, Dorongúr, himself.

With heavy footsteps, the others ran up. When they saw what Lathron had, they too gave noises of frustration. Elladan knelt next to Lathron. "It wasn't your fault."

"Of course it was. I was weak - I couldn't kill him. I let him trick me. I should have shot him the moment I saw him. Then, maybe none of this would have happened."

"Surely you can't believe all that was your fault? We had no idea Ivar was behind this - he's supposed to be dead and buried - otherwise I wouldn't have insisted on waiting. Then we were all paralysed. None of us could help it. As for Fírndall, with Gormr dead he has lost his closest ally. He can do no harm at present."

"But I let him go! He was at my mercy and I couldn't kill him!"

"Couldn't, or wouldn't? You showed him mercy, when by all rights he should have received none. That shows true courage, and a noble heart. Talagan, I am certain, would be proud."

Lathron stared at the hoof prints, disappearing under a fresh fall of snow. Fírndall would return, he could feel it, and when he did, Lathron would be waiting.

Hi! Sorry I haven't posted recently. It was a bit of a cliffhanger I know. Actually, I like cliffhangers, so no, I'm not sorry ;).

Wow. So that revealed a lot. Who guessed Ivar was behind all the nasty shizzle wizzle? Anyone? Seriously though, there're going to be a few big reveals later in this story, and I want to know how good I am at slowly leaking hints, because obviously I know all the plot points anyway so i can't surprise myself.

So Firndall's alive. Skorgrim's alive, and a creepy-ass undead necromancer's got all his power back. Things are looking pretty f*cked up for Lath at the moment, if you'll pardon my Sindarin. At least that self-important Gormr's dead (Rearranges headscarf to appear more mysterious. Anyone notice that bit too? Oh the irony :) ).

Also I got another review (Apart from people who could just talk to me directly. Yes Anironendor I'm still talking to you) so a big thank you to Blackunicorne for reviewing. The end of this 'section' of the story is nigh (don't worry, there are still like a million more 'sections' to go), and it's time for me to assess my writing style and come up with the next bit of the plot, so reviews would be really helpful round about now. I'd also like to know if my inconsistent updates annoy you, or if you're ok with my randomness. I'm gonna keep going on about this like a crazy person so you might as well ;). Blatant publicity wish is blatant.

Seriously though, even if you don't review, I can always tell if I'm getting reads, so thank you to you reading this. Yes you. Hi! Are you still awake? I know I'm not. (Also, I'd probably keep on writing this anyway, coz it's fun!)

Seeya next time for the final installment of this section of Rise of the Hunter. Ramble over.

Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarity to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.