Chapter Four

A/NTranslations of Khuzdul are in the footnote.

At noon the next day Kili stood in the cold wind on the western terrace with the Stonesmiths, listening to their theories and arguments regarding the instability of the slope around the rockfall. To his dismay, several merchants and other visitors had arrived to look at the damage and add their worry.

Even old Dwalin had hobbled his way to the perimeter, leaning heavily on his staff.

"It would be better if we could get up there and really poke around," said the chief Stonesmith.

Another shook his head. "It's too unstable. From here, I'd say the problem is contraction of the stone in the cold weather."

One of the construction experts shook her head. "Looks more to me like it's a weak rock face loosened by the munitions used in the last battle."

"As a general matter of concern," one of the richly dressed merchants complained. "Does anyone know just how much of the mountain is equally unsound?" He looked around importantly as if to imply that Erebor's kingdom was as unstable as its rock.

Kili bit back an angry comment, recognizing the insult as politically motivated. His sympathy swelled for his brother Fili, cooped up in negotiations with these fools…

"To Mordor's hell with that damn bloody idiot," Old Dwalin muttered low enough that only Kili could hear. "He can imrid amrâd ursul..." He narrowed his eyes.

"Dwalin, stop it," Kili said quietly, suppressing a laugh. "You're channeling Uncle Thorin again. They'll hear you." Kili fought to keep from smiling.

The grumpy old dwarf just growled.

"I'll send out extra patrols," Kili soothed the merchant. "Just don't…"

"Lord Kili!" Someone called in a high-pitched, panicked voice.

Kili was instantly on alert.

"Ambush. Orcs outside Dale." It was one of the young pages, out of breath.

The merchants predictably erupted in alarm. Kili broke into a run, heading for the armory at the Main Gate. He met Fili, already there, helping to pass out weapons. The King thrust a bow into Kili's hand and glared—not only at the mention of orcs, Kili knew, but at the timing. It was not what they wanted while hosting such a crowd of visiting dignitaries.

And then someone among the troops beyond caught his eye. The short form of a young dwarf prince disguised beneath an oversized helm. Kili shouted for a halt, stopping the line of soldiers streaming out in defense. He pulled young Fjalar out of the ranks, thrusting him toward his father before signaling that the troops should continue.

"By Mahal," Fili swore at his under-aged son, gripping the lad's arm.

"Both of you," Kili glared. "Up to the guard tower. We need someone there who can speak with ravens." He jerked his head toward Ravenhill.

Trusting that his brother would behave and stay put as long as he had his young son to protect, Kili grabbed an extra quiver of arrows and sped to the gates. Skirfir met him there with saddled mounts, and within minutes they were riding out on light-armored short horses, a speedy Rohan fighting breed recently sent as gifts from Edoras.

Kili led a group of twenty mounted dwarves and came upon the ambush quickly, finding an overturned carriage beside a group of panicked ladies. He directed five of his soldiers to see to the wounded, and with the rest, fanned out around the wreckage, ready for a fight but not finding one.

After three circuits of the immediate area, Kili slowed his short horse and dismounted, sword drawn and eyes scanning the ground for signs of the fight. What did they take? What was their purpose? He fumed.

But he did not find what he expected—no spent arrows, no thrown knives…no dead or wounded orcs.

He looked back at the frightened ladies huddled outside the overturned carriage, one was gasping in a breathless panic, three were in tears. Their hair might have been a bit mussed, but there were no torn dresses, no defensive wounds, not even a scraped hand or knee. Nothing supported the idea that they had been thrown from a racing carriage. Something didn't quite ring true.

Then he looked at their horses. Unhitched, not lathered, with no sign of broken tackle. The beasts stood calmly with two very young grooms who were pointedly avoiding everyone's eyes.

Skirfir circled his horse and caught Kili's eye. The lad clearly had a hundred questions in his mind.

"Speak," Kili prompted.

"My lord, there's nothing. The carriage is overturned, but no sign of orcs." The younger dwarf looked confused, eyes wide.

"Very good, Skirfir. We're meant to believe there was an attack, but you're correct. There's no evidence of a fight at all." Kili raised a hand and looked to the sky. A moment later a glossy Raven landed on his fist and bobbed, voicing a drawn-out, deep quork.

"What do the ravens say, my friend?" He asked quietly. "Are there orcs about?"

The raven cocked its head and pinned Kili with one shiny black eye. "None, Raven Prince. Only treachery…treachery by your kind." The raven stood taller and flapped his wings in anger.

"All right, yes," Kili said, trying to calm it a moment. "My thanks. I am ever at your service." The raven settled but still fluffed in anger at such a development. "One more thing, my good friend," Kili said. "A message to Ravenhill, if you would. Report to the King. Overturn accident. No ambush. All clear."

The raven looked toward Ravenhill, then launched itself into the sky and made straight for the watch tower.

"I don't understand," young Skirfir said, not being able to hear Ravenspeak.

Kili clenched his jaw. "The raven names this treachery." He glared in the direction of the ladies, still fussing at the soldiers who were trying their best to offer assistance. "Despite all the goodwill at last night's feast," he said. "The negotiations are predictably contentious. My guess is this incident is meant to create fear where there is no reason for it and make for disruptions in the talks."

Skirfir looked shocked.

"Politics," Kili said, sheathing his sword with more force than needed. "Good thing Fili's the diplomat. I would find who's behind this and run them through."

"And I would help you do it," Skirfir said. The lad glowered.

Kili grinned, then became serious again. "The question to ask is: whose idea was this?"

Skirfir inclined his head toward the crying ladies near the overturned carriage. "I say we start with them."

"Good lad," Kili said. He issued a quick order for two of the mounted guard to intercept Erebor's approaching foot soldiers and have them stand down. When he turned back to Skirfir, he clapped the young lieutenant on the shoulder. "I'll work on the ladies—you try the grooms."

But questioning resulted in little usable information. What Skirfir got from the young grooms were terse, short, unwilling responses. Kili got nothing more than tears, claims of injury, and complaints about lax security—which challenged Kili to hold his tongue and keep his temper. They had no idea the extent of Erebor's security and claims that it was lacking turned his heart cold. Dwarves died to protect this mountain. Dwarves he knew.

And then one of them changed her tune. "But now you've rescued us, Lord Kili." She clung to his sleeve like a cloying scent. "So gallant. Do you know," she leaned close as if to share an intimate secret. "I have sent family envoys to your brother." She batted eyelashes.

Kili stared. The lass...was hinting at her choice of him?

It was impossibility, Kili thought. His brother had declared a moratorium on marriage negotiations years ago.

"I've not heard," he deadpanned. The lady was not dissuaded.

"By your honor," she said in a raised voice, loud enough for others to hear. "I insist that it be you to escort me back. I would feel completely unsafe," she emphasized, "with anyone else."

And with that, the lady went limp, forcing Kili to catch her. It created, he realized, the impression of an intimacy that did not truly exist.

"Mahal's axe," he swore. Feuds were started over less. "Where are the healers?" he called, trying hard for his compromising position to look like nothing more than a simple act of aid to the stricken.

Skirfir had the good taste to look affronted and Kili clearly felt that had their positions been reversed, young Skirfir would have enjoyed letting the lady fall flat in the dirt.

"On the way!" someone reported as a dozen armed soldiers on short horses rode up. Three had medics riding pillion who quickly dismounted. Kili was all too eager to transfer his fainted lass into the hands of an older dwarf with a physician's band on his sleeve.

"What did you find out?" he prompted Skirfir to report as they stepped back.

"The grooms say these are ladies in waiting with the delegation from the Grey Mountains," Skirfir said quietly. "The two over there," he gestured to a pair of weeping lasses, "Confirm it. This one," he indicated the fainted lady being tended to by the physician. "Is someone's daughter—one of the official observers. A Master Yngvli."

Kili glowered, not liking that association at all.

Skirfir's face was set. "In my opinion, everything else about this so-called attack is a lie," he said.

Kili nodded. "I believe your assessment is correct," he said in a tight voice. Contention in the negotiations, unexplained rockfalls, a staged incident with non-existent orcs…and an unexpected bid for the hand of a prince. The Grey Mountains were after far more than disrupting an alliance with Gondor. They were trying to start a blood feud.

They want Erebor, Kili realized, nearly laughing at the hubris of it but knowing better than to ever underestimate an enemy. Mahal...they were not more than two years from the defeat of the dark lord and the seven families were at each other already. Sometimes, he growled to himself, dwarves were simply too hard-headed for their own good.

He surveyed the accident scene as he mulled this over. One of the captains had organized the work of righting the overturned carriage and called out the command to hoist.

And then three things happened at once: the carriage was righted, resulting in one soldier receiving a nasty cut on the hand which resulted in an impressive spray of blood before the injury was staunched. Three of the Grey Mountains ladies set to screeching in a chorus of indignation at one of the healers, the loudest being Kili's fainting friend, apparently not as unconscious as thought.

And a contingent of Men from Dale appeared on the road ahead, riding well-armed, fast, and directly for them.

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A/N Thanks for reading! Leave a review (all feedback welcome) or just say hi! Hand on heart to you for reading and Chapter 5 will post next Sunday!

Translation: imrid amrâd ursul = die a fiery death.

Source: from the films...David Salo developed the language used in the movies, including Dwarvish insults. Thorin uses this one when he meets Thranduil: Imrid amrâd ursul – "Die a fiery death." Having been close to Thorin, Dwalin would of course also know this curse. ;D