Chapter Seven

The Erebor Guard went into a flurry of activity and the King joined in. They were turning the mountain inside out, including searches of the mine and every old, unused tunnel high and low. Lady An confirmed that their children were all safe deep inside the royal nursery…except Fjalar. He was nowhere.

"I want my son," Fili had growled, his voice rising. "And I want that abzaginh alive and begging for mercy!"

They all knew the lass in question—banished not two months back. A Grey Mountain traitor, and as their King had named her, an abzaginh. A poisonous bitch who had, in fact, attempted murder on her own king.

The people of Erebor, aghast at the news that the renegade lass had returned and was inside the mountain itself, complied willingly, and in many cases joined the hunt with a passion.

She was found by kitchen maids hiding in a food pantry.

And the kitchen maids weren't kind as they dragged her out and shoved her along, having armed themselves with an astounding array of wicked-looking culinary tools.

The King was even less kind. Fili's royal mother, proud sister of Thorin Oakenshield, had taught him well to be gentle and considerate with lasses, young and old.

But he'd also seen her exact justice upon them in his uncle's absence, and being far tougher than humans, dwarves did not hesitate to use force on each other when warranted.

Fili took custody of Yngvli's younger daughter by grabbing a fistful of her hair and slinging her across the King's Hall as easily as he'd executed her lover, Aurvang.

"Where is my son?" he advanced, unsheathing his long knife and pointing it at her.

She pushed herself up slowly, blood on her mouth. She sneered at him. "Like I would tell you."

Fili grabbed her foot and dragged her a good twenty paces across the floor. She scrabbled at the smooth stone, looking for a handhold but not finding one.

Fili dropped her within the circle of a curious pattern in the marble, a swirl of mithril dotted with ancient symbols. "Do not move," he said, pointing the knife at her and walking to circle's edge. She looked over her shoulder at him, making a face.

Fili didn't care. He motioned for something with one hand.

Old Dwalin stepped up, handing over a tall, metal staff and then gesturing for the bystanders to step back.

There was a reason Erebor belonged to the Line of Durin, and everyone in the King's Hall was about to see why.

The very stone would sing for them if they asked it.

Fili turned the staff over once, chanted something harsh and short in Khuzdul, and stabbed the staff into the floor.

A sparking, silver-grey light circled the pattern, tracing a perimeter around the Grey Mountain lass.

"No one can lie to me from the Circle of Ahyrunu." Fili said, loud enough for everyone to hear. He waited for her to test the confines. She leapt up as if to run and promptly fell back hard, having hit something no one could see.

"Where is my son?"

She writhed in silent resistance and the circle of light sparked brighter, strengthened as if fueled by the fury of the King, the fierce-eyed Son of Durin whose fierce grip held the staff to the stone.

"Gone!" she spat finally, gasping for breath. "Long gone. Packed up and sent outside the mountain hours ago."

Fjalar woke alone in the dark, completely disoriented, really cold, very cramped, and far too stunned to cry out or even utter a sound. He was on his back, inside some kind of box so short that his knees were bent and his shoulders hunched. When he reached out a hand, he bumped up against rough wood.

And before he could make any real sense of things, the box was dumped over and he found himself on hands and knees, then on his side, and finally on his head. Luckily, he was able to wriggle himself upright.

Someone grabbed me, he remembered. And now I'm in a crate. He felt around, trying not to panic. He felt for corners and edges. There, on the right hand wall, a knothole with very cold air streaming in. He scrunched himself to press his eye against it, but couldn't see much. Another one, on the ceiling. Nothing much to see there, either. All he could tell was that he was outside, and it was dark.

He heard footsteps approaching, crunching in the snow. He shrank back from the knothole.

A rough bang and jostling. A sense of sliding a little sideways.

I'm on a snow-skid, he realized. And someone just added another crate. More details were coming back to him now. He'd left the guard post by himself, he'd gone looking for a hidden door, and someone had come from behind and covered his nose. Knock-out stuff, like healers used when they had to do something really painful to you. He recalled the glimpse of a merchant lass's face.

Oh, Mahal. He was in soooo much trouble when his mother found out. And he didn't even want to face his father or his uncle. They didn't do it often, but he'd been on the receiving end of a really good whack enough times to know that particular punishment was best avoided.

Da, I'm sorry, he sat back and wrapped his arms around himself. Right now he wanted nothing more than to be safe inside his father's strong embrace, pressing his face against him and just hanging on.

He looked bleakly at the knothole and swallowed hard. Please come get me, Da!

But no one even knew he was here, he was sure of it. How was he ever going to get out of this?

First, stay quiet, he told himself, forcing away the threat of tears. Better if they think you're still knocked out. Then his uncle's words from self-defense games were coming back to him. Always look for what you have and how you can use it.

Well, he had the inside of a box…

Then he patted his coat. He'd started carrying knives in his gear like his Da. He'd even swiped needles and thread from his mother's maids and added secret sheaths himself. There—one, two…and three. He had three of his knives still with him.

That's a start, he told himself.

Then he heard voices.

Not Erebor dwarves. Sounded like two men and one foreign dwarf.

Someone thumped the other box.

"This one's got the gold," the foreign dwarf said. "This one," there was a loud bang on Fjalar's box near his left knee, "Carries the real treasure. Wealth of ransom. Or just kill the lad for sport and there's one less Son of Durin in the world."

Fjalar sank down a bit, eyes wide, hand clutching the hilt of his bigger knife.

"Garn," said one of the men. "I say kill him."

"Sure," the foreign dwarf agreed. "Kill the brat now while it's young and defenseless."

"And that Lord Kili's day is coming, too," the man continued. "Orcs swear poison already burns in that one's blood…add a little something the hidden ones are cooking up and he'll be finished…then we have us two less Sons of Durin to worry about."

Fjalar gripped his knife tighter. He was shivering now. He heard their threat, but didn't really understand it. What did they mean? No one could get his uncle. He glared in the direction of the voices.

Someone stomped around in the snow. "You sure about what you have here?"

"By my beard. King's mark on his cloak and everything," the dwarf growled. "Drag him out and see for yourself. Do it, and then I'll kill him for ye." There was a harsh laugh.

"Stop it, you fools." A different man with a deeper voice stepped close to the box. "There's a bigger prize in this. Our job is to bait the king. Draw him out of that mountain and then get them both. He sits too tight inside Erebor. Get him far enough away from it and he's ours."

Scoffing laughter. "Ooooo. That's right...and it'll work!"

"So stop stalling then! Haul this brat off to the meet-up spot," the deep voice ordered. "Get on that skid. Off with you!" The snow-skid jolted and jerked forward, sliding sideways a bit before the draft animals picked up speed.

His gut full of dread, Fjalar finally understood why he was still alive. They wanted his dad to come after him, and when he did, there would be an ambush.

Fjalar sank to the bottom of the box, knees tight against his chest.

And it was all his fault.

Nÿr had cried herself to exhaustion and slept through the routing of Yngvli's daughter, completely missing the excitement. She woke near midnight, rubbed her face, and cursed herself for such pathetic behavior.

All right, you've had your cry, she told herself. Enough of that.

She stood, looking around the little hideaway one last time.

Her eyes lingered on the plush rug in front of the cold ashes.

All too easily she could recall spending the night there with her beloved, stretching herself along his powerfully muscled body, finding what made him gasp in pleasure…thrilling at his touch on her skin and his hunger for love.

But she forced herself to look away and closed herself off from those thoughts.

No more. The best thing, she decided, for Kili and the rest of his family, was for her to leave.

It had been a nice fantasy, thinking she was worthy of a marriage contract with a Prince.

But she wasn't. No one inside Erebor thought so either.

Kili was better off without her.

She left, locked the door behind her, and made her way through empty halls to the trainee dorm.

Her dorm mates were thankfully asleep.

It didn't take long for her to roll up a couple of blankets, pack her few things, and change into her travel gear: trousers, boots, and a heavy coat. She hastily penned a note, stepped quietly to the Master Physician's mail slot, and slipped it in.

And then she shouldered her pack and healer's satchel, and simply walked out. She made for the western terrace, knowing the little-used healer's stairs would provide an unseen exit and a trail down the mountain that would point her west. Vaguely, she had decided to make her way back to Ered Luin, a place she knew well, having recently spent five years there as a healer trainee.

At the same time, there were many places in between for a reasonably competent itinerant healer. She'd met a ranging group of Dunedain, once. Their settlements moved around, but it was possible that a good healer and a fair midwife could find a place among them.

There was a small voice in the back of her mind that wondered if this was really the right course of action, but she hushed it. What she heard louder was the echo of those angry lads in the dining hall: stay away from real dwarves.

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A/N: Thanks for reading! As always, I welcome feedback or just say Hi... Hand on heart to you for reading along! Cheers, -Summer