**Welcome to story number four in my post-LOTR AU! These tales follow the course of a single year from one Durin's Day to the next. In a nutshell, King Fili rules in Erebor, his young son Fjalar is prince-in-training, and Prince Kili is mid-way through a courtship year with his intended, the Lady Nÿr, a healer's apprentice.

While this work can stand alone, reading the prequels will probably help at this point! All feedback welcome, even if you're coming late to the story. A quick review or a PM will do! Mahal's blessing...and enjoy! -Summer**

Chapter 1

Skirfir, young Lieutenant of the Erebor Guard, had never seen anything as frightening as the lightning fast, towering, ugly, many-legged thing coming at them.

But from the wide-eyed alarm on Kili's face, he was certain his prince knew exactly what it was.

"Run!" Kili pushed him to the side. They ducked under a downed tree and took off, Kili in the lead. Skirfir followed, forgetting about careful footholds as they slid recklessly down a bank into a stream.

They pounded up the narrow gulch, shot up the steep bank on the other side and hurdled over the underbrush. When Skirfir started right for the cadet camp, he felt a solid hand on his collar, swinging him left instead.

"Away! Lead them away!" Kili veered him south and sprinted ahead, his sword in his hand. Skirfir put his head down to follow, arrow in one hand, bow in the other. They charged on at a full run.

And then one was ahead of them, blocking their way with a hissing screech and a threatening array of waving limbs. Skirfir could see Kili's blade whirling, pieces of giant spider leg flying…but the damn thing had too many. The loss of one or two legs didn't slow it down.

Skirfir put the brakes on and nocked an arrow.

"Go for the eyes!" Kili yelled, jerking his sword free of pincers and swinging for the head.

Skirfir shot. The target moved far too fast for any hope of a clean hit, but he managed three more arrows. At least two caused real damage—but like its many legs, the thing had a cluster of eyes…not just two.

But it bought Kili enough time to aim for the space under a leg joint and thrust his blade deep, pull it back, and swing it around for a death blow.

"Behind you," he shouted, spurring Skirfir back into action. They headed for a rocky formation not far off.

"What the hell are they?" Skirfir shouted as he followed.

"Mirkwood spiders…" Kili called back, shouldering through leafy undergrowth. "Shouldn't be on the western slope."

Skirfir winced as a branch of leather-leaf slapped his face. "Someone's routed them?"

"Yes!"

They charged across a small clearing. Skirfir could see Kili scanning the sky as he ran.

"Raven! Need a raven!"

Two spiders emerged right behind them.

"Cave!" Skirfir called, spotting an opening in the rocks ahead. They charged full-bore up a rock face, then Skirfir felt Kili hook his jacket and pull him under an overhang. Together, they plowed to the back wall, getting as much distance from the spiders as they could get. They both stopped, heaving for breath, but spider legs reached in after them, stabbing and feinting.

Kili severed two, and Skirfir shot blindly for the body.

He was running out of arrows.

And then the spiders withdrew.

"Mahal's hell," Skirfir panted. "Three arrows...that's all I have left." Three arrows, two throwing darts and a long knife.

Kili nodded. He still had his sword, dripping with green ochre, held at the ready.

They stood still, catching their breath and listening. After a minute, Kili stepped forward, peeking out, signaling for Skirfir to stay put.

"Raven," Kili pointed up and to the right.

Cautiously, he stepped out with his arm up. "Stay there," he said to Skirfir.

The raven swooped in.

Kili didn't waste time on niceties. "Go to the prince, to King but not King…at the hunting camp by the stream." Kili pointed north with his sword. "Tell the prince…Run home now, alert the mountain. Warhammers. Got it? Make him run…get your friends…chase them home, Corax. Fast as you can."

The raven took off. Skirfir recognized the code word. It was the most dire warning a scout could give. He hoped the trainee lads could act on it.

"One more," Kili murmured, he scanned the skies for another raven, wary of the spiders returning.

The woods sounded eerily silent.

Skirfir moved up closer, arrow knocked and ready. The longer it took, the more chance the spiders would be back, and he couldn't defend his prince from back there.

Kili stepped out a little farther, needing ravens to see him.

With Skirfir at his heels, he stepped out in the clear.

There, circling sharply, Skirfir saw a very large raven pull up just in time to land on Kili's arm.

Right when the spiders pushed out from their hiding place and charged.

"No time!" Skirfir yelled, aiming and shooting.

"Go back!" Kili told him, ducking aside to speak to the large black bird. "Huq! To the King! Warhammers!"

Skirfir shot his last two arrows, then flung his bow into the face of the first spider, slowing it at least long enough for him to draw his long knife and slice through a pincer.

Mahal…! He found himself knocked aside but rolled back to his feet.

If his prince was sacrificing himself to get a warning to the mountain, he would not let him stand alone…

Kili finished his message for the raven. "Mirkwood spiders…fast, many! Go! Fly!" He literally threw the large raven into the air.

Huq took wing just ahead of the two spiders, who lunged for him, spraying spider silk into the sky.

Kili's blade whirled again, and Skirfir slashed at dark liquid eyes.

But one spider had gotten behind them, and having stopped to send warnings, they had no chance of escape.

Fjalar, eldest son of King Fili and first-year cadet, was sharpening his hunting knife. His class of thirty lads had combined with the class of (now 41) lasses for some hunting practice. But it was his team's turn to mind camp, and knife sharpening took the edge off his boredom. Besides, he wanted a perfect edge on this knife. He raised it to eye level to check.

"Hey," someone called. "Ravens!"

He looked up, seeing several dozen screaming ravens coming at them.

He stood, straining to hear.

"What are they saying?" Mieth was next to him, shading his eyes.

"Spiders…" he said, hardly believing them. Then his heart sank. They were coming from the direction his uncle had gone. "Uncle Kili!" He started forward, only to feel someone yank him back.

It was Fria, the lassie's commander. "No!" she ordered.

He froze.

"Ravenspeaker, report! Tell me exactly what they are saying!"

He'd never heard Fria speak so harshly. He complied.

"Warhammers…giant spiders…run home. They keep repeating Warhammers…" Then he felt the blood leave his face. "Alert the mountain."

Fria pushed Fjalar away, shoved Mieth after him.

"Warhammers is code!" she shouted back. "Attack in progress!"

She grabbed Broddi and Ríkald. "Go! Get the prince to his father! Fast! Don't look back."

Fjalar hesitated. "But you need a Ravenspeaker…"

Beka was beside Fria now, her face stern and eyes narrowed.

"She has one." His cousin's voice was low, dangerous. "I can understand them. You go warn the mountain."

Fjalar, Mieth, Broddi, and Ríkald sprinted like never before. They had to, in fact. An entire flock of ravens harassed them forward, screeching and swooping to urge them on.

But Mahal, he hated running from a fight. That everyone thought this is what he should be doing rankled like nothing else. King's son…he wished he could hide who he was, like Beka had back in the Iron Hills.

He fended off a raven and focused on running. Mahal's hammer, they were angry.

They'd been running hard for what felt like the ten thousand steps of the Mountain when they spotted Blackcoats. There, coming toward them, scouts from the Western Outpost, one of them mounted.

"Report, lad," the captain demanded.

Fjalar and his friends pulled up, telling them everything they knew.

The captain went into action. "You, with the short horse. Get this lad up to his father."

Fjalar held up his hands. "Not without Mieth and…"

The captain cut him off. "These lads'll be along. First job is to safeguard the line of succession."

The rider spurred his horse forward, reaching a hand toward Fjalar.

"But…"

The captain swiftly had him by the collar, cutting off his words. Fjalar realized this was no trainee instructor. This was a battle captain.

"No arguing, cadet," the captain's voice was a command. "We are under attack. Warhammers means direst threat. If they went for your uncle first…assume they want you next. Go!" He thrust Fjalar toward the horse.

"The longer you stay here, lad," the rider reached for him again. "The longer the rest of us are in danger, your friends included."

Fjalar made the mistake of hesitating and looking back.

The captain was on him, fist clutching Fjalar's collar tight enough to hurt. "They will kill all of us just to get you. Do you understand?"

Fjalar blinked. He recalled the slagheads all too well.

The captain growled in his ear now. "And every warrior here would willingly die to protect you, robbing Erebor of fighters. Grow up, lad. And follow your orders."

He was shoved toward the horse, and this time he was quick to catch the rider's hand and swing himself up.

Eyes cast down, he bowed his head in acquiescence. "My apologies, sir."

The captain saluted with hand on heart, his expression grim. "Ride hard," he said.

And the rider spurred the horse, taking off at a gallop.