Chapter 6:

What Does the Warg Say? Nothing, Because IT'S GOING TO EAT YOU

wherein there's a wizard or two, a troll-hoard to loot,
and the company runs, and runs and runs,
and running running runs, and they
really deserve a good tea break
(this is getting ridiculous)

Beneath the softly gleaming morning sun, thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit are in the midst of freeing themselves from the ropes and sacks the Trolls had trapped them in. There's a flurry of activity, weapons and gear being searched for. They get a glimpse of Bifur being helped to his feet by Bombur and Bofur, before the image pans over the clearing to one of the now-stoned giant trolls. Gandalf knocks at the frozen form with a grin.

Once again clad in his furs and carrying his sword, Thorin approaches the Wizard. He doesn't look as grumpy as before.

"Where did you go, if I may ask?"

"To look ahead."

"What brought you back?"

"Looking behind."

"Smartarse," mutters Nori and crosses his arms.

"Better being a clever behind than being all behind," says Bofur, and Bilbo has to pretend coughing into his sleeve to conceal a small laugh. Balin shoots him a brief concerned look, before catching his eye and then the old Dwarf hides a smile as well. Better not let Gandalf see that though, or they might all suddenly be turned into frogs or the like.

The Thorin on the magic wall smiles - just a tiny smile, but still refreshing to see - and nods his head in acknowledgement.

"Nasty business. Still, they're all in one piece."

"Would've been a bit awkward if we weren't," murmurs Nori. "If the Wizard had appeared and found half of us already eaten by the Trolls. 'Oh, sorry I'm late, chaps; I hope none of you have lost yer beards?'"

"No thanks to your burglar," Thorin remarks.

"... our," Bilbo is a little startled to hear Thorin say on his breath. "I mean, the Company's burglar. One of us."

"He had the nous to play for time. None of the rest of you thought of that."

"And better being clever than looking behind!"

"Will you stop that? It's giving me a headache," Kíli complains with a grimace.

"Just because you're not a very clever behind," Fíli counters.

"Would you two just shut up?!" growls Dwalin. "Or I'll give you both permanent headaches." He waves a fist for emphasis. No doubt he'd have been waving one of his beloved axes around if their weapons hadn't earlier been taken from them.

"They must have come down from the Ettenmoors."

"Since when do Mountain Trolls venture this far south?" Thorin ponders.

"Oh, not for an Age. Not since a darker power ruled these lands."

That sounds like it could be an awful clue to something. A sign which they did not notice or consider before. Oh, that doesn't sound good. Bilbo casts a worried glance at the Wizard, who merely looks thoughtful smoking his pipe, and then at Thorin. The Dwarf is frowning, looking far less at ease than his counterpart before them.

"They could not have moved in daylight."

Nori makes the most pompous noise. "Thank ye Mahal we have a Wizard around to tell us these things."

Gandalf frowns and huffs around his pipe, while several of the Dwarves snicker, and Bilbo doesn't resist the urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh, aye!" Bofur agrees loudly, nodding. "What would we ever do without one?"

"There must be a cave nearby."

"And our illustrious leader strikes again with his sharp observational skills."

"Oh be quiet, you," mutters Ori (surprisingly, or perhaps not since it was his brother Nori who made that comment). Bilbo is really glad that Thorin doesn't appear to have heard Bofur's remark, or said Dwarf will probably find his hat on fire within five seconds.

There is indeed a cave. The first time, Bilbo had never gone down there; he'd merely followed to the entrance, glanced inside and decided he was much better off not getting any closer, thank you. The stench of it carried rather far, and he'd had his share of all things Troll-related for the rest of his day (or life). Instead he'd found a nice rock to sit on and rest his feet for a moment. This is the first time he gets to see what was actually down there.

It's dark; various knick-knacks and stolen treasure and animal bones are lying half-buried in the soft dirt. The buzzing of flies and other insects is a constant background noise. There's no telling how long some of the things down there have been waiting, taken by the Trolls from their rightful owners years or decades ago. Indeed, it remains a mystery how the Trolls got their filthy hands on much of the stuff; ancient swords, gold coins from both North and South, even the odd silver chandelier.

They descend with Gandalf leading the troop. Several of the Dwarves cough and choke on the bad air.

"Oh, what's that stench?" Nori cries.

"It's a Troll-hoard," says Gandalf by way of explanation.
"Be careful what you touch."

Thorin is holding a torch over his head and the yellow light from it falls across the ground, revealing the glimmer of gold and other precious metals. While their leader is looking around, Bofur spots a heap of coins and pokes at the pile with his toe.

"Seems a shame just to leave it lying around. Anyone could take it."

"Agreed," says Glóin. "Nori, get a shovel."

"You never mentioned there was so much of it!" Kíli exclaims, sounding a little betrayed. "Could've brought some gold for the rest of us."

"Hush, little brother," Fíli tries to calm him. "It's not like we've been taking to saying in fancy inns, so lugging 'round that coin would've been a bother."

"Except had we had that coin we might've been able to take to inns and avoid a lot of trouble."

"Kíli, exactly how many inns have you seen between there and here? Hm?"

The dark-haired Dwarf ponders for a moment, worrying his bottom lip and looking at his hands as if to start counting on fingers (and eventually toes). "Uh ... not that many."

"That's it. Zilch. Zero. None. Nada. See, khurm, it'd only have been a bother."

Uncaring of what the others of the Company are up to, Thorin is inspecting what appears to be a dagger. However he must have spotted something potentially much nicer under a heap of cobwebs. Putting aside the torch he pulls out two large swords resting in their sheaths, both of which the Company now know: Glamdring and Orcrist. The Dwarf takes them with no small amount of astonishment. They are amazingly preserved, though there is no telling how long they may have been down here, hidden from the sun. He hands one of the swords to Gandalf, for the Wizard to look more closely at.

"These swords were not made by any Troll," Thorin observes.

"And, once again, the sharp observational skills of our illustrious leader - ow!"

Before Bofur has a chance to finish a hand reaches out to smack him upside the head, and Thorin sends Dwalin a grateful nod.

"Nor were they made by any smiths among Men. These were
forged in Gondolin, by the High Elves of the First Age."

The change in Thorin's face and body language is immediate, going from awed to disgusted, like he's having an allergic reaction. He means to put Orcrist back where he found it, no doubt silently cursing Elves for generally existing, but Gandalf stops him sharply.

"You could not wish for a finer blade!"

"Wizard had got a good point, loathe as I am to admit it," Dwalin comments. "The weapons we brought are all fine, but that sword's one of the best I've ever seen."

"Even if Elves made it."

"Those ones in the First Age knew some stuff," Ori says, ignoring Thorin's indignant huffing.

The Thorin on the magic wall must be agreeing because he unsheathes the sword, revealing a surprisingly sharp and clean blade, given the time it's been lying down there in that cave like scrap. Pleased, Gandalf takes the other sword and moves onward to explore more of the hoard. All the while this brief exchange has been going on, Glóin, Nori and Bofur are burying that small chest of coins that the latter had found. Dwalin, standing guard resting his arm on his axe, looks on. He doesn't look impressed or amused, but he looks like that a lot so no one's particularly bothered by it.

"We're making a long-term deposit," Glóin explains.
Dwalin just shakes his head with a small sigh.

"I thought it was rather clever," Bombur says. "It's not like anyone else would come and fetch that gold and make use of it."

"That we know of," adds Ori. "Though don't you remember the beginning of the moh-vee? Didn't the older version of Bilbo mention a chest of gold smelling of Trolls?"

"Yeah," Bofur nods. "So this is where he got it from. But why? I mean, not that I mind him taking that gold, but what about his fourteenth share of the treasure as reward for the quest? That was never mentioned. Just thought it a bit odd."

"Yes ... why, indeed?" murmurs Gandalf thoughtfully, though he says nothing more on the subject, only picking up his pipe for another smoke.

Bilbo can't explain it, but for a moment an uneasy feeling settles in his stomach. Like he's eaten something a little foul; no, not quite like that. More like that sensation one has a few seconds before something really bad is about to happen, and you just know that it's going to happen. A bit like that. Bofur's asking a very sane question, there. His smial, at the beginning of the story, hadn't appear to be filled to the brim with gold or anything the like. So whatever had happened to the fourteenth share which was promised in the contract? Not that Bilbo knows whatever he would do with so much gold. That one chest would do for quite a long while; Bilbo certainly wouldn't complain. But, still.

Glancing to his side he spots a similar expression to his own on Thorin's face; slightly shadowed and worried, like he's thinking along the same lines.

"Let's get out of this foul place. Come on, let's go. Bofur, Glóin, Nori!"

One by one the Dwarves exit the cave, Thorin and Dwalin first closely followed by the other three Dwarves. But Gandalf lingers for a moment; when he moves to follow, there's a tiny clinking sound as the Wizard's foot connects with something half-hidden in the dirt. He looks down and they all get to see the hilt of a rather familiar dagger.

"Aha, I see," says Ori. "I wondered where you got that."

The Grey Wizard exits the cave. In the immediate vicinity outside of it there are several of the Company moving about; Dori and Ori, perhaps in conversation. Bifur, oddly, seems to be handing Kíli the remaining skull of an animal, to the befuddlement of the other Dwarf. There's Bilbo, too, lingering outside and Gandalf approaches him.

"Bilbo."

"Hmm?"

Something is held out to him, and the Hobbit, surprised and out of reflex, accepts the dagger which to him is more of a sword.

"Here. This is about your size."

But Bilbo shakes his head, doubtful. "I can't take this."

The Wizard pays no heed to his protests. "The blade is of Elvish make,
which means it will glow blue when Orcs or Goblins are nearby."

The Hobbit doesn't look the least comforted or calmed by that. Quite the opposite; frustration and shades of fear seeps into his expression.

"I have never used a sword in my life."

Watching the scene unfold, Thorin makes a thoughtful noise. "I believe some sword lessons may be in order."

Unable to stop the surprised noise coming from his throat, Bilbo splutters. "Now, I, uh, I don't think that's entirely necessary ..."

But the Dwarf will not have it. "For your own safety. You did well enough, I'm sure, for never have handled a sword before, when Azog attacked us after we escaped the Goblin tunnels. But you need training; least of all to gain some strength of arms."

The Hobbit frowns, highly doubtful that his arms could ever get stronger. It doesn't really help sitting next to Thorin and became so aware of the Dwarf's own strength, or that Dwalin joins in, who must be the most muscled person Bilbo has ever encountered. And it's not like his sword is that heavy. Or that he plans on using it anymore than absolutely necessary (meaning, hopefully not ever again).

"Yeah," Dwalin says. "Your wrists are too thin; you need more muscle there."

Bilbo blinks. "Uh ... right."

"Good, then it's settled," Thorin says. "As soon as we're out of this place, I'll teach you personally."

Nori smirks. "Of course you will." At the Dwarf's glare, the Company's official pickpocket just smiles wider. "Your Majesty."

"And I hope you never have to. But if you do, remember this:
true courage is about knowing not when to take a life, but when to spare one."

"That is good advice. For once," Glóin adds the last bit with a glare leveled at the Wizard. Gandalf doesn't react like he notices it. Maybe he's getting used to being glared at by Dwarves. They've been doing that a lot as of late.

Bifur makes some rapid, complicated gestures with his hands in Iglishmêk. He exclaims something in Khuzdul, a harangue of words that Bilbo has no idea what it means. Curious the Hobbit whispers to Thorin, "What's he saying?"

"That was Ancient Dwarfish, an old Khuzdul saying." Dwarves usually are so strict with their secrets and traditions, not revealing any information to foreigners that they feel break the rules of secrecy, so Bilbo doesn't actually expect a much better answer than that. But Thorin goes on. "Roughly translated it means, 'Mercy is good for merciful souls, but mercy should not be given to the enemy'."

The Hobbit nods. Right. Perhaps Bifur is not so keen on mercy, himself, given his injury caused by the Orcs during the Battle of Azanulbizar. He would certainly not show mercy to the enemy in battle. Bilbo thinks he can understand the sentiment.

Then there's a warning; they call recognize Thorin's voice.

"Something's coming!"

The Grey Wizard moves to leave, drawing his newly acquired sword from his belt and walking away from Bilbo who in vain tries catching the Wizard's attention by calling his name. Bilbo remembers how he'd tried to make Gandalf somehow take the sword back. He's a Hobbit, by Varda's green garden, not a warrior - whatever should he do with a sword? But Gandalf walks toward the rest of the Company, calling out to gather them.

"Stay together! Hurry now, arm yourselves!"

For a moment Bilbo lingers, and he considers the dagger, unsheathing it. It too shines cleanly in the morning sun, and the Hobbit's arm is surprisingly steady as he holds it aloft: his first time wielding a sword, yet unknowing that within not even a month he will have to use it against both Orc and Warg and Goblin.

"Thieves! Fire! Murder!"

"Oh, it's the batty guy again."

"You should not speak in such a manner about Radagast the Brown, Master Nori," Gandalf says gravelly. He uses the same manner of voice that Bilbo remembers being chastised by as a child by his Aunt Belba for calling Rudigar Bolger 'bald' (said Hobbit had had nearly no hair on his feet whatsoever, and how could four-year-old Bilbo have known that it was wrong to point that out?). "He may be odd in your eyes, but he is a Wizard, and much more powerful than you know."

Ori makes a considering noise at the back of his throat. "Why is he crying out 'fire' and 'thieves'? We didn't get to see any fire or thieves last time we saw the Wizard."

"Huh. Good question, little brother," Dori says. "Maybe there's a fire or thief someplace we didn't get to see. Wherever the Wizard came from. Not to talk about 'murder' - what I remember, at least, there was no murder that involved the Wizard, or us, at that point in time."

"The Brown Wizard doesn't seem much like the murderin' sort," Glóin adds. "Does he?"

The Dwarves do have a point, Bilbo has to agree. Gandalf hasn't told them whatever the two Wizards conferred about that time in the sunlit glade. In-between finding the Troll-hoard, running from Wargs, and finding brief respite in Rivendell, no one hadn't thought to ask, either.

"Radagast! It's Radagast the Brown. What on earth
are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you, Gandalf. Something's wrong.
Something is terribly, terribly wrong."

"Yes ...?"

"He should have written down a message," suggests Glóin. "Or some kind of note. Seems he has some trouble with the memory."

"Maybe it's a Wizard trait," adds Bofur. "Something in the blood."

Huffing around his pipe, Gandalf chooses not to comment. (Which might be for the better for everyone, really.)

"Oh. Just give me a minute. Oh, I had a thought
and now I've lost it. It was right there, on the tip of my tongue!"

Wordlessly, the Grey Wizard reaches out and plucks something from the Brown Wizard's mouth.

"Oh, it's not a thought at all! It's a silly old ... stick insect."

"That was the moment I thought we were all doomed to die," Bofur announces.

"Oh? 'Cause I thought that like at least half a dozen times before that point. And after that, too," counters Nori.

"Yeah, well, a new Wizard comes up and it's evident he's -" There's a warning look from Gandalf, and the Dwarf noisily clears his throat. "I mean, that the guy has had one too few, and has a warning to tell us except he's forgotten what it was and then pulls a stick insect from his mouth - wouldn't that get any Dwarf worried? Then being taken aside so we don't get to hear that warning anyway. Just sayin'."

"It did rather remind me of that trick show I saw from that passing troupe from the Iron Hills when I was forty-two," says Glóin. "Apropos stick insects. Though there was more fire and less stick insects involved then."

Intrigued Bilbo sits up a little straighter. "Oh, I think have seen such a thing too once! There was a caravan of entertainers passing though Hobbiton once, when I was a faunt. Breefolk, I think, because no proper Shireling would do things like that."

"Huh, why not? It seems like fun," Bofur remarks. "Bit dangerous maybe. With that climbing atop of shoulders and swinging around and stuff. And the swallowing fire. I mean, could lose your beard by accident."

"Oh! Don't talk of such things!" Dori moans, horrified at the mere thought. Several Dwarves have paled at the mention of the combination of 'fire' and 'beard'.

"Well," Bilbo says, "I think my father once said, 'Entertaining's all fun until you're hungry.' I guess such acrobatics wouldn't be that fun on an empty stomach."

Nor is running from Wargs. Running on an empty stomach, that is. Which is about to occur very, very soon. But first: two Wizards are having a chat.

The Company watch with wide eyes and curious ears, because back when this had happened none of them had been close enough to hear the pair talk. Afterward Gandalf had never reported what the subject of conversation was about either; whatever warning that Radagast had come rushing and shouting through the woods with had been given to Gandalf only. In-between running from hungry Wargs, ducking under the nose of the Elves, and escaping the Goblins, there had been no chance to interrogate the Wizard.

Now they see Gandalf and Radagast conferring in a small clearing, some way from the Dwarves and Hobbit. There's a glimpse of Thorin, Dwalin and Óin in the background, as well as Ori and Bombur, but no one is close enough to overhear. Radagast looks most distraught and agitated, whereas Gandalf - surprise, surprise - is calmly smoking his pipe.

"The Greenwood is sick, Gandalf. A darkness has fallen over it. Nothing grows anymore,
at least nothing good. The air is foul with decay. But worse are the webs."

"Hang on," mutters Fíli, remembering that sequence not too long ago that they saw of Radagast's shack being attacked by a bunch of shadows. "Webs? Like ... spider webs?"

"Sounds like it ..."

"D'you reckon those shadowy things we saw earlier was that? Big spiders?"

Dori clamps his hands over his ears. "Stop! Stop! Shh! My nightmares!"

Bilbo shudders at the mere thought. It would, however, explain a few things. The glimpse earlier given of Radagast saving that hedgehog - the woods clearly had been dying, bodies of small animals lying scattered about, trees slowly wilting, grass greying - it makes sense if there's a lot of spider webs about. A forest does not die easy, Bilbo knows that. He's after all a Hobbit and he knows a thing or two about growing things. If there's a foul thing in the air, or water, or soil, the trees and flower could be affected. But a lot of spider webs ought to be able to do that to, if there's enough of it. It could essentially choke a forest to death. But - in theory, yes. Could there really be spiders that big and many to weave webs to kill a whole forest?

"Webs? What do you mean?"

"Spiders, Gandalf, giant ones. Some kind of spawn of Ungoliant, or I'm not a Wizard."

"Giant spiders. Giant. Spiders," Glóin repeats. "There are giant spiders in the Greenwood and we're meant to go in there?!"

"...let's vote to take another route?" Dori says weakly. Several heads bob up and down in silent agreement. Even if Kíli stubbornly raises a hand and says, "I'm not scared of some puny spiders!"

Bifur's hands are moving rapidly. "Yêbith - lu akradihu!"

"Ungoliant?" echoes Balin, blanching. The old Dwarf is a scholar; he knows that name, and it is nothing good.

Bilbo however frowns, confused. He's never heard that name before. "What, or who, is Ungoliant?"

"That is the name of an evil spirit in the shape of a humongous spider which lived before the First Age," Balin says very seriously. "A monster of horrible darkness, and a servant of Morgoth. She was meant to be destroyed long ago, devoured by her own hunger."

"Yet we saw those shadowy things earlier. Looked like spiders to me," says Nori, face darkening. "Definitely saw it. And, all for it, I doubt that the Brown Wizard would make something like this up."

"I followed their trail," Radagast continues. "They came from Dol Guldur."

That name Bilbo does recognize, since they had discussed it earlier, when watching the first sequence with Radagast. Then a glimpse of that old fortress had been given, and Balin had explained what it was. An old stronghold of a now-gone enemy, he'd called it. Abandoned since long ago. Now several the Dwarves grow paler and tenser at the mention of the name, including Thorin. Gandalf is uncharacteristically quiet now, and Dwalin has taken to glaring at the Wizard (again), for having kept quiet about all this information. Information that they're definitely might find useful (as a warning, if nothing else) for the future. Surely, Bilbo thinks, surely Gandalf had been meaning to tell them eventually? Before they left Beorn's and made it to the Elven forest. Yes, surely ...

"Dol Guldur? But the old fortress is abandoned."

"No, Gandalf." By now the Wizard sounds positively afraid. "It is not."

The scene suddenly shifts. They're no longer in the small stretch of woods by the boarders of Rivendell. Instead there's another forest, much darker, with a heavy overcast darkening the sky. There, smack-bang in the middle of it, is a big fortress. The stone is withered, all signs of life void. Whatever wood and other organic materials that once had been there, they have long since rotted away. It looks old, very old, and cold. Despite himself Bilbo shivers. There's something about that place, something that doesn't feel right. Maybe it is because it's a large, abandoned - or not, according to Radagast - ghastly ruin in the middle of nowhere. And there's Radagast, a tiny figure next to all that stone, approaching the fortress on a bridge.

Next thing, Radagast is inside the fortress, some kind of small courtyard, now dead and silent. Thorns and vines are crawling across the walls; a statue or two, hundreds of years old, stand still and regal, the only signs of whatever ancient civilization that once lived here.

"A dark power dwells there, such as I have never felt before,"
the Brown Wizard continues saying, making it obvious that this is the retelling of
events to Gandalf. Only now they are allowed to see it happen too.
"It is the shadow of an ancient horror."

"What is that!?"

"Look out!"

"Mahal's blue boots!"

Bilbo holds onto the armrests of his chair tightly, eyes wide, staring in horror as the statue right behind Radagast moves. It's a tiny shift at first, but they all see it. The statue - of some kind of warrior wearing a cloak, face hidden in darkness - tightens its grip of the sword in its hand and it no longer appears as ordinary, unmoving stone. There's a crisp, brief noise and Radagast freezes. Slowly the Wizard glances over his shoulder. He has his staff pointed in front of himself like a weapon.

"One that can summon the spirits of the dead."

Something rises from the statue. A shadow - no, a light, a light in the shape of a Man, no longer cloaked but wearing a crown.

"A ghost!" gasps Thorin, flabbergasted. "How in the name of Mahal ..."

"'One that can summon the spirits of the dead'," Ori whispers, and Dori whimpers, covering his eyes and for once no one can fault him for it. "Whatever inhabits that ruin must be some kind of foul, foul thing. To be able to summon the dead ..."

"Run! Run, for Aulë's sake!" Kíli shouts at the magic wall. "Run!"

With a high-pitched shriek the ghost launches at Radagast, sword held high. But the Wizard manages to block the strike with his staff, no doubt the magic inside the staff rather than the wood holding back the white blade. After a brief but very tense exchange of blows, Radagast pushes his staff right through the ghost, causing it to dissolve and fade away. Not all of it, though. Something clatters to the ground: a sword, now looking very real. It looks matted and dark, unlike the swords they'd found at the Troll-hoard, and it is in no way beautiful.

"That's not of Dwarven make," murmurs Thorin.

"Nor Elvish," Gandalf fills in softly. "No, that sword is from a bygone Age."

"What is that, Gandalf?" Bilbo asks, turning to the Wizard. "The - the ghost?"

And why had Gandalf never mentioned any of these important little details to them earlier?

It's not over yet. Before Radagast can escape, anther shadow rises; this one is darker, much larger. Somehow it feels more powerful, and the very air feels colder when they look at it. The Brown Wizard stares, terrified. From the shadow, twisted whispers echo, and Bilbo might be wrong but it almost sounds like it is whispering the Brown Wizard's name as if it knows who Radagast is, what he's doing there. A warning. or a threat?

"I saw him, Gandalf. From out of the darkness, a Necromancer has come."

Bifur shakes his fist, as if trying to catch the attention of the Brown Wizard on the magic wall. Alas, it doesn't work. "Ithmir b'tîr!"

Thorin's hackles are rising by the minute. "Darkness is taking over the Elven Forest that we're meant to walk through - there is an enemy rising at Dol Guldur? A Necromancer?!"

"… N-necromancer," Bilbo echoes weakly, feeling blood drain from his face. Trolls, Orcs, Wargs… all that they have managed to outwit or outrun, in the end, but a Necromancer? That's just – that's just totally out of their league. Oh, but who's planning on facing down a Dragon soon enough? he thinks and struggles not to laugh manically. Yavanna's green garden. This was not in my contract.

"I knew this road trip was a bad idea," Bombur sighs, half an uneaten cheese block resting in his lap. He seems to have lost his appetite, just like the rest of them, at the thought of such a dark and powerful enemy.

"You knew about all this, Gandalf?" Bofur exclaims, dismayed. "And you never bothered to tell us once we were out of the Goblin tunnels? Even mention, you know, that 'Oh you should be careful after we leave Beorn's house because that Elf-forest is home to a frickin' Necromancer and a big bunch of his pet spiders'. A warning would be nice."

"Yes, well, with your quick escape from Rivendell I had little chance to warn you. And we were quite busy to find shelter after all that in the Goblin tunnels and flight with the Eagles. I would surely have told you in time." That's not very reassuring, though.

Dwalin flexes his fists, no doubt longing for his two axes Grasper and Keeper; had he had them he'd feel (relatively) a little safer. "A Necromancer. ... We're fucked. We're all so fucked."

Thorin releases a curse in Khuzdul. "Tharkûn, why didn't you tell us?!"

Radagast runs. Out across the bridge, into the woods, away from the fortress. Right into a nearby clearing where his Rhosgobel rabbits are waiting. One of them stands up and stomps its foot repeatedly as if to alert the others. At the Wizard's shout they all start moving, dragging the Wizard's sled with them and Radagast struggles for a moment to keep up. In the last second he jumps onto the sled and escapes.

A second later they're back in the present (or, technically, a more recent past). Radagast startles and looks apologetically at Gandalf, who is still smoking like it's a normally calm Wednesday afternoon and as if his fellow Wizard hasn't just revealed that there's a Necromancer out there. The Grey Wizard offers his pipe to the Brown one.

"Try a little Old Toby. It'll help settle your nerves."

The Brown Wizard breathes in. And in.

"And out."

And in. With a smile, Radagast has smoke coming out of his nose and ears. But he does seem a little calmer. Gandalf leans in, voice lowered.

"Now - a Necromancer. Are you sure?"

"Nah, it was surely just a very vivid dream," Bofur says sarcastically. "Did I tell you I had a dream like that once? Except for a Necromancer there was this giant sponge-cake ..."

Intrigued, Bombur blinks at his brother. "Did the sponge-cake try to kill you?"

"No, no, no - I ate it. It was a good dream."

(Inexplicably Bilbo feels a sudden, strong urge to smack his palm in his own face.)

With hands more steady than two minutes earlier, Radagast pulls something from within his brown cloaks. It's wrapped in cloth and the shape of the package is rather the give-away of what is must be, though it is never shown. Gandalf takes it.

"Five silver coins that it's that weird sword from the ruins," Kíli exclaims, although no one takes him up on his bet right away (not even Nori).

"'Course it is," Fíli says, rolling his eyes. "I doubt it's a bunch of diamonds."

"That is not from the world of the living."

Suddenly there's the howl of animals at a distance - or a not so distant distance.

"And we were having such a good time ..." Bofur drawls.

Dwalin glowers. "Shut up."

"I think we've going to have to watch ourselves run now," sighs Bombur. "My feet ache just thinkin' bout it."

Bilbo can share that sentiment. A lot.

"Was that a wolf?" Bilbo asks nervously. "Are there wolves out there?"

"Wolves?" Bofur says. "No, that is not a wolf."

Glóin is standing on a mossy root just above them on the lookout, axe at the ready; a Warg suddenly jumps down into the clearing, missing him by a hair's width. It lands with its jaws wide open, no doubt intending with its attack to swallow them whole, but Thorin leaps at it with Orcrist, cutting its throat. Within a second Kíli has grabbed his bow and launched an arrow in the opposite direction, where another Warg comes charging. It falls down with a heavy thud, quickly finished off by Dwalin.

"Warg scouts - which means an Orc pack is not far behind."

"Orc pack?!" Bilbo gasps.

"Who did you tell about your quest, beyond your kin?" Gandalf demands
to know from Thorin. "Who did you tell?"

"No one! No one, I swear!"

Dwalin interrupts any possible interrogation.
"We need to get out of here."

And Ori interrupts any possible escape on horseback.
"We can't - we have no ponies! They bolted!"

"Poor things, I wonder what happened to them," Bilbo ponders aloud. He'd grown quite attached to the ponies. They certainly didn't deserve facing the end at the business end of a sword, or the sharp teeth of a wolf.

"They may have found their way back home," Thorin suggests gently. The beasts were not completely unwise, after all, and might have remembered the path back to the Shire or the Blue Mountains.

"Or gotten eaten."

"Dwalin!" Ori mutters, poking at the big Dwarf with one of his knitting needles.

"What? Just sayin'."

"I'll draw them off!"

"These are Gundabad Wargs. They will outrun you!"

"These are Rhosgobel rabbits! I'd like to see them try."

"Oh, Mahal's big left toe." In Bilbo's opinion, Dwalin's curses are frankly turning more ridiculous by the minute. "Him and his Rhosgobel frickin' rabbits. Yup, that Wizard's off his rocker."

"I think he's rather brave. It takes guts to challenge Orcs and Wargs when all you've got is a bunch of rabbits," Ori says.

"He's a Wizard. Wizards are -" Bofur clears his throat, glancing nerviosuly at Gandalf, who just stares back with an eyebrow silently raised. He quickly changes whatever he first meant to say, clinging tightly to his hat (probably fearing that it will be taken from him as punishment if he upsets the Wizard). "- Wizards are Wizards."

"Come and get me!"

Radagast is laughing. Laughing while being chased by a pack of Wargs.

Whatever works for him, Bilbo supposes.

So there they are. Running, and on empty stomachs no less. Running from Wargs. Oh, that's a thing to mention in a letter to his cousin, once all this is over, Bilbo thinks. 'Oh hello, cousin Fortinbras! You'll never guess what I've been up to these last few months. Travelling with a bunch of Dwarves and a Wizard; we're going to take back this Mountain from a Dragon, you see. We're having a nice time; good food, enjoying the scenery, riding ponies, being chased by a pack of bloodthirsty Wargs ...'

Just thinking about that miserable time of running and running makes Bilbo's feet ache. Now seeing it all again, though from a bird-eye's point of view, his whole legs are itching and hurting as if he's just finished running that mile. Or two. Or however many miles it might have been. All right, maybe it wasn't that far, but when you've got a whole lot of blood-thirsty, hungry, ferocious, dangerous - did he mention blood-thirsty? - Wargs and a pack of Orcs at your tail, it doesn't matter how far you run. You run fast, as fast as Hobbitly possible, and you don't stop until you're certain that you're as far away as possible from those Wargs and Orcs. At the end of the day your feet'll be sore and legs hurting. Therefore, Bilbo would rather not think of that moment ever again, so this reminder isn't that welcome. Bilbo's heart had been in his throat, hearing the howls at the distance. Out in the field they'd been terribly vulnerable, too. No, he doesn't want to be reminded.

"Stay together!"

"It's not like we needed any extra encouragement," Bombur says.

"Is it just me, or does this chase scene appear much shorter than it was in reality?" Fíli says.

"No, it's not just you, brother. It felt like it took half an Age. A quarter of an Age, at least."

Just then it looks like they're on a collision course with Radagast and the Warg pack; they're a few hundred yards away, but in this open landscape that's close enough to be spotted. The dive behind a large rock, or are pulled in the case of Ori, a hand reaching out to grab his collar before he's spotted.

"Ori, no! Get back."

The rest in the rather useless hiding place is far too brief to get a proper breather. They're off a few seconds later, when Radagast no longer is in sight, the howling further away. As the Wizard gestures for the Company to continue running, Thorin faces him, voice sharp.

"Where are you leading us?"

No answer is given - only more running.

"Oh, just to some very nice inn with some nice warm beds and a hot meal."

Fíli rolls his eyes, arms crossing. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Kíli."

Thorin is muttering. Listening a little closer, Bilbo comes to realize that the Dwarf is running a commentary. Probably involuntarily. "...and there he crosses our trail! No wonder the beasts caught our scent, the Wizard's bloody useless at distracting, once they'd smelled us it was just a matter of time -" The Dwarf is clenching the armrests of his chair, looking quite tense, and Bilbo considers fetching him another cup of tea to distract him. Besides, giving what's coming next, after the chase - the whole debacle with the Elves - then Thorin is certainly going to need some more tea.

Indeed, their scent has been felt by one Warg and the Orc riding it. While the Company is pressed beneath a large rock for cover, the beast clambers up on it, and it's a matter of seconds before the rest of the pack is alerted to their presence. The Orc draws its weapon, a ragged sword with razor sharp edges, but before it actualyl sees them Kíli has rushes out and drawn his bow, releasing an arrow - it hits the Warg in the neck. The creature stumbles with a grunt and a cut-off shriek, and another arrow is released, hitting the rider. The foul things fall over, crashing onto the grass in front of the Company. A cry of dying pain echoes of the plains: and the Wargs stop in their tracks, hearing it. The wounded Orc is finished off by Bifur, Thorin and Dwalin, but it's too late.

"The Dwarf-scum are over there! After them!"

"Where's that outcrop?!" cries Kíli, panicked even if they're right now -in this magic place - out of danger and need not worry about Wargs.

Dori shakes his head. "Twas a hole, not an outcrop."

"But there were those rocks sticking out of the ground, where the hole was hidden."

Dwalin looks at the two, unimpressed. "We're watching ourselves being chased by a pack of Warg-riding Orcs, and you're arguing semantics?"

"Yes. It's important. Look, that hiding place we found which led to the Valley - that's a hole, not a bloody outcrop. Ori, tell him," Dori says sternly, gesturing with his arms.

Ori clears his throat. "Well. An outcrop is a rock formation, of a sort, above ground level. And that's what we found." - "Ha! I was right," Kíli exclaims triumphantly, crossing his arms with a smug smile. - Ori goes on, like he hasn't heard: "We found an outcrop with a hole in the middle of it. So, technically, you're both right."

"Thanks for shutting them up," Dwalin says to the young scribe, looking relieved.

"Oh. Umm, you're welcome."

"Look! We're surrounded! And there's the outcrop! I mean, hole in the ground! Whichever," says Fíli, pointing (needlessly) at the moving images.

And there they are, the Company left exposed and scattered on a hilltop. The Wargs are closing in around them from all directions, and there's no sign of either Wizard. Kíli has drawn his bow, and his brother his sword; there's Glóin gripping his axe alongside Dwalin. With a white-knuckled grip Ori takes aim with his slingshot at the nearest Orc, but it does little to stop them.

"We're surrounded!" Fíli shouts.

"Where's Gandalf?!" Dori cries.

"He's abandoned us!" Dwalin growls.

"Hurry, hurry ...!" That's Thorin again. Bilbo refrains from reminding the Dwarf that no matter what they say or do here while watching, they can't affect what's occurring on the magic wall. It is after all their past, and the past is already done. He can understand why Thorin's muttering what he does, though, because there's a gnawing feeling of unease and tension in his own gut, a hint of anxiety and adrenaline - as if he's back there, surrounded by Wargs who happy want to eat him and the rest of the Company. Even knowing that they made it out all right, it's tense to watch it all happening again.

Thorin has drawn Orcrist, swinging it in a graceful arch above his head.

"Hold your ground!"

Finally: Gandalf's pointy hat, rapidly followed by the Wizard himself, pops up behind a jumble of jagged rocks.

"This way, you fools!"

"About damn time ... Ought to skin the Wizard's sorry hide for delaying so long," Dwalin mutters darkly, cracking his knuckles menacingly.

"Quickly, all of you! Come on, move!" Thorin shouts.

One by one they go, hurrying to the spot and - trusting whatever direction the Wizard is taking them in (because it certainly beats being eaten) - diving into the cave-opening hidden there. One, two, three, four ... It seems that Gandalf is counting heads. Lingering topside is Thorin, drawing Orcrist and wielding it with a kind of certainty like he's held the blade before, not like he picked it up less than an hour ago for the first time, freeing it from the dirt. The sword fits well in his hand, Bilbo supposes. Not that he knows much about sword-fighting (nor, he hopes, will he ever have to) but it must take quite a lot of training, and each sword must be a little different, unique. Balance and that sort of thing. He guesses that's what he'll have no choice but to learn, since Thorin is insisting on giving lessons as soon as they get out of here.

Down below, Gandalf is counting them as they appear. First Bofur, then Bilbo and Balin; there's Glóin and Ori, and Bombur sliding down the crevasse for cover.

"... Nine, ten ..."

"Oh, good to know we're in such safe hands."

"I told you 'bout the sarcasm, brother."

"Yes, well, I don't really trust Wizards anymore, that's all."

Guarding the mouth of the cave, Thorin waits impatiently for the last stragglers to take cover. At least down there they'd have a chance of fighting back. Coming in single file they could probably last a lot longer against the Orcs than up there, out in the open.

"Kíli! Run!"

Felling a final Orc with an arrow, Kíli sprints through the tall grass, and he dives head-first into the unknown where the rest of the Company is waiting, right after his brother. And last comes Thorin, and there's a second, two, three of tense silence. The thumps and growls of the enemy above can be heard, coming closer. And then - a horn.

There's a flash of white horses, thundering hooves, and warriors in capes bearing down on the Orcs. Bows sing, arrows piercing the air and there are swords being swung, odd cries of Wargs dying. Being stuck where they are underground they can't see a thing of what's going on, which had been nerve-wracking and frustrating at the time. Now they are allowed to see a little more: horses thundering across the plains, arrows flying from bows, all in a violent charge. It's swift and over very quickly.

Then a large body comes tumbling down the outcrop, an Orc with an arrow through its back. Thorin is there at once inspecting it, tugging the arrow out roughly. Whatever relief and astonishment had been on his face is exchanged with a frown when he realizes who their rescuers are.

"Elves!"

He might as well have spat the word. Casting the arrow away Thorin stands, shooting Gandalf an angry look but the Wizard remains (as per usual, at this point, whenever confronted) silent. In the meanwhile Dwalin has started trying to find a way out; up is a no go, so there's only the one path to follow, cut into the rock.

"I cannot see where the pathway leads. Do we follow it or no?"

"Follow it, of course!" Bofur says.

The whole Company scrambles to go get out of there; there's not really much else of a choice. They start walking in single file and Thorin reluctantly follows, leaving Bilbo and Gandalf to take up the rear.

"I think that would be wise."

Thorin clears his throat. "So, tell me, Wizard, how much of that was planned and how much of it was improvised?"

Gandalf huffs around his pipe. "Now, I - euhm -"

"Come now. I am sick and tired of subterfuges and lies."

" - I did certainly not plan for us to be ambushed by Orcs, or for the Troll incident to happen -"

"'Incident'?" exclaims Glóin, looking most upset. "You dare call it merely an 'incident'?! My beard's all a-mess because of that 'incident', and I nearly lost my locket with my wife's picture!"

"Master Dwarves - and Bilbo - I assure you that I planned none of that." A pause. "... However, I might have looked ahead in the general direction of Rivendell. Yes. Ahem."

"I take it Lord Elrond told you to get lost, then?"

"Master Oakenshield, I did not get the chance to meet with Lord Elrond before we all arrived nor was I told to 'get lost'."

"What a pity," sighs Dwalin.

Óin frowns, tilting his ear-trumpet. "What's nifty?"

Shifting in his large chair Gandalf lowers his pipe. "You should be glad, Master Dwarves, for Lord Elrond's hospitality. Without him we would not have been able to read the map, or find shelter from the Wargs."

"I take it that's the closest to an apology we're going to get."

Right. Stubborn Dwarves and one stubborn Wizard, and Bilbo had thought his headache at some point would go away. Apparently not. The Hobbit tries to imitate that stern expression his father used to wear whenever he found someone had helped themselves to his raspberry pies without permission. "I thought we had agreed on a truce."

"Ah. Yes, sorry, Bilbo," Thorin mutters sheepishly, much to the astonishment (or maybe not) of the Company. They had after all struck a deal to not make more of a fuss with the Wizard and his deceptions and decoys until after they'd gotten out of this strange, magic room with its magic wall. Hopefully it won't be much longer - Thorin has some old scores to settle.

END NOTES:

Wordlist (Khuzdul)

Khurm Brother (pl. kharâm)
Tharkûn The Dwarven name for Gandalf, which means "staff-man"
Yêbith Spider
Lu akradihu! I don't believe it!
Ithmir b'tîr! Get away from there!

As a source for these translations I used David Salo's blog Midgardsmal.

Additional notes
Rudigar Bolger A Hobbit of the Shire, born in the Third Age 2855 | 1255 by Shire Reckoning, and died in T.A. 2948 | S.R. 1348. He married Belba Baggins (T.A. 2856-2956) and they had one child, Herugar (T.A. 2895). Belba is the daughter of Mungo Baggins and Laura Baggins (née Grubb), who are Bilbo's paternal grandparents, making Belba his aunt on his father's side - (Thank youSnapeshipsfan17 and phoenixdaisy who kindly corrected me on this point!). - Which makes Rudigar Bolger and Bilbo family through marriage. Anyway, Rudigar and Belba had their son Herugar in 2895 which according to my headcanon means they probably married around '93 or '94. (For reference, Bilbo is born on the 22th of September T.A. 2890 | S.R. 1290. - The Quest takes place in T.A. 2941 | S.R. 1341, when Bilbo is 50 years old.)
I completely made up that thing about Rudigar's scarce foot hair, and no Hobbit was meant to be insulted.

Info on Ungoliant can be found here.

Please let me know if I've missed anything or messed up anywhere, in regards to facts, continuum or grammar or anything else that comes to mind. And of course I'd be delighted to know if you enjoyed reading! Thank you!

A bit unrelated to this fic, but I've made an instrumental cover of '(Far Over) the Misty Mountains' which can be found here at my soundcloud.

Until our next meeting!