**Hey, all. Short final epilogue to Warhammers. Feel free to give me your final review of it…hope you enjoyed!

Immediately following is a tease for the first chapter of the NEXT story, which will split into two storylines: some new territory alternating with the ongoing story back in Erebor. The new story is titled Swordbrothers…and I invite you to mosey on over, take a look, and add it to your list!

Mahal's blessings…! -Summer**

Epilogue 2

At sunset, Fili, King of Erebor, had his hand-selected troops ready for an attack.

They lined the underbrush just north of the rock formation called the Pinnacles, and they waited for the opportune moment.

With him were a handful of seasoned warriors and sixty first year cadets.

Their parents might not appreciate the danger he was putting them in, but the lads and lasses had to have a first fight at some point in their training.

And this was the best opportunity they would get.

Now they crouched in the darkness, eyes on the great pile of jumbled stone under which a spider nest had hatched.

Mirkwood spiders.

And while they weren't the massive creatures of the adults yet, even a recently hatched Mirkwood spiderling was a challenge. Quick, aggressive, and capable of a stinging bite. And there were easily several hundred still clustered in the remnants of their silky nest.

And they were getting bolder, venturing out at night, soon to disperse. The time to get them was now.

"Each one of you," he'd told the cadets, "Will have to kill six or seven of them if we're going to prevail."

Most of them had stared, eyes bulging.

His son, he recalled, had narrowed his eyes and gripped his new sword as if he relished the fight.

Fjalar, Son of Durin, Heir to the Throne of Erebor, was about to get his chance.

The first spiderlings emerged just after the early moon set in the west.

Dwalin and Kili sent the cadets out in silent groups of four. Stomp, hack, stab. The technique was not as important as the result, and the result had to be dead.

The first few forays were simple: two or three spiderlings, four dwarf cadets, and the kills were quick.

But as the night went on, the spiderlings erupted from the nest in bigger packs, then in waves.

At the height of it, Fili worried that he should have brought more regular guard. The cadets were nearly overwhelmed, their war cries turning to shrieks of fear when spiderlings leapt at them.

He watched one of Fjalar's group scream in terror as a spiderling raced up his back, long legs reaching around the lad's neck. Fili almost bolted forward, but stopped himself as Fjalar shouted, "Stay still!" and whacked the spiderling away like he was hitting a ball, then used the momentum to turn for another, slashing its body in half, and finishing with a mighty stomp and flattening a third. The lad he'd saved went after a fourth, swinging his axe in time to lop his prey in two, head to tail.

Fili grinned. Good lads!

Predictably, a small crew of goblins showed up for the party. Obviously, someone's idea of nursemaids, left there to ensure the spiders hatched and re-populated the forest.

Kili led the regular guard in defense of their cadets, killing most of them but capturing a couple for questioning.

Fili, they knew, wanted to know who was behind this. The two captives were boxed up for a trip back to Erebor and a visit to the Circle of Ahyrunu.The Mountain's own power would get the truth out them.

And Fili had no qualms about letting the mountain incinerate them afterwards.

Ten dead goblins and two captives later, a second group of eight goblins arrived on the scene, bigger and more orc-like than their cousins.

The fighting with this group became fierce, and Fili was ready, this time, to join the fray when he saw his brother's sword spin against two goblins twice his size with a third coming at him from behind.

"Kili!" he shouted, knowing he was too far away to help.

And then young Skirfir was there, his sword clanging against a blade aimed at Kili's neck, circling it away as Skirf pulled back and stabbed deep into the goblin's gut and then sliced through. Intestines spilled but the lad didn't stay to watch. He remained at his commander's back and met the next blade, deflecting it with a right swing and lopping off a head when he brought the blade back to the left.

Fili approved.

Two hours later the battle was won. Experts scoured the nest, setting fire to the remnants of silk and burning out the remaining caves to ensure any other egg sacs were destroyed.

His cadets sported their battle wounds with pride—scratches, a few sword wounds gotten from each other (to be expected,) and a dozen or so stings, though Mahal's blessing that none were serious.

One gouged eye that would heal. Bruises and cuts. A few broken fingers.

All in all, a fine night's work.

The cadets formed a semi-circle around the clearing in front of the rocks, most of them getting their first good look at goblins, albeit dead ones.

Fjalar, of course, had killed his first goblin months ago and stood straight and disdainful at them.

It was Dwalin, re-assigned back to his role as Armsmaster, who addressed the gathering.

"New warriors of Erebor!" he roared into the night. "Shamukh ra ghelekhur aimâ!" Flasks of ambershine were passed around, the ritual acknowledgement that a cadet had joined the ranks of the blooded fighters.

Fili grabbed a flask for himself and went to the center of the semicircle.

He raised one sword in his right hand and the flask in his left.

"Skirfir!" he called. "Kili!"

The pair showed up, Kili grinning and Skirfir looking as though he walked to his possible doom.

"There is one more ceremony after battle to recognize bravery in the line of duty. Skirfir of Erebor," Fili made eye contact with the young archer who'd just used his newly-given sword on the field of battle.

"Bow, Skirfir," Fili commanded. "Son of Órgolvur the Smelter."

Skirfir went to his knee before his King.

Fili drew out the moment, letting Skirfir sweat. In a controlled and graceful movement worthy of Thorin Oakenshield, he tapped the lad gently on the shoulder with the flat of his blade. "And rise Zagarundâd, swordbrother to my swordbrother."

When Skirfir froze at the shock of this honor, Kili took hold of the lad's elbow and hauled him up. Fili tossed him the flask, and Kili used his teeth to pop the cap and spit it out, then tilted his head back for a great swallow.

Finished, he thrust the flask at Skirfir.

"Make it look fierce," he advised with a wicked grin.

Skirfir tossed it back, surprised at the fiery burn, and turned the pain into the only war cry that he could think of as he held up the flask in tribute. "Du bekar, Sons of Durin!"

The cadets raised their weapons and echoed the cry, while Skirfir offered the flask back to his King, and only Fili noted the lad blinking back tears from the aftereffect of the burning liquor.

"Good job," he said levelly. "And thank you for guarding my brother's back."

"At your service, My Lord," Skirfir coughed.

Shamukh ra ghelekhur aimâ! = Hail and well met!

Zagarundâd = Swordbrother (somewhat equivalent to knighthood.)

Du bekar = to arms!

And now, the teaser for the next story! Please join me for Swordbrothers, story #5!

Chapter One

Kili, Son of Durin and Prince of Erebor, was spending his first night away from the Mountain in eighty-one years.

And he couldn't sleep.

It had been uneventful so far, but he seemed to wake every hour, his ears alert to every night creature and rustle of dry leaves in the wind. They were camped in safe territory, he told himself. South of the Long Lake on the edge of the Greenwood on a road well-secured by riders of Dale.

But knowing that didn't help.

He finally rose, tucked the blanket around his Lady Wife's shoulders, and left their tent.

"I'll take the watch," he murmured to Vit, one of the seven guards who'd come along. Vit tipped him an informal salute and nodded.

"Nothing to report," Vit said in a low voice. "Pair of skunks went that way," he pointed. "A few owls out."

"Thanks." Kili settled down with his pipe as Vit stepped away quietly and retired to his bedroll on the other side of the fire pit.

The autumn stars were bright overhead, the moon low in the west and sunrise was maybe an hour off.

Kili listened, sat, and tried to calm his nerves. In all his 150-odd years, he'd never actually travelled south of Esgaroth. Everywhere he looked, things were different and the land was unfamiliar.

Of course it was. He'd spent half his life unable to leave Erebor. But the dragon curse that had kept him there was broken and the threat of being taken by wraiths was gone.

Proven again tonight, in fact. He was miles from any land with Erebor stone beneath, yet there were no dwimmerwraiths in the night. No dragon voice in his head.

No more reasons for Kili, Son of Durin and Prince of Erebor, to fear the outside world and the things dark forces could do to Erebor through him.

Yet eighty-one years of torment left a well of fear deep in his gut that wasn't going to dry up anytime soon. It made him uneasy, even for a short trip.

Which this was. A ten-day jaunt to escort sixty sacks of much-needed gold to a rendezvous point. They would meet up with envoys from Rohan at the headwaters of the Anduin, on the other side of the Greenwood forest, hand over the cargo, and then ride for home.

Nothing to it.

And everything. He was miserable and even the pipeweed tasted off. He finished his smoke and tapped out the bowl.

**The rest of the first chapter for new story (Swordbrothers) has been posted under the new title—so come on over!**