Azanulbizar I

While his brother was busy going over possible battle strategies with Fundin, Frerin watched him with a thoughtful frown. Thorin had been acting odd since the morning. Very odd. From from the overt displays of affection he had been bestowing on Frerin, up to his demands to speak with Fundin at the dwarf's earliest convenience, none of Thorin's actions seemed to make any sort of sense. That aside, what happened between his brother and their father just hours earlier was something Frerin still didn't know what to think about.

First, there was Thorin's obvious panic at whatever dream he'd had. Then there was the fact that he had not only stormed the council's tent and stood up to their father, no. What was the most surprising and confusing fact about the whole debacle was that it had worked. The King was a fair dwarf and kind when he could allow himself to be, but he was also strict and did not take well to disrespect.

Which was another thing Frerin had thought his brother was incapable of. Thorin not only respected their father, he idolized him. He never raised his voice against their father, not once since Frerin could remember. Except now he had. It unsettled Frerin nearly as much as his brothers tears.

He never wanted to see Thorin cry again. It unsettled him. His brother was not meant to cry. No tears were supposed to mar his face. It had been painful for Frerin to feel his brother tremble with nearly silent sobs. It made him wonder if Thorin had cried silently before. Hidden in some abandoned room, far away from any comfort his siblings might be able to offer as he broke down silently. It hurt.

"Frerin?" Thorin's voice brought him out of his dark thoughts. Dark blue eyes were looking at him in question. Another thing that had changed. The underlying pain and guilt he could see in his brothers eyes were new and Frerin did not like it one bit.

"Were you even listening?" Thorin asked with an amused quirk of his lips. Fundin also looked at him with an arched eyebrow and Frerin winced slightly. He had not heard a single thing of what had been discussed.

"Ehm ... no?" At his words Thorin rolled with his eyes and Fundin snorted slightly.

"Mahal help us, if ever you sit on the throne." Fundin commented. Frerin sent him a dark look.

"Thorin will sit on the throne, not me." Frerin answered calmly. His brother would be king and nobody else. He was the one who deserved to sit on the throne once their father passed. Frerin was not made to be king and he no intention of being one. He was not like Thorin, who had exuded an aura of aristocratic severity ever since he had learned to talk in full sentences. With his confidence and his ability to make anybody listen to him, whether they be rich or poor, his brother would be a good king. Frerin hated the reminder that, should Thorin for some reason become unavailable, he would be expected to rule. Certainly not on the day before the grand battle. Fundin himself seemed to have noticed his misstep and raised his hands in a gesture of piece.

"Anyway, now that a certain brother of mine is listening, let us continue. Our unit will be part of the northern flank?" Thorin asked as turned his gaze to Fundin, before Frerin could open his mouth to say anything more.

"King Thrain had intended to send your unit to the North and Prince Frerin's to the South," Fundin answered. He seemed grateful for the distraction. "But since you've managed to throw any plans he might have had regarding the positioning of you two, I could not say. My best guess is that he will put you on the northern side, since it is weaker and in more need of support until Nain's men arrive," Fundin continued with a small shrug of his shoulders.

"Iron hill dwarrows, always arriving at the last moment to save the day." Thorin commented with a small smirk. Frerin sent him a confused look and his brother just shook his head. He really didn't like it when Thorin kept secrets from him. It felt wrong. Thorin used to tell him nearly everything. The only thing he had never really talked to him about was Erebor. Frerin had his own dark memories of the day Smaug came and so did his brother. They had felt no need to burden the other with what they had experienced on top of that.

"Since my father will most likely be busy for the rest of the day, I will have to assume that we will be with the northern flank. It is the most logical choice." Thorin said as he moved the figures on the map. As he looked at the map Frerin noted the tall bulky stones that Thorin had put behind the enemies centre line. He looked at them confused for a moment, before a suspicion rose in his mind.

"Nadad, are those supposed to be trolls?" Frerin asked in a horrified whisper. He had expected to fight against Orcs and Goblins but not against trolls. Thorin's grim expression was his answer even before his brother nodded.

"What do you mean, trolls?" Fundin asked his voice tight. It appeared Fundin had also not known about the trolls.

"There will be trolls." Thorin remarked darkly. "They work in the mines for the orcs. I do not know how many there are but if the clouds continue to hide the sun we can expect them on the battlefield."

"How do you know about this?" Fundin asked as his eyes raked over the map.

"My father knows of my sources that is all I will say on the matter. I am sorry I could not say anything before." Thorin said as he looked straight into Fundin's eyes. Let him think that Thorin was training as spy-master, so long as it would have the advisor believe him.

"The king needs to know this." Fundin said and was already turning to leave when Thorin's arm shot out and grabbed him by the elbow.

"Wait, Fundin. There is more." Thorin stated calmly. His eyes were sharp and focused. Another curse left Fundin's lips and Frerin was suddenly very glad that Dís was not anywhere near this thrice cursed valley.

"Tell me, we do not have all day." Fundin said gruffly as he turned back towards the map.

"Those orcs will not blindly attack us with no plan or formation. Azog is too smart for that and we have given him far too much time to prepare." Slowly Thorin moved the figures around on the map. "It's likely they will station most of their foot soldiers on the flanks. Their centre in comparison will appear weaker, which is a trap. Behind them more troops will be waiting, among them the trolls." Thorin said as he laid the stones that symbolize the trolls behind the enemies centre line.

"Our father will be fighting at the front lines there." Frerin said with wide eyes. Thorin nodded.

"He will be but Azog will not." Thorin said too calmly for what he was saying. "Azog would not put himself in such an obvious position. Never forget that Orcs do not know what it means to fight with honour."

"We need to find a way to deal with the trolls." Fundin said darkly as he looked at the map.

"Yes, we do. We also need to strengthen our centre line of defence if they will have to take on trolls. I doubt that we can wait for the sun to shine upon them and turn them to stone and we don't have a wizard on our side to part the cloud for us."

"Do you think that they will pull any other nasty surprises?" Fundin asked grimly. Frerin noted how Thorin's hand clenched around the pommel of his sword.

"Orcs tend to poison their weapons, but that hardly counts as a surprise." Thorin said with a look of disdain etched across his features. The look was mirrored by both Frerin and Fundin. Poisoning your opponent was a dishonourable act and therefore even the idea of poisoned weaponry filled any true dwarf with disgust. Thorin could not help but admit that the practice was terribly efficient, though.

"The healers will most likely know, but it can't hurt to remind them. Anything else?" Fundin asked Thorin, who shook his head.

"That should be all." Thorin said softly. Fundin watched him for a moment before nodding and leaving the tent.

"Frerin, tell me, how accurate are you with your bow and arrow?" Thorin asked as he absent-mindedly as his hands played with the white figure of Azog.

"I'm decent enough at hitting what I'm aiming for, but you know that. Why are you asking?" Frerin answered. His fingers brushed over the grey feathers of his arrows.

"Do you think you can take out specific targets, if I point them out?" Frerin shrugged. "Probably. Moving targets are harder to aim at, but that hasn't been a problem before."

He was a very good archer, especially for dwarven standards. Not that many dwarrows liked the bow and arrow. It was too much of an elvish weapon in their eyes, which had earned Frerin a lot of teasing as a child. Though that had reduced when it became obvious that to bully Frerin was to incur the wrath of Thorin. Even young as he had been, an angry Thorin was a force to be reckoned with.

"They will not expect to be attacked by arrows." Thorin added. The reason was obvious, dwarrows had few archers practised enough that they could hit what they were aiming for even if it stood still. "It could be useful if others of our unit are able to shoot an arrow in a straight line."

"I doubt we could train up anyone to be a useful shot by tomorrow, and we will only find out who is joining our unit at the briefing." Frerin said with a frown. He was not looking forward to being the only one in their unit who carried a bow and could actually use it. For one, being the only proficient long range fighter would place him in a unique position. That was never a good thing during a battle. It felt too much like painting a target on himself. It also meat that Thorin would most likely keep him close, if his comment about specific targets was anything to go by, and he would probably never get to even draw his sword. He didn't want to fight only with a bow and arrow, though. There was little glory to be found behind a bowstring. He wanted for his sword to get a taste of orcish blood.

Once more his brother proved his ability to follow Frerin's thoughts as easily as if they were written on his forehead. "Frerin, you are every drom* as much a proud and honourable warrior as everyone else here. Prouder and certainly more honourable that some. There is no shame in fighting with a bow and I would rather you not hinder yourself by fighting with a weapon you have not yet mastered. Especially not when you are as good with that bow as I remember you to be."

There was a brief silence before Frerin nodded slightly.

"You know, that briefing will be attended by all of the other clan leaders." Frerin said at last. It was an obvious change in topic but Thorin let it slide. He just groaned.

"Don't remind me. They are going stare me down as if I was some kind of weird insect they just scraped of their boot." Thorin rolled his eyes as put the figurines away and folded the map back up.

"You're right. You're lucky that Fundin didn't say anything when you dragged him away." Frerin snickered.

"I think he might have been too stunned to do more than follow me, and I did not drag him anywhere." An amused smirk was playing on Thorin's lips. Together they stepped out of the tent. By then it was already midday, yet the sun was still hidden beneath thick clouds.

"Nope, you kidnapped him." Frerin amended with a smirk.

"I did not kidnap him." Thorin protested as they made their way through the labyrinth that the tents had created. He hadn't, in fact. Their father had ordered Fundin to listen to any information and hear any suggestions that Thorin may have made after their talk had been over. That didn't make teasing Thorin any less amusing though.

"Oh you certainly did, the other's expressions when you kidnapped him were great as well." Frerin added with a small laugh.

"For the last time I did not kidnap Fundin!" Thorin's protest might have been louder than needed. A few of the dwarrows that passed them looked at them strangely. It only made Frerin laugh all the more. Thorin just rolled his eyes.

"I had forgotten just how much of annoyance you could be." Thorin muttered but there was no heat in his words. Only fondness.

"Me, an annoyance? You wound me, nadad." Frerin swung an arm around Thorin's shoulder and grinned broadly. Instead of the retaliation that he had expected Thorin gave him a soft smile. He tapped Frerin's nose once before he continued walking leaving him standing there. Frerin hurried after him, falling into step beside his brother once again. At least, until Thorin stopped all of a sudden.

"Think you can back up your claim of being a decent shot?" Thorin asked with an amused expression. They were standing next to one of the many impromptu training fields. Targets lined the far side while wooden and straw dummies stood just a few paces away, all of which looked rather worse for the wear. It was almost completely deserted. I seemed that most of the dwarrows had the common sense to not completely exhaust themselves the day before battle.

Frerin grinned as he picked up a bow that had been hung over the 'arm' of one of the dummies. He threw it at his brother, who caught it easily.

"Against you? Any day and for the rest of eternity." Frerin answered with a broad grin as he pulled his own bow from his back.

"Oh, you think so?" Thorin answered with an arched eyebrow. "Then you may have to think again."

They smirked at each other and began. Arrows sailed through the cool air while the sun moved unseen behind the clouds. Hours passed by, unnoticed by the pair.

Thorin felt smug as yet another of his arrows hit the centre of the target. It had been him who had taught his nephews how to handle a bow, since Dwalin had shown himself to be a downright terrible marksmen. He had once accidentally snapped a bow in half, and had since sworn off the 'bloody delicate elven toys'. As such, the roll of archery instructor had fallen to Thorin. Fíli had learned to shoot a bow and somehow hit his target rather then himself but Kíli... Kíli had taken to the skill like a bird learning to fly. His nephew had quickly overtaken him, and every other dwarf Thorin had ever known in both skill and enthusiasm for the unusual weapon. No one could beat his nephew when he had a bow in his hand and arrows in his quiver. Not even Frerin could have matched Kíli's skill with the bow. Thorin was pleased to note that Frerin was still better than him, if not by far. Frerin would be more then able to hold his own in the upcoming battle, but Kíli could still have easily beaten both of them. Thorin closed his eyes for a moment and let himself imagine. He could almost hear Kíli's joyous laughter echoing in the halls of Ered Luin, beating both his uncles at the archery range. He would be nothing more than a mere dwarfling, eyes shining with mischievous glee and well deserved pride. A small smile appeared on the prince's lips as he imagined it.

"Did you secretly practice somewhere?!" Frerin complained indignantly from next to him, dragging him from his thoughts.

"I had more years of practice than you." Thorin answered with a grin.

"Very funny, big guy. You're only five years older. It's not that much more." Frerin grumbled as he notched another arrow and released it. It hit the target dead centre, landing right next to Thorin's own arrow. They had been shooting for hours by now. Frerin was leading by only three centre shoots. A few dwarrows were mingling about and watched the princes shoot.

Somebody cleared their throat behind them. Groin stood there, arms crossed and looking at them expectantly. He was the father of Óin and Glóin, and Thorin could easily see the resemblance between him and his not-yet-born sons. Groin's hair was as red as Glóins but just as frizzly and unruly as Óins. There was no ear trumpet in sight at the moment, but Thorin knew that Groin was almost as hard of hearing as Óin was.

"The King has called a meeting. It will be held in the royal tent within the hour to brief all fraction leaders about their purpose and positions during tomorrow's battle." Groin's rumbling voice called.

"Seems we will have to cut our shooting short." Frerin commented as he pulled the arrows out of the target.

"We shall be there as soon as possible." Thorin said with a nod towards Groin, who turned on his heel and disappeared to where he had come from.

"Ready to be confronted with the clan leaders' disapproval?" Frerin had reappeared by his side, his quiver once again filled with arrows.

"Don't remind me." Thorin groaned. Frerin smiled ruefully while patted his brother's shoulder.

"Well, let's not keep them waiting." Thorin grumble was accompanied by a pitying glance from Frerin. The walk to the royal tent was silent.

As expected as soon as Thorin stepped into the tent all eyes turned towards him. The glare of the Ironfists was nothing compared to the disdainful look on Thranduil's face. Thorin mentally groaned at the thought of having to face that stoic elf again. He kept his expression carefully blank as he slipped into a position at the back of the tent. Frerin followed him silently. If anyone notices him standing a little closer to Thorin than usually they didn't commented on it.

Thorin stood still, his posture carefully relaxed and let his eyes drift once over every dwarf present. Firebeards, Ironfists, Broadbeams, Stonefoots, Blacklocks and Stiffbeards. All clan leaders were present. Of course he'd seen them all that morning, but it was only now that he let himself truly appreciate the loyalty they had shown his father by heeding his call. Even the Ironfists, whose feud with the children of Durin would have given them enough reasons to ignore their message and leave them all to die. Yet, they had come and shown themselves to be honourable, even if they were currently trying to glare holes through the heads of all the descendants of Durin in attendance. Inwardly shaking his head, Thorin refocused his attention on his father. He could not afford to let his mind wander when there where important announcements to be heard.

Thrain's voice filled the tent as he explained the plans and tactics for the upcoming battle. Fundin stood a step behind him to his right, as he always had. When their eyes met Fundin inclined his head slightly. Thorin gave a acknowledging nod in return.

There was an uproar when Thrain mentioned the suspected presence of trolls. Last time they had not known that there would be trolls joining the battle. It had cost them many brave warriors. Thorin still remembered the calls from the gates as the trolls descended upon them, crushing the surprised dwarrows and crippling their forces.

Thorin listened carefully to his father's explanations and once the words 'wedge formation' fell, Thorin felt no small amount of relief settle in his bones. The stronger centre would be able to hold out against the trolls and it would make it appear as if they fell for Azogs trap. It was as good a counter strategy as anyone would have been able to come up with in the limited time the council had had since Thorin's not-entirely-honest revelations. Still, arguments rose from the assembled dwarrows. Thorin let the voices wash over him as his mind wandered. Their petty arguments against a tactic that made sense were of no importance to him. His mind was already thinking about what he needed to do this evening. His hand reached for his sword.

The meeting went on into the late hours of the evening as more minor strategic issues were brought up and resolved. Thorin had little to no recollection of what was being discussed. Weapons distribution, water rations, the expected numbers of enemies or even Nain's predicted time of arrival had not featured prominently in his memory and so he forced himself to pay attention until they finally reached his point of interest: The distribution and position of the units.

Thorin perked up when his and Frerin's names fell. He had been almost certain that their father would keep them in the same unit after the talk they had had earlier but hearing it spoken as fact was different. Thorin breathed a sigh of relief and shared a quick glance with his brother. Frerin smiled at him before his gaze turned back towards their father. As Thorin had suspected they were assigned to fight on the northern flank together with the Firebeards and Stonefoots. The southern flank was manned by the Ironfist and Blacklocks. This was where Frerin had fought last time. Thorin still could not understand how their father could have let Frerin anywhere near the vengeful Ironfist.

Their unit would consist of forty dwarrows, all either from the Blue Mountains or former residents of Erebor. After that Thorin tuned out the rest of the distribution. His mind was already running through different scenarios. The fact that they had almost no archers was a distinct disadvantage. He could hardly use Frerin as the only archer. Right about now some of Thranduil's elven archers would have been very helpful, or even just that Legolas boy of his, no matter how annoying those tree-shaggers were. He silently apologized to Yavanna for the insult too her trees.

Just like last time the meeting went on into the late hours of the night. Somebody had brought in candles at one point and the dwarrows' faces were now illuminated by a warm orange glow. Next to Thorin, Frerin was nearly falling asleep while standing.

As soon as the meeting was finished, Thorin bid his brother goodnight and disappeared into the shadows of the tents. Unbeknownst to him, Frerin followed him silently.

Thorin moved from shadow to shadow, careful to let no dwarf see him, guard post or otherwise. When he reached a large tent at the edge of their encampment, he slowed. This was where the army was storing their provisions, completely unnoticed. Silently he knelled behind a cart that was standing next to the tent and waited. He had pulled his sword from its scabbard. His fingers were enclosing the hilt as he peered into the darkness.
His wait was rewarded when he heard the shuffles of feet on the uneven ground. His fingers clenched around the sword.

The deformed figures stepped out of the darkness in bushes that surrounded most of the camp. Skin eaten by disease. Wide and glazed eyes. Goblins. Thorin took a deep breath as he remembered the goblin's kingdom beneath the misty mountains. The rotting smell in the air. The stench of hundreds of unwashed goblins hanging in the caves. The feeling of the heavy and disgusting body of the goblin king crushing him. Thorin shook his head to get rid of the memories.

The goblins were muttering almost silently to each other. A language which Thorin did not understand, nor ever wanted to hear again. The noises they made sounded more like grunts than words. As silently as their grotesque forms could, they made their way over to the supply tent. Slowly Thorin stood up, still unseen by those that live beneath the misty mountains. Just as the first Goblin was about to walk around the cart, Thorin struck. His blade sinking into the Goblins throat as easily as if he had just cut butter. Blessed be Mahal and the craftsmanship of dwarrows. The sound of the dead body hitting the ground was the only noise heard in the silence of the evening. Before any of the other Goblins could react, Thorin had already whirled around. His blade cut down a second one with a clean cut through his upper body. Now, finally, the remaining goblins began to move. The third one darted forward, the rusty club it used as weapon raised above its head. Thorin side stepped the attack of the rusty weapon easily. His sword pierced the Goblins flimsy armour. Another one dead. Only two remained. His sword cut through the air, the drops of blood that had clung to the blade flying everywhere. He parried the next attack. Thorin kicked the Goblins knee causing him to lose his balance. His sword sung through the air and the head of the goblin fell to the ground, separated from its neck by a clean cut.

Only one more Goblin remained. With a angry roar the goblin threw himself at Thorin. His rusted weapon easily parried by Thorin's blade. With his left hand Thorin pulled out a hidden dagger from beneath his tunic and rammed it into the goblins throat. With a gurgling noise the last goblin ceased all movement.
With a disgusted expression Thorin withdrew his blades. He cleaned the blood of his sword before sheathing it. The dagger disappeared beneath his tunic once again. He knelled down and looked at the barely armoured Goblins laying dead on the floor. He picked up a deformed, rusty and battered flask that had been fastened on the goblins hip. He uncorked it and took a sniff and recoiled. A sickeningly sweet and bitter smell rose from the opened flask. Thorin was not an expert on the matter but he would bet whatever was in the flasks was poison, made from some kind of plant or berry most likely. The same poison that had caused dwarrows to drop dead all of a sudden when he had lived the first time. He hadn't been certain that they their food had actually been poisoned the first time but now the evidence was right in front of his eyes.

Something rustled in the bushes. Thorin reacted on instinct. The throwing knife was out of his hand and in the air before he had could think. With a small flick of his wrist the projectile sailed into the bushes. A squeak of pain disturbed the silence of the night as another Goblin fell to the ground. The knife embedded in its throat. The Goblin was still breathing. Gurgling sounds emitting from its throat as it fought for air. Thorin walked towards it. He stopped next to the twitching form with his sword drawn. He put the tip of his blade was right over its heart. Slowly the tip sunk into the hard, disease riddled skin until a small drop of blood trailed out.

"Trying to poison Mahal's children, especially with his wife's creation, was a move doomed to failure. I have no pity for you." Thorin said darkly before he thrust his sword downwards. His blade pierced the heart. An ugly sound of agony left the Goblin's throat before it stopped twitching. With a wet squelching noise, Thorin pulled his sword out of the prone body and cleaned it calmly. Then he turned around and walked away, his expression grim as he seethed his sword once more. When he walked back to his and Frerin's shared tent, he passed by the guard post at the front of the supply tent. The two dwarves were deeply engrossed in a game of dice and hadn't heard a thing. Thorin thought to discipline them, but thought better of it.
Tomorrow the real battle would take place and it would not be as easy as this. There was no need to kill the morale of these two. He would do it later, if they survived to see another week.
Tomorrow, dwarven and orcish blood would paint the battlefield in scarlet and there was much yet for him to do.

oOo

A.N.: Khuzdul Translation - Tahel: Laugh of all laughs - Naddith: little brother - Adad: Father - Zaglel: Moon of all moons

We will be using neither Imperial nor Metric units for this FF. No Metric because it would not fit with the setting and no Imperial because Imperial units are crazy and make no sense. We are using Dwarfish units (from another universe, and slightly adjusted but they fit better then anything else so there you go.)

1 mm 1 Rim

1 cm 1 Drom

1 dm 1 Drumod

1 m 1 Drasch

100 m 1 Dumad

1 km 1 Dorgrosch

25 km 1 Pakasch