mithril

IV.

Bilbo.

Bofur has realized the same thing, his expression filled with horror as he finds my wide eyes. I look around, scanning the heads of the dwarves and doing a quick mental tally of them. Dori and Ori are closest to me. Then Bifur and Bombur. Bofur and Óin. Glóin and Nori, Kíli and Dwalin. Fíli and Balin stand with Thorin. But no Hobbit. Dread seeps into my bones as the Goblins continue to shove us away from where we fell.

They prod us along rickety wooden walkways at a fast pace, constantly needling us with the sharp spear-tips and blades. Thorin is staring around the giant cave as we enter the open area. Despite its size, the space is stuffy and constricting. It reeks of rotten flesh and food gone sour. There is no sanctifying breeze. No relief for the poisonous air that constricts our lungs.

The Goblins are screaming and chanting and creating such a ruckus I can't hear myself think. At my side, Bifur claps his hands to his ears and groans. I'm getting disorientated, twisting and turning until I can't remember which way in the cave is up and which is down.

My eyes find the large pale Goblin that stands waiting on a raised platform. I balk at the hands that steer and guide us towards it, especially as the figure swings a giant staff, topped with a skull. It whistles over our heads repeatedly, forcing us to duck. My lip starts to curl as the Goblin turns and sits on a throne, the seat made of a hundred tiny bones.

The Goblins make quick work of our swords and other weapons, stripping them from us and dropping them in a large pile before the Goblin. It's just a surface search, for they haven't seen or felt my knives. I have to hope the other dagger-carrying Dwarves hold their own hidden weapons close to their person.

"Who would be so bold to come armed into my kingdom?" The large Goblin asks, glaring down at us from his throne. "Spies? Thieves? Assassins?"

"Dwarves, your malevolence," a Goblin bows from beside the company.

"Dwarves?" The Goblin King roars.

"We found thems on the front porch. And this pretty thing." My arm is grabbed violently and I'm yanked before the Goblin. I react, pulling away and letting out a sound that both feels and reverberates like a snarl.

"A human!" The king crows. He shoves his face close to mine. I bite back bile at the stench of such a grotesque being. "What is a human doing with a pack of Dwarves?" He demands. When I don't answer, he pulls back and gestures at us. "Well, don't just stand there!" He bellows. "Search them! Every crack, every crevice!"

Well, there go my knives.

"Don't touch me!" I spit at the Goblins that reach under my cloak and yank at the daggers I have scattered about my person. They even take the tiny blade tucked in my boot. I keep one, the handle passing as a part of my leather armor from its hiding place against the arm bracers I wear. I don't dare to acknowledge it for fear of the Goblin's attention.

"Theys in league with the Elves, sire," a Goblin hisses, lifting his handful of my Elven daggers. Another Goblin grabs my blade from the pile, hoisting it above his head. The other Goblins squeal and cry out at the sight of the intricately made weapons. The Goblin King roars, his rage obvious.

"What are you doing in these parts?" He demands, turning to stare at me with such pure hatred I might have melted if I were anyone else. Instead, I raise my chin and snarl back.

"Don't worry lads, I'll handle this," the grey-haired Óin mutters, stepping forward.

"No tricks! I want the truth!" The Goblin King thunders.

"You're going to have to speak up, your boys flattened my trumpet," Óin answers, holding up his now-crushed ear horn.

"I'll flatten more than your trumpet!" The Goblin yells, stepping forward with his staff raised.