Of Dragons, Dwobbits and Dwarves

Chapter Six

Bilba lounged on a rock, ankles crossed and arms folded over her stomach. Heat leached from the stone through the back of her shirt and trousers, easing sore muscles. She dozed lightly, more relaxed than she'd been in a long time.

The sound of voices and the clink of tack brought her slowly back to full consciousness. The road she lazed near was a key one for caravans. It was also a major one for orcs and bandits, lying in wait for unsuspecting and weary travelers.

She opened her eyes and sat up in one fluid motion, a hand already on her sword where it lay next to her.

Around her stretched an open, rocky plain. Overhead dark clouds drifted slowly across the sky promising poor weather later. A cool breeze swirled around her, lifting a few strands of hair from the tight braids wound around her head. In the years since she'd left the Shire it had grown rapidly and now reached nearly to her hips when loose and wet enough to pull the curls out. She wore it long for her mother who could not and Primula who'd so loved the thought of it growing out, though she doubted it was anywhere near as beautiful as theirs.

Voices drew her attention again and she turned her gaze to a line of people walking along the trail a few hundred yards off to her left. The group was mid-sized for a caravan, about twenty or so in total. Most were male but she could see a handful of women as well as a child or two darting among the wagons and ponies.

As they drew nearer she realized they were dwarves. They were coming from the wrong direction to have originated from the Blue Mountains, however, which meant they were most likely from Erebor or the Iron Hills.

Bilba grimaced, glancing toward the sky again. Nothing but clouds darted overhead. The last thing she wanted was for Syrath to show up and start going on about Erebor again.

She saw one of the dwarves point her out to another. The entire caravan ground to a halt and the two who'd seen her started picking their way in her direction. Bilba sighed in annoyance. She often patrolled this road and most on the Shire side of the Misty Mountains knew to leave her alone. She would protect them, kill any orcs or bandits that threatened them and, in return, they stayed out of her way. That was how it worked. She neither wanted, nor needed, socialization. This group in particular was very near Rivendell and she knew there were no orcs for miles, they didn't need her.

The two stopped just below the rock she sat on, staring up at her as if they expected her to suddenly do a trick to entertain them. She glared at them, her face blank but neither seemed very impressed. Bastards.

"Greetings," one of the males called up. He was large, as most dwarves tended to be, with flaming red hair and a thick beard. "What's your business in these parts if I may ask?"

Bilba bristled at their arrogance. Definitely from Erebor then; only they would have enough egotism to demand what she was doing in the Wild, as though they had any right or claim to it. She thought of Bofur and the others from the garrison. From gossip she picked up on her infrequent visits to Bree she knew most had been offered positions in Erebor after the attack but, to a one, they had all refused and chosen to stay in the Shire to help rebuild. They had felt personally responsible for the inability to keep the orcs out and insisted on making it right.

She personally doubted anyone from Erebor would have done that. She was glad Bofur hadn't ended up leaving; no doubt the pride would have rubbed off and corrupted him.

The second dwarf, white haired with elaborate braids, elbowed the redhead in the side. That one grunted and Bilba raised an eyebrow, wondering how strong the older must be for the redhead to have felt it through his armor.

"My apologies," the second dwarf said, his voice surprisingly soft. He bowed politely at the waist. "My name is Dori. My rude friend here," he indicated the redhead, "is Gloin. What he meant to say to you was 'greetings, friend. Would you happen to know if the way ahead is safe?'"

Bilba felt a slight smile tug at her lips but clamped down on it. She made an obvious show of looking at the rock she'd been resting on before looking at him and giving him her best 'are you an idiot?' look. Syrath claimed she was exceptionally good at that expression but she never could tell if he was telling the truth or just flattering her.

The dwarf, surprisingly, seemed to catch on. "Ah, of course. Why would you be here if it was a dangerous area?"

The rude dwarf growled something in their language, Khuzdul, and, with an apologetic look from the less annoying one, they stepped away to converse.

Bilba dismissed them, studying the rest of the caravan instead. They looked tired but she could see no sign they had been attacked while on their journey. Raids had fallen dramatically in the few short years she'd been preying on the orcs. Now, so long as they stuck to the roads and didn't wander off, most could be relatively assured of safety in their journeys.

The handful of children, all fully dwarven, darted about under the wagons and other travelers, playing some bizarre game that seemed to involve one hiding and waiting to be found by another one. The other warriors, easy to pick out based on their heavy armor and weapons, had arranged themselves loosely around the entire group, ready to snap to attention at the slightest hint of danger.

Clearly they didn't see much danger in a lone female dwobbit.

It appeared that, for the most part, the entire group had been walking. The only exception was a woman seated on the bench of the front wagon. She sat straight with her gaze pointed ahead, not acknowledging anyone around her. Her clothing was ridiculous for the area, a silk dress embroidered with jewels and shimmering threads. Ropes of what looked to be pearls wrapped around the slim column of her throat and rings sparkled on her fingers. Her thick hair, nearly onyx hair was done up in an elaborate style and studded with an obscene amount of jewels and other ornaments. It was a wonder they hadn't been set on by bandits for her alone, Bilba thought. More than that, however, it was a wonder anyone had allowed her to come. Her wardrobe put the entire group at risk and that was ignoring the fact she was clearly a noblewoman and could doubtless fetch a stunning ransom.

The crunch of boots in dirt alerted her to the return of rude jerk and his slightly more polite friend.

Slightly more polite friend, Dori, was the one who addressed her. "We were wondering if you might be able to direct us to Rivendell, my Lady? None of us here have been much on this side of the world and I'm afraid our confidence may have led us slightly astray."

In other words, they were lost. It was easy enough to do, she mentally conceded. Imlaldris was located in a hidden valley after all, she had trouble seeing it herself sometimes, even from the air. They were actually heading in the right direction but, given how everything looked the same, it was understandable they might have convinced themselves they were on the wrong track.

She slid her feet up and stood. Gloin tensed but Dori didn't react. She couldn't decide which reaction to feel insulted about. She retrieved her sword, sheathed it and grabbed her bow and quiver of arrows. She stepped forward and dropped off the edge of the rock, landing easily in a half crouch before the two.

Straightening, she settled one hand on the hilt of her sword and strode between them, heading in the direction of Imladris.

"Is she just leaving?" she heard Gloin hiss behind her. "Or are we supposed to follow her?"

Bilba rolled her eyes and stopped, turning halfway back toward them.

"I guess that answers your question," Dori replied.

Bilba started walking again, striding to a position well in front of the wagons. As she did she almost absently made eye contact with the bejeweled dwarf female. The woman sneered at her, lifting her chin up and cutting her eyes to one side. Bilba felt her lips curl slightly in a smirk, wondering how fast the pride would fade if an attack happened.

She brushed it off after that, moving at a quick pace ahead of them. If she were lucky she could get rid of them before Syrath came back. Behind her she heard the rattle of the wagon wheels start up again and the chatter of voices as Gloin and Dori explained what they thought was happening.

Bilba stayed well in front, making it clear she had no desire for conversation. Overhead the clouds began to slowly increase, casting long shadows on the ground. The breeze cooled a bit, bringing a welcome relief to the dust and heat from the road.

As she moved, Bilba dropped into an easy rhythm. She allowed her mind to wander, idly working over the latest plans to piss off the orcs. Over the nearly four years since she'd left the Shire she'd done an incredibly good job of enraging them. She had no doubt Azog knew who she was; even he was smart enough to be able to connect the lone dwobbit with a dragon and a vendetta to his personal slave who ran off with a baby dragon. Over the years he'd tried many times to capture her but failed.

The attempts didn't bother her. She stayed away from everyone, rarely visited any populated place except to get supplies and, then, was in and out as fast as possible with little to no interaction with the local denizens.

Azog no longer had anyone to use against her with the exception of Syrath but the pale orc wanted him regardless, her presence didn't change anything.

Hoofbeats thudding on hard packed earth brought her back to attention and she lifted her head to see a small group of elves heading toward them. Bilba paused and waited. As they drew nearer she recognized Elrond and those two idiot sons of his at the front. Her eyes narrowed, she had a personal grudge against them both.

Behind him the caravan halted awaiting the arrival of the elves. As they neared Bilba could see the smile on Elladan and Elrohir's faces and rolled her eyes skyward.

"Orcrist!" Elladan called out. "So you finally decided to visit did you?"

Gasps and exclamations ran through the dwarves behind her and Bilba briefly considered murdering Elladan on the spot. The elves pulled to a stop in front of her and dismounted, Elrond striding forward.

"Greetings, Bilba," he said, his voice pitched too low for anyone to hear. "It is good to see you well."

Bilba resisted the urge to roll her eyes yet again. They would have heard if anything had happened to her or Syrath. Azog would probably personally announce it, hopefully right before he took an arrow in the throat, she didn't care from who.

A number of the elves headed toward the dwarves and Bilba heard a shrill voice start speaking imperiously. She didn't even have to look to guess it was the overdressed woman.

"Where is Syrath?" Elrond questioned. "It's rare to see one of you without the other."

Bilba raised an eyebrow, dropping her outermost shield to activate the link she'd once forged with him.

Don't you mean Glamdring? She thought, her mental voice as dry as she imagined her physical voice might have been had she been able to speak.

Elrond grinned and Bilba wanted to hit him. "You insisted on trying to make a name for yourself while staying mysterious. We had to give some answer to the constant inquiries."

She hadn't tried to make a name for herself at all; she'd simply been killing orcs. When nosy people who had nothing better to do started asking questions Elrond could have given them her and Syrath's names or, better yet, said nothing at all. Instead, deciding to go the melodramatic route, he'd made up titles.

Orcrist, Orc Cleaver.

And Glamdring, the Foe Hammer.

Elrohir broke away from where his brother was dealing with the dwarves and came to greet her.

The obnoxious woman was getting louder, her voice so strident Bilba couldn't understand what she was saying. There was an odd note of panic in her voice, though why that would be Bilba couldn't fathom. They were right on the doorstep of Imladris, the elves had arrived to escort them in so what possible reason could she have to be worried?

She turned her attention back to Elrond.

I have to go. You can take them from here.

"Are you sure?" Elrond asked. "You could come with us. Rivendell has always been open to you."

Bilba shook her head. She didn't want Rivendell open to her. She didn't need it open to her.

She waved and turned to go, easily shrugging off Elrohir's attempts to try and convince her to stay.

A shadow fell over her and she stumbled back a step as Dori suddenly stood before her. He gave a slight bow. Next to him stood another dwarf, slimmer and younger looking. He held a journal of some kind in both hands and an already dipped quill.

"I'm sorry," Dori said, "we wanted to thank you for guiding us."

Bilba shrugged. Beside Dori the younger dwarf was shuffling his feet and ducking his head, both hands clasping the journal so hard his knuckles were white. Every so often he would risk a look at her only to immediately flush and look away.

"Also," Dori continued, "I don't want to embarrass you but my brother," here he indicated the younger dwarf, "is a big fan of yours. He was wondering if you might consider signing his journal?"

The younger dwarf thrust the journal out, eyes fixed on his feet.

Bilba stared at him, utterly baffled. A fan? What did that mean? More than that, however, how in the world did anyone in Erebor know about her? She stared at the journal, and then slowly took it and the already dipped quill he was holding out. Her mother had taught her to read and write as best she could in the mines and Primula had furthered her education after her escape.

She almost scrawled out her actual name but, at the last second, changed her mind and wrote Orcrist instead. She doubted the dwarf would have any interest in Bilba.

She handed the journal back slowly, still confused but she must have done what he wanted for the younger man looked ready to pass out on the spot. Dori looked amused. He nodded to her in thanks and the two of them headed back to the rest of the group.

Bilba watched them for a moment. The elves had moved out and were mingling with the dwarves, all of them clustered in small groups and talking animatedly. The pretentious woman had several around her and was speaking wildly, her arms gesturing as she punctuated whatever point she was making.

Bilba shook her head and turned away. A slight hollow feeling gnawed at her but she pushed it away. She had no need of relationships or friendships.

She had Syrath.

Even as she thought it her stomach twisted slightly, an ever present mix of guilt and fear, and she quickened her steps, hoping to be well away from the dwarves before Syrath returned. Over the time they'd been in the Wild he'd asked repeatedly if they could go and find his second rider. Neither of them completely understood it. As far as Bilba, or Syrath, knew riders were chosen. Nevertheless Syrath insisted he had another rider, somehow, someway. He said he could feel this other soul tugging at him, drawing him. Given the fact that firedrakes only bonded with dwarves or dwobbits, and he wasn't feeling it from the direction of the Blue Mountains, it meant this other rider was most likely in Erebor or the Iron Hills.

Every time Bilba thought of it her very soul seemed to twist in anguish. The idea of Syrath having a rider somehow destined for him, one that surely wasn't broken and twisted as she was, one who would be more than willing to open him or herself up and enter into a full soul bond instead of holding him at arm's length, cut deeply. She continually made up excuses for them not to go, the weather was poor, orc attacks were up, she didn't feel up to it after her latest injury. She had no doubt Syrath saw right through them but, for the moment at least, he allowed it. The guilt clawed at her but every time he brought it up it became suddenly incredibly hard to breathe.

What possible need or desire would Syrath have for her after finding another rider? One whose body wasn't twisted and marred, whose soul wasn't scarred and blackened with hatred?

And then of course was the knowledge that Erebor was where her father lived, or had lived at least.

A chill ran over her, not caused by the changing weather, and she wrapped her arms around her torso. Her mother had wanted her to go to him if she ever had the chance but Bilba couldn't bring herself to do it. The last thing she wanted to do was face the dwarf who had let her mother die, who'd let her languish in slavery for decades.

She would want to kill him.

Her mother would want her to forgive him.

In the end Bilba did neither.

She sighed, digging her finger into the flesh of her arms until she was sure she'd leave bruises.

Perhaps she was her father's daughter after all, a coward.

She kept moving for over two hours, getting as far from the dwarves and Rivendell as possible. The landscape stayed quiet, no sound other than the crunching of her feet on dirt and her breathing.

Overhead the clouds increased until the sky was an ominous slate gray. The temperature dropped and a smattering of raindrops began to fall. A light wind picked up, throwing the occasional drop against her face and body.

Something prickled at the back of her mind and she lifted her eyes just in time to see Syrath burst through the clouds; body spiraling as he cheerfully swirled and danced through the air.

That dragon had far too much energy, Bilba thought mildly. She'd attributed it to his age at first and had assumed he would settle down as he aged and grew.

She'd been wrong.

If anything his energy level had only increased until it seemed almost boundless. As she watched, he swooped back up into the clouds and vanished from sight. Bilba shook her head and started walking again. He'd come down when he was ready.

It was nearly a half hour later when he finally wore himself out enough to want to land. Bilba was just cresting a large hill when he hit the ground in front of her, the force of it sending a vibration through her legs.

Bilba raised an eyebrow. Nearly the size of a human's dragon, and with a lot of growing still to do, Syrath towered over her, his neck craned over to look down on her.

He enjoyed towering. She felt a renewed sense of guilt for rushing so fast to get away from the dwarves. She knew the stalemate couldn't last forever, him wanting to go to his other rider, her wanting him to stay. She also knew the very fact that he did stay with her suggested devotion and love.

But, her heart whispered traitorously, that's only because he hasn't met his other rider. It's only because he owes you a debt.

He stays with you out of obligation.

Bilba cursed her heart and mind, one convinced if she let him go she'd never get him back, the other equally convinced she was being foolish, that Syrath stayed from love, not obligation, and would never leave her.

She wished she knew which was the truth and which was the lie.

I caught a fish!

I hope you caught more than one. Bilba replied dryly, packing away her fears and guilt for another day, again. One would barely be enough for you to taste.

I may have caught a few more than one, he answered happily. I didn't want to overeat though, not right before a mission.

Bilba felt a lazy smile drift over her face. There was no sign then?

Syrath's eyes glittered. None.

Bilba gave a short nod. Two weeks earlier she'd been in Bree buying supplies, using the few coins convoys often insisted she take after she helped them, when she'd heard the most unusual rumor. A hunter checking his traps had been spreading reports of a large company of orcs moving out from Moria, led by none other than Azog himself.

Bilba hadn't heard of him leaving Moria since the Shire and hadn't particularly believed the Man, particularly when she'd been unable to find any sign of the orcs, or any other witness who reported seeing them. She didn't believe it would be possible for a large number to move unseen and for what purpose?

Then attacks by orcs had begun to decrease, the guards always placed at the gates of Moria since her escape vanished, the roads suddenly became a thousand times safer than they'd ever been.

The orcs had gone quiet, a fact terrifying on its own merits aside from the hunter's assertions he'd seen them on the move.

Bilba had searched again.

She'd starting finding things in Dunland, small things, an orcish weapon here or there, the remains of a small handful of campfires, smoothed out patches of dirt that might have once held the imprint of footprints. Always the evidence stayed close to the foot of the mountain, hiding in its shadows.

She'd lost all evidence of their passage at the foot of the White Mountains. She'd alerted Gondor as well as the dour faced Wizard who lived in the fortress near the Gap of Rohan. She was vaguely surprised he had seen no sign of the orcs himself but he seemed rather self-absorbed so, in the end, perhaps it was little surprise after all.

It was only after returning to her regular haunts that the idea had started to formulate.

Now she strode under Syrath's arched neck to where the black leather straps were looped around his body and knotted lightly on his back. She grabbed them and pulled herself up easily, settling herself in the dip where his neck met his shoulders. The straps came undone with a light tug and she quickly lashed them around her legs, thighs and waist. Finally she took her bow and quiver off and secured them to Syrath's side, within easy reach if she needed them. The arrows were fixed inside the quiver with twine, strong enough to keep them in but weak enough she could snap them easily if she needed to. There were more quivers, each full of arrows, strapped to both his sides going all the way down the length of his body.

Alright, she thought, reaching down to run a hand over Syrath's rough hide. Let's get on with it then.

Syrath was only too happy to comply. His wings unfurled with a snap and he bunched down. Bilba felt adrenaline rush through her and a grin spread across her face. She turned her gaze up and lifted her arms as though grasping for the sky.

Syrath started running, gathered speed and then pushed off.

Bilba was thrown back as the clouds were suddenly racing toward her, rain pelting her in the face and wind howling past her ears. She laughed and looked down as the ground dropped further and further away.

They burst through a layer of clouds and she stretched out her hands as mist slid through her fingers and swirled around her. Air, heavy with rain, filled her lungs and her clothing and hair grew damp.

Then they were through and the sun bore down on them, its rays chasing the chill from her skin.

Syrath leveled off, adjusting his wings so he was gliding on air currents. Bilba looked down and saw the dark clouds that had hung so menacingly over her head were now below them. She stretched a hand down and Syrath dipped lower, allowing her to run her fingers through them.

Happiness flooded her and a peace settled over her. She sighed and relaxed, her eyes drifting closed.

Her mother's voice entered her mind.

"The one thing I miss the most, aside from your father of course, is flying. I would beg him to take me up every time he visited, and he always did." In her mind, Bilba heard her mother's voice take on the wistful tone she always had when she spoke of flying. "There's no possible way to explain it to you Bilba, not in a way that does it justice. It's just so...quiet up there. It doesn't matter what your day was like, it doesn't matter what's waiting for you when you land, you can leave it all behind...just for a little while. Just me and your father...and his dragon of course but I couldn't talk to him so, sometimes, it felt like just the two of us...just us...flying where no one could ever touch us."

Belladonna's voice faded, as it always did, and Bilba's eyes opened. Her mother had been right, there were no words to truly do it justice.

The clouds are a big help. Syrath's voice broke into her thoughts. They'll never see us coming.

Bilba nodded absently, her stomach beginning to churn. She'd wanted to do this for years and the news that the main body of orcs, and Azog, were away presented the perfect opportunity. She'd never have dared getting so close to Moria at any other time.

She swallowed and felt her skin prickling as cold rushed over her. She hoped she was doing the right thing. It could all go right...or it could go terribly, terribly wrong.

It'll be fine, Syrath said, sensing her disquiet. We'll be in and out in minutes. They'll never have a chance to respond.

Bilba didn't answer, or bother to point out how uncharacteristically serious he was being. He was worried too.

We're almost there, Syrath told her. Ready?

I am, Bilba answered, clenching her teeth. Let's go.

Syrath dove and they rushed through the clouds, leaving the sun and blue sky behind them.

Seconds later they dropped back into a gray-cast world. Cold wrapped back around her and the rain, which had picked up significantly, soaked her through immediately. Bilba felt a sudden fear as the memory of her escape entered her mind. It had been a day similar to this one, overcast and dark.

Below them the rocky crags Moria lay spread out. It wasn't the same location where she'd escaped from, that lay on the opposite side of the mountain. This was the back. There were no gates, just a simple door that, once, had allowed dwarves and other races in and out of the Kingdom.

Bilba knew that door well.

On the inside was a large landing dubbed the Arena by the orcs. It was where slaves were forced to fight, each other most of the time but also other orcs and, sometimes, even fouler things. Bilba could still hear the roar of the orcs, seated along the stairs leading up into Moria. There were only two ways to get out of the Arena once you'd been thrown in.

The first was to kill your opponent. The hordes of orcs covering the stairs would part and the victor would know they would be allowed to live another day.

The second was through the heavily guarded door.

It was the way many went...the losers from the Arena, those too old or injured to work any longer, those who caused to much trouble...and the dead.

Bilba always, always made sure her opponent was dead at the end of the match, it was the only mercy she could get away with, not that it had always prevented Azog from punishing her anyway. The orcs wanted a show after all, before and after the fight and she regularly deprived them of the second half of it.

The small, rocky basin just beyond the door came into view, the waters of the lake that filled it quiet.

Memory stirred within her and, with it, anger.

The orcs had come hours later, long after the last breath had left her mother's body. They had torn her ruthlessly from Bilba's grasp, dragging her away as though she were little more than trash they were taking out.

Bilba had scrambled to her feet, her legs shaking from weakness and lack of nutrition. She'd stumbled after them, not begging as many did, but fighting, trying desperately to claw her mother back from them.

They'd reached the Arena, a place she'd never been before. The area was dark and quiet but, in the dim light of a few torches, she could pick out the dark stains covering the floor, could see the grooves in rock, remnants of pain forever etched in stone.

She hadn't realized at the time that Azog was nearby and heard the sounds of her cursing and fighting. He'd been impressed with her spirit and had claimed her as his personal slave.

She'd found herself back at the Arena the next day, as a participant.

Syrath roared, the sound echoing off the walls of the mountain and reverberating through the range.

Fire erupted from his throat, a massive column of heat and liquid death. It struck the surface of the water and fanned out, covering it.

An unearthly shriek sounded and a massive form rose from the center.

That was a mistake. Syrath refocused his fire, setting it dead center on the creature. Tentacles flew out, trying to catch them and drag them down. Bilba calmly lifted her bow and snapped an arrow out of the quiver. She nocked it to the string and let it fly, watching as it soared true and struck a tentacle. She sent several more after it, anger thrumming through her as each one struck home.

Syrath let lose another fountain of fire. Bilba held still, an arrow ready, but no more tentacles came at them. Instead the form slumped forward and slowly sank back under the now boiling water of the small lake.

Satisfaction surged through Bilba as the Watcher burned.

The gout of flame stopped and Syrath angled down, aiming at the door into the Mountain. Bilba took a deep breath and readied her arrow once more.

Syrath slammed into the rock face, claws gripping the edges of the doorframe. With a second roar he tore at the rock, wrenching huge chunks of it from the mountain. Pieces of grit and dust struck Bilba in her face and body and dust clogged her throat and lungs. She coughed, grimacing as it went up her nose and made her eyes run.

The wall crumbled, huge pieces falling into darkness. Immediately Syrath shoved back and up, pushing away from the gaping hole in the side of Moria. Orcs began pouring out, the Arena must have been active, Bilba thought. None of them held a weapon that could reach them, however, and they were far from the dragon pens. By the time the orcs could reach their dragons and return she and Syrath would be long gone.

She surveyed the giant hole in the Mountain and grinned. There was no way the orcs would be able to block it off. She'd destroyed the Arena and provided a way for slaves to escape in one fell swoop. Getting rid of the Watcher also deprived them of their method of disposing of corpses, they'd have to find another way and that would take manpower away from other areas.

We dealt them a solid blow, she thought to Syrath. Well done.

Syrath twisted in midair...and his entire body nearly stalled.

Bilba!

Bilba looked up...and sucked in a breath as her air literally froze in her chest.

The sky over their heads was crawling with orcs and the abominations they called dragons.

No, Bilba thought, no...it cannot be.

Rain splattered in her eyes, obscuring her vision. She shook her head to dislodge it and, when her it cleared, found the orcs had cleared a path in the midst of them.

Most orc dragons were the size of wargs if not a little bigger, barely large enough for an orc to ride. This one, however, was enormous, at least twice the size of a normal orc dragon.

She didn't have to look to see who rode it.

Her entire body seemed to loose strength and she sagged forward on Syrath, nearly dropping her bow and arrows in the process.

It was a trap, she whispered. It was a trap. How could I have been so stupid?

I don't think so, Syrath responded. If it was they'd have stopped us before we destroyed everything. It's just terrible luck.

Terrible luck. Terrible luck and Azog. She looked at him and saw his lips drawn back in a sneer. In one hand he clutched an enormous mace.

Her weakness faded. Bilba felt fire light inside her, burning through her nerves.

Azog could haunt her steps for every day of her life if he so chose. He could drive her from every place she lived and from every person she ever spoke to.

She would endure it, had endured it already.

There was one thing; however, she would not endure. One thing Azog could not have.

He didn't get Syrath.

She lifted her bow and sighted, letting the arrow off and nocking another before it reached its target. She heard Azog's dragon scream as the arrow found its mark in its wing. It staggered and Azog roared in anger.

Syrath! Go!

Syrath was already moving, his body twisting and racing away from the door. Behind them the dragons and orcs gave chase, shouting and yelling insults as they came.

They came around them, above and to the sides. Bilba fired arrow after arrow, panic setting in as she saw the sheer number.

Syrath roared in rage, twisting his head to send gouts of flame at them. Several shrieks sounded and dragons fell burning from the sky, their riders falling to break upon the mountain.

Bilba felt Syrath lift as he tried to go up, hoping to get above where the orc dragons could fly. Immediately dozens closed around him, driving him back down even as he roared and spat fire at them.

Something thick and viscous landed on her leg and Bilba shrieked as pain scorched a path across her leg. Syrath twisted, spinning and snapped the dragon nearest her out of the air. The straps cut into Bilba's thighs and legs as they held her in place and she nearly screamed again at the feel of the leather against her acid burned skin. The dragon and its rider crunched and burst inside Syrath's mouth; blood and gore spraying out before he spat them out in disgust.

Are you alright?

Fine, Bilba gasped. She clenched her teeth and focused on breathing. Sweat beaded her forehead and her hands shook slightly as she nocked another arrow.

Syrath dove suddenly, darting between rock and Bilba realized they were by the High Pass, one of the routes leading through the mountains for those who had to travel on foot.

The orcs came after them, their smaller size making it easier to navigate the twists and turns of the passage.

Syrath pulled ahead, putting them behind him briefly. Bilba twisted but couldn't get a good shot off. She bit her lip and then reached down with one hand to release the straps, tying them in a quick knot to keep them from falling off. Slight relief flooded her immediately as the leather no longer pressed against her injured leg.

What are you doing?!

Bilba ignored him. She pulled her leg up, pain screamed through her nerves and she swallowed against the surge of bile in her throat.

She pushed it aside and carefully got to her knees on Syrath's back, her body instinctively adjusting to him as he banked and darted between rocks and other formations.

She'd been hurt worse than this before.

She'd flown on Syrath without her straps before.

She could do this.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, sighting the tip of the arrow on the nearest orc dragon. She released and watched as it hit home with a thunk, digging deep in the muscle connecting the creature's wing to its body. It fell with a howl, taking its rider with it.

Bilba reached down and found she only had one arrow left in that particular quiver. It would be enough. The orc dragons fit better in the pass but they were slower and had a harder time maneuvering. They were beginning to fall behind. A small sense of relief spread over her, breaking through the waves of pain radiating from her leg.

She nocked the arrow and, a moment later, let it fly, taking yet another dragon out of the sky.

She leaned over and strapped the bow in next to the empty quiver.

Stop wasting time and strap back in!

Bilba turned to face forward once more. In her mind she opened the link to reply to Syrath. She was going to chide him for his worry and point out how far ahead they'd pulled. They were far enough that Syrath could go above the clouds again without fear of them catching up. It would be a relief, he'd been forced to fly so close to the Pass itself she'd worried he'd actually crash into it at several points.

A wall of rock several hundred yards in front of them stood up.

Bilba froze, her mind struggling to comprehend what she was seeing.

Syrath banked hard, instinctively, and soared between the moving rock's back and the space it had stepped out from.

He made it with inches to spare.

Bilba didn't make it at all.

One second she had the feel of Syrath's scales beneath her boot and knee, the next she had the feel of nothing at all.

She fell only a few feet but hit hard, pain bursting from her shoulder as it took the brunt of the impact. The rest of her body followed and she slid, grit and stone tearing through her clothing and ripping the skin of her face and hands as she threw them out to uselessly try to break her movement.

She caught up against a sharp outcropping and couldn't stop the sharp cry of pain as she slammed into it.

Bilba!

Bilba looked to see the rock...whatever it was, lumbering down a side canyon, oblivious, or uncaring about the chaos it had caused. Syrath darted about in the sky over its head, having gained enough altitude to avoid it and the orcs behind them, forever if he so choose.

A look back showed her pursuers just rounding the corner, Azog at the forefront.

She shot another look at Syrath, judging the distance between him and her and between her and the orcs.

He wouldn't arrive in time.

Bilba!

He started to dive.

No! Bilba struggled to her feet, one hand drawing her sword that, through some miracle, had stayed in its scabbard through her fall. Syrath, no! Run!

I won't leave you!

If you come back we'll both be caught, Bilba whispered in her mind. The orcs were closer. Bilba cast about desperately and saw the opening of a cave nearby. She limped toward it, her entire body a mass of pain. Her leg dragged uselessly and her arm hung at her side. Please, she directed at Syrath. Go.

She risked a look and saw Azog, a sadistic look in his eyes.

Just go, she begged, please.

She reached the mouth of the cave and staggered in, gripping the wall to try and steady herself.

Outside Syrath roared, the sound agonized.

I'll draw them off, he said, his mental voice terrified. I'll come back. I'll come right back. I'll bring help.

Bilba felt fear for him, greater than anything she felt for herself. She prayed to Yavanna, the Valar her mother prayed to and added in Mahal and anyone else she could think of. They had never heard her before, and certainly hadn't heard her mother, but, perhaps, just this once.

Noise came from outside the cave, the scrape of claws on rocks, the flap of wings. Clearly the arrow hadn't done near as much damage to his dragon as she'd hoped.

Bilba moved toward the rear of the dark cave, holding her sword in both hands, point aimed at the entrance. The blade shook in her grip, the tip continually dragging toward the ground and forcing her to pull it up again.

A shadow fell over the doorway and Bilba had to fight back a whimper as Azog entered.

The last four years dropped away and she was nothing more than a child who'd just lost her mother. A little girl who'd truly and honestly believed Azog was untouchable, unbeatable, all powerful.

Perhaps that little girl had been right all along.

He stepped forward, lazy, smirking. A small sound escaped Bilba's throat and she cursed herself for the weakness. Almost on its own her body backed up until she was against the wall.

"So," Azog said, his voice amused. "You have finally returned to me. Did you think you could run forever?"

She was slightly surprised he didn't try to mentally attack her. Maybe he thought she'd soul bonded with Syrath and made herself untouchable, just as the rider whose name she'd never known had been all those years ago.

An odd noise permeated the cavern suddenly and she saw Azog frown in confusion as he tried to place it.

Bilba felt something shift under her boots and looked down. A fine line appeared in the dirt beneath her feet. As she watched it spread, winding through the floor and widening.

With a start she recognized the noise, sand falling through the cracks.

The floor was crumbling beneath her feet.

Relief flowed through her, so intense she swayed in place from the force of it.

She straightened and lowered her sword.

On the other side of the cavern Azog frowned; still unaware of what was going on.

Bilba couldn't bring herself to open any kind of link with him so she simply stared at him.

Sorry, she thought, knowing he couldn't hear her but hoping he somehow got it anyway. Looks like you lose after all.

Understanding dawned in his eyes as he caught sight of the cracks. With a roar he stepped forward, a hand reaching for her.

He was far, far too late.

Beneath her feet the floor collapsed away, leaving nothing but space.

Bilba fell, air cradling her body as it began its descent into darkness.

The last sight she had was Azog standing on the lip near the cave entrance, his face contorted with anger.

Bilba closed her eyes and relaxed. She spread her arms out to the side, arching her back and tipping her head back, a smile on her lips.

And thus she fell, content in the knowledge she would soon be far past where Azog or, anyone else, could reach her.

***

The Council devolved into yet another shouting match over something insignificant and Fili resisted the urge to bang his head on the table in despair.

Next to him, Thorin simply sat back and watched, content to observe the various Council members rather than try to get them to calm down, at least for the moment.

Fili settled back in his chair and copied him, trying to put into practice his uncle's mantra of "using every moment to your advantage".

His eyes went to Councilman Nar and narrowed slightly. The other dwarf was leaning back in his seat, much as Fili and Thorin were, the only one aside from them not involved in the shouting. As Fili watched the other dwarf idly drummed a finger on the table, the slightest signs of a smirk playing on his lips.

There was something off about him. It wasn't the first time Fili had thought it. Nar hadn't been the same since Moria but, considering no one had been the same since Moria, it was difficult to put his finger on exactly what it was that bothered him specifically about Nar.

Kili thought it was simply that the dwarf was Beryl's father and anything concerning her threw him off. It was possible he was right, Fili conceded mentally. Beryl hadn't slowed down in her efforts to awkwardly flirt with him or try to ingratiate herself by acting like his spy, though the only gossip she brought him seemed to be things he already knew or items concerning her father's rivals.

The past months had been a relief. Beryl had unexpectedly announced she was traveling to the Blue Mountains to visit distant relatives. Fili hadn't known she had relatives in the Blue Mountains and he couldn't picture the noblewoman on a long, dusty caravan ride but, almost overnight, she'd packed and headed out with the next convoy leaving.

Something brushed against his mind and he opened his shields, recognizing the touch.

You keep staring at him you're likely to bore a hole through his skull.

Fili's eyes went to where Dwalin stood against the chamber doors. With his hands clasped behind his back and his body straight he looked more like a statue of a perfect Dwarven warrior than actual flesh and blood.

I don't like him.

Well, now there's a surprise.

Fili flinched. Dwalin wasn't referencing Beryl and they both knew it. He was referencing six months earlier when a petition had started making the rounds calling for Fili to abdicate his position in favor of Kili. The grounds were the fact that his coming of age would soon take place, now less than a month away in fact, and there was no sign of a dragon. The argument was that the absence was proof Mahal had rejected Fili.

Thorin had denounced the petition immediately, stating Fili was and, always would be, his heir. It was an act that had cemented the love Fili already felt for his uncle into something nearing outright hero worship.

There was never any definitive proof of who had started the petition but, according to Nori, who was an actual spy and extremely good at it, the rumors all pointed to it being Nar. While that no doubt played into his dislike of the dwarf the strange feeling that there was something...off...about Nar went back farther still and it bothered Fili to no end that he couldn't put a finger on exactly what it was.

Several members of the Council broke off arguing suddenly, their bodies tensing. At the door Dwalin shifted as well, his eyes taking on that far off look he got when talking to Xalanth.

"What is it?" Thorin's voice rumbled from beside Fili.

Dwalin's eyes cleared and he directed his attention to Thorin, his face grave. "Reports of a drake being run down by orcs near Mirkwood."

"Near Mirkwood?" Fili said in surprise. "They would dare come that close?"

"Not sure they're paying attention," Dwalin responded. "Word is the dragon is the rogue blue from the eastern side of the mountains. I imagine they've been wanting him and his rider a long time."

Rogue blue? Fili tensed as the description clicked. There were currently twelve rogues, defined as dragons paired with one or two riders who chose not to associate with Erebor, in Middle Earth. Erebor was aware of them but left them to their own devices; they didn't own the dragons or their riders after all and had no rights to either.

Of those twelve dragons, however, only one was blue, an exceptionally rare color.

Glamdring. Very little was known of him, or his rider. Any attempts to gain information either lead to claims of ignorance, or outright refusals to divulge information. The dragon and his rider, named Orcrist by the Elves, also shunned contact and chose to stay isolated in the Wild.

Fili wasn't sure how many of the stories of Orcrist and Glamdring were true and how many were exaggerated but, regardless, the pair had gained quite the name for themselves. The Dale market even sold carved figures of the two while others charged money to relate tales of how they or their caravan had been saved from orcs by the pair.

Thorin pushed to his feet. "Is his rider with him?"

"No sign," Dwalin replied. His eyes lost focus again for an instant. When they came back his face was hard. "Xalanth says he's losing. The orcs are going to take him."

"Not on my watch they aren't," Thorin responded, his voice a near snarl. Since the loss of Quenth he'd become almost zealously overprotective of the dragons, particularly when it came to them engaging orcs.

The meeting was adjourned and Fili found himself running to the halls where the dragons rested, stopping only briefly to get his sword. Kili was already there by the time he arrived, strapping on his leathers. Lyth was coiled nearby, emerald green scales glinting in the light cast off from the nearby forges. Fili saw no sign of his mother, she must not have returned from her trip to Lake-town yet. She'd be annoyed. Having already suffered the loss of one dragon while still in its infancy she was as overprotective of dragons as Uncle was.

"You coming?" Kili asked, already tossing a set of leathers at him.

Fili nodded, grabbing them and pulling them on. "Of course."

Kili jogged over and pulled himself up into the saddle strapped across Lyth's back. Fili followed, grabbing his brother's outstretched hand and allowing Kili to pull him up to the second saddle just behind him.

Kili retrieved his bow and quiver of arrows, strapping them both over his back. Fili watched the others getting ready as he did. Dwalin was already up on Xalanth with, surprisingly, Uncle Thorin behind him instead of Balin.

Kili finished getting ready and Lyth shoved up, turning her body toward the large corridor leading outside. She lumbered forward and Fili grabbed the back of Kili's leathers, holding himself in place as she picked up speed.

Seconds later Lyth surged out, the ground dropping away from beneath them.

It didn't take long to find the orcs. Even from a distance, Fili could see what looked like two score or more of orcs harrying a brilliant blue speck.

I don't get it, Kili's voice spoke in his mind. Why doesn't he go up? They wouldn't be able to follow him.

I don't know, Fili answered.

Dwalin rose up beside them, his face grim. Thorin sat behind him, one hand gripping a bow, a quiver of arrows already slung over his back. The look on his face was dark as he surveyed the orcs.

A roar rang out and Fili saw Glamdring twist in midair, unleashing a burst of flame at the nearest orcs. As it did it finally occurred to Fili that, although they were drawing nearer every second, the dragon wasn't getting larger as he would have expected. While he was more than big enough to ride he was far, far smaller than an adult drake would be.

Mahal, Kili whispered in his mind, Glamdring is a CHILD?

Fili felt something twist inside his chest. Judging by the dragon's size he'd guess his age at well under ten years, possibly under five.

And if that was true it would mean he'd been born at about the same time Fili had felt his own dragon born.

Glamdring roared again and dove, coming up under two dragons and snapping them up in his mouth.

No, Fili thought, no it couldn't be. Glamdring was free, if he was Fili's dragon he could have come to Erebor at any time. The only reason for him not to come...would be choice.

A spray of acid flew from a dragon and Glamdring dodged it. This action, however, threw him into the path of several others. They mobbed him, collapsing his wings and sending him plummeting toward the ground.

Xalanth and Lyth both roared in rage, a sound echoed by several other dragons coming up behind them.

The orcs on the dragons looked up, seeming to notice them for the first time.

Glamdring struck the tops of several trees and vanished below them, the faint sound of a boom signifying his landing.

They were so focused on him I don't think they even noticed where they were, Kili's voice said in his head.

Fili ignored him, his gut twisting in fear over the young dragon. Several orcs and dragons darted down after him and Fili cursed.

Kili!

Yeah, I see it.

Lyth dove, Xalanth shooting past in the space she'd opened.

Fire erupted from Lyth's maw, larger than what Glamdring had produced, incinerating several dragons before they reached the treeline.

She caught a number more in much the same way Glamdring had, crushing their bodies in her mouth and then spitting them out.

Through the splintered and destroyed trees Fili caught a glimpse of sapphire blue. Lyth darted to the side, where the trees ended and landed with a thump. She was barely down before Fili was off her back and running into the forest. He drew his sword and launched himself at the nearest orc.

The battle that followed was short.

The orcs had been foolish to track Glamdring to the edges of Mirkwood and within sight of Erebor. Though the elves had ignored the battle in the air they took an attack on the ground as a personal insult and soon showed up in force to join the dwarves. The orcs stood no chance against their combined might.

When it was clear the fight was nearly over Fili stabbed the point of his sword in the ground for balance and knelt, trying to catch his breath. In spite of the rain and cold he was sweating, his hair stuck to his face and neck. Blood caked his skin and clothing, most from the orcs, some his own. After a few minutes spent getting his heart rate back to normal he lifted his head...and felt his world come to a grinding stop.

Glamdring had just flung the last of the orcs against a trunk. Due to his smaller size he'd managed to avoid hitting most of the trees and was uninjured but for a few scrapes and shallow cuts. He was clearly also exhausted, his sides heaving, and his movements slightly sluggish as he turned. His eyes caught hold of Fili's...and that was it.

Glamdring was his dragon.

Glamdring, legend of the west, terror of the orcs, the Foe Hammer.

Glamdring, who already had one rider.

Who could have come to Erebor at any time.

Who had chosen not to.

The dragon moved forward, toward him and Fili tensed, sure he was about to find himself officially rejected. He tried to steel himself even as his soul felt torn in two. His entire life he'd waited for his dragon, been utterly convinced it would show up any second...and now it had...and apparently had never wanted him in the first place.

The dragon's head came down over him and, before he knew what was happening, Fili found himself picked up by the shirt and dropped down on Glamdring's back. He barely kept hold of his sword as the dragon shot forward, aiming for the break in the treeline. Fili bounced hard, scrabbling for a hold on a saddle that wasn't there. Instead his hands found leather straps, knotted in a loose mess and he desperately grabbed him with his free hand, trying to hang on.

Fili! Kili's mind shouted. What are you doing?

It isn't me! Fili shouted back. It's him!

They burst from the trees and Glamdring leapt, his wings pumping frantically as he struggled to gain altitude. From overhead Xalanth roared down at him but Glamdring ignored him, his attention focused back the way they'd come.

Fili tried talking to him but the dragon's mind was locked against his, unwilling to budge even a fraction from whatever he was so focused on.

Fili didn't have to ask what that something was.

Glamdring was missing his rider.

Orcrist, a mysterious woman few had seen and none had spoken to.

If Glamdring was his dragon it meant Orcrist was his fellow rider, a person deserving of the same loyalty.

A person who, judging by Glamdring's panic, was clearly in danger.

He didn't know why Glamdring had never come.

He set the question aside, there wasn't time for it.

Alright, Fili thought to the dragon, leaning forward and holding his sword at the ready. He knew nothing about Orcrist, her personality, her reasons for waging a personal war against the orcs, he couldn't even describe what she looked like.

But she was Glamdring's rider.

As was he.

And so he would save her, no matter the cost.

***

The shock of water hitting her back wasn't as startling as the fact she was still alive to feel it.

Bilba barely had time to register it before she was under the surface, the light quickly fading overhead.

She sheathed her sword, kicked her feet, nearly crying from the fire in her leg, and started to swim upward.

The pain was nothing compared to the agony in her shoulder. Each movement of her arm caused her to grit her teeth to keep from screaming, and promptly swallowing water.

Her lungs burned and fatigue dragged at her, trying to convince her to give up and just sink down. She refused. Falling where she had no control was one thing. This, however, this she did have some control over and thus would fight until her last breath.

A last breath she may well have already taken.

The burn in her lungs increased until she thought they would burst from the pressure, and then her head broke the surface and she gasped, sucking in air like a starving man would a feast.

She tried to take stock of her surroundings and caught sight of a small island, little more than a large rock, a short distance away. She struggled toward it, gritting her teeth and fighting to push back the unconsciousness threatening to drag her under.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, her feet found the bottom. She crawled until her upper body was out of the water and then collapsed, face down. The pressure on her burned leg proved too much, however, so, with a groan, she set her good arm under her and forced her body onto its back.

The ice cold water felt amazing on her leg so she stayed where she was, letting it numb the burns.

She tried to move her arm and gasped out loud at the burst of pain. She lay still, her chest heaving.

She gave herself five minutes, carefully counting in her head. She made no attempt to call out for Syrath. Even if he was in range he could do nothing for her and she wouldn't have wanted him to try. Better for him to flee, far, far away from her where he would be safe.

Five minutes were up.

She shut her eyes and banished the pain, locking it away behind walls and doors that none could break. It was a tactic she'd perfected in the Arena. Pain and injury had no place there; they were luxuries that could not be afforded. Many times she'd won a battle for no other reason than the fact her foe had surrendered to pain, favored a limp, tried to protect an injury from further harm.

Her eyes opened and her breathing evened.

She drew her sword and rolled over, using it as a crutch to lever herself upright. She straightened, and paused.

Before her lay the remains of what appeared to have once been a small dwelling place. Small stones and bits of wood had been stacked to create a small lean to. Parts of it were collapsed or sagging. Carefully, Bilba stepped forward to see it better. In the midst of the rubble she could make out bits of what looked like cloth or leather.

Bilba steadied herself on an outcropping of rock and used the point of her sword to pick through the debris. As she hooked the tip under a portion and turned it over a long, white bone slid out and tumbled down the side. Bilba frowned and continued moving objects, soon discovering the pile wasn't trash but, rather, the remains of a person who had died in the center of the hut at some point in the past.

The distant past judging by the dirt and discoloration of the bones. She was about to turn away and look for a way off the island when a slight glint caught her eye. She frowned; there was no light in the cavern. The only reason she could see at all was due to her dwarven heritage, which gifted her with the ability to see in the dark. She looked again and, again, saw the slightest glint. Something was sparkling despite the lack of light.

Grimacing, she gingerly lowered herself down and reached for the object. Her hand closed around slim, delicate bones and she lifted the remnants of a hand from the pile. The action didn't bother her, she had seen far worse than bones in her lifetime.

On one finger a slim, gold ring shone up at her. Setting her sword down, Bilba pulled it off and returned the hand to its resting place. She held the ring up, studying it. There appeared to be nothing special about it. It was simply a plain, golden band, similar to what one might wear for a wedding band.

With a shrug, Bilba slid it on the smallest finger of her right hand, surprised to find it fit perfectly.

She dismissed it after that and got back to her feet again. A search of the small island, which took all of three minutes, revealed the rotted remnants of a small boat and nothing else.

So she swam.

Primula had taught her during the year she'd been in the Shire and, though she wasn't exceptionally good at it or strong, particularly injured, she made do, paddling and floating while keeping her eyes fixed on the far shore.

When she reached it she ended up having to give herself another five minutes before she was finally able to start on her way. Stone sense was another gift of her dwarven heritage and she easily found the paths and tunnels that would lead her to the surface.

As she moved she continued to carefully put herself in an almost disconnected state of mind. In the Arena she normally only had an instant or two to achieve the state. Now, with the luxury of time, she was able to immerse herself completely. She felt herself detach, the world drifted away until it seemed she was watching some other person pick their way through the dark. She felt no pain, no emotion, no fear.

No surprise when she rounded a corner and nearly tripped over a goblin pack.

***

There were dragons flying in a bizarre circle over the top of a mountain, like birds flocking to a roost.

As they neared, Fili realized they were all orc dragons, their distinctive, disgusting color giving them away.

There were a lot of them, far more than the ones who'd chased Glamdring across Mirkwood.

He risked a look over his shoulder and saw Kili and Dwalin flanking him, several more of the guard behind them. The rest had returned to Erebor, unwilling to leave it undefended.

Fili. Thorin's voice sounded in his head and Fili twitched in surprise. He could count on one hand the number of times his Uncle had spoken to him this way since Moria. There are too many to challenge.

I have to, Fili answered back. Glamdring is my dragon which means Orcrist is my fellow rider.

Orcrist has made a personal enemy of the orcs.

Is it any less than you would do? Fili responded. Or any of us?

It had been speculated that Orcrist might be a solider of Moria who broke away after the battle and took up the fight on a personal level, coming across a drake sometime after that.

The dragons were moving, turning to face them. The choice had been made.

Glamdring, who still hadn't spoken to him so fixated was he on finding Orcrist, opened his mouth and roared in rage.

Fili's stomach jumped and he tensed.

While he'd trained faithfully and helped deal with an orc pack every now and then he'd never been involved in a fight of this magnitude, and certainly not one involving dragons.

Guess it was time to learn, the hard way.

***

Syrath was calling her.

Bilba grit her teeth to keep from responding.

What did he think he was doing? He needed to leave.

One of the goblins wrenched her bad arm further behind her back and she nearly threw up and passed out at the same time.

When her vision cleared again she was being dragged, the tops of her boots scraping along the dirt and filth scattered on the ground. She forced her feet under her and stood back up, biting back a cry of pain as the four goblins holding her, two on each arm, tightened their grips.

They rounded a corner and Bilba's breath caught in her throat, fear shooting up her spine.

A massive cavern lay before her, filled near to bursting with thousands upon thousands of goblins.

Clearly she'd been focusing far too much on orcs.

The goblins hauled her forward, forcing her over a thin, rickety wooden bridge. Howls and shrieks sounded around her as the goblins chattered in their own language. Many of them jumped on the bridge, causing it to sway wildly and throwing Bilba against the ones holding her arms.

She struggled to keep her breathing even and her body from shaking. Desperately she tried to find the disconnected placed again, to go back where no one could reach her, but it eluded her. The place was reminding her of Moria, specifically of the Arena with the jeering, laughing orcs betting on her manner of death.

She didn't want to go back.

She tried setting her heels but they forced her on, off the bridge and onto a large, flattened column of rock in the approximate center of the cavern.

At the far end a crude throne had been shaped out of what was probably the bones of their enemies. On it sat a monstrosity, a gargantuan goblin with stringy hair and bulging eyes that carried only a hint of insanity.

Bilba was dragged forward and shoved, hard. The action caused her leg to buckle and sent her crashing to all fours.

Syrath was still calling for her. He thought she was still outside, on the High Pass.

Syrath, she thought. You have to go.

Bilba! His voice came back, relieved. Where are you?

Nowhere you can reach, Bilba answered. She opened her mind further, allowing him a glimpse through her eyes. She was sloppy though, exhaustion and pain allowing him to deep. She felt him brush against the fear and panic she felt and she sensed him react in shock and anger. Instantly she shut the link down, withdrawing. Just go. You can't save me.

She tried to stand up but her arm wouldn't support her weight and her leg buckled under her, sending her crashing back to the ground. She ended up sprawled awkwardly in a mostly seated position with her legs curled up.

Her eyes went to the huge goblin, who appeared to be either singing and posturing for his legions or choking to death, and then past him.

She frowned. Next to the sorry excuse for a throne stood a tall metal cage, the door locked tight. Inside stood an elderly Man dressed in gray with straggly, dirty white hair and a beard. He stood at the door, his gaze locked on her. As soon as he realized he had her attention he cut his eyes very slowly and deliberately toward the throne. Bilba followed and saw a long wooden staff leaning against the side of the chair, just outside the reach of the cage as though taunting its occupant.

"Well," a voice boomed and suddenly the goblin king loomed in front of her. "What do we have here? The legendary Orcrist, come to visit our humble abode?"

Bilba narrowed her eyes. Was there anyone who didn't know her? His breath wafted over her and she nearly gagged from the stench.

The goblins standing nearby cackled and mocked her, laughing at her helplessness. Bilba had never given them much thought before. She'd kill them if she came across them but didn't particularly seek them out. They had no dragons, according to legend Morgoth hadn't gotten around to it before his humiliation and fall, and rarely bothered to leave their mountain. There was no reason to bother them.

If she survived this she might rethink that position.

"I know an orc," the goblin idiot continued, his voice dropping to a low hush, "who would pay handsomely for your head."

Bilba was glad she couldn't speak for she no doubt would have said something that would only have gotten her in further trouble. Still, she couldn't resist rolling her eyes skyward.

"Send word to Azog," the goblin crowed, straightening.

Bilba felt a chill run through her. In her head Syrath had gone silent and, while she was glad he'd left, it scared her to know she was utterly on her own.

Her eyes cut back to the bearded Man in the cage, the only one who, hopefully, didn't have it out for her. He was still staring at her and, again, cut his eyes to the wooden stick. Bilba reached out and tried to touch his mind, hoping to ask what he was going on about, but felt nothing from him. He wasn't a dragon rider, she couldn't reach him through a mental link.

She frowned. The eternally irritated Man in the tower had a stick like that. He was a wizard, apparently one of some power not that she'd ever seen him exhibit anything more than a poor attitude.

Did that mean this Man was a wizard? If so how in the world had he come to be captured by goblins? Surely he couldn't be a very good one.

The goblin king was still gloating, waving his hands and eating up the praise and accolades his minions were showering on him. Bilba narrowed her eyes; he looked almost ready to burst into song again.

That decided her right then and there. Without giving it another thought she dove forward, hitting the ground hard and rolling. Both her major injuries screamed at her and she was sure she felt something in her shoulder burst but she clenched her jaw and pressed on, struggling to see through tears of agony clouding her vision.

She came up against the throne, grabbed the wooden stick and shoved it toward the cage.

The goblin king started to turn, his eyes wide and Bilba tensed. Her sword had been taken when she'd been captured and now lay several feet away, beneath the feet of a number of goblins.

She'd never reach it.

The enormous goblin took a lumbering step toward her.

Bilba stood up and took a step back, bringing herself to the edge of the chasm the ledge overlooked. Sweat drenched her skin and her entire frame shook from pain, threatening to send her to her knees.

If she had to die it might as well be on her own terms.

Good-bye Syrath.

"Close your eyes!" A voice barked and Bilba obeyed, decades of conditioning to respond to commands still deeply burned into her psyche.

Light blossomed through her eyelids, so intense it hurt even with her eyes closed. She heard the shriek of the goblins and the voice of the old Man, shouting words in a language she didn't recognize.

A hand grabbed her good arm and she snapped her eyes open to see the Man, now free from his cage, standing next to her. He was taller than she'd expected, towering over her, with steel in his gaze she hadn't noticed before.

The goblins were strewn about them on the ground, curled in fetal positions with their hands over their eyes.

Huh, Bilba thought, maybe he was a Wizard after all.

"Get your sword," he ordered, "We have to leave."

Bilba could get behind that idea. She felt a surge of adrenaline, temporarily banishing the pain and fatigue. She retrieved her sword, ignoring how her hand trembled.

The Man led the way, back across the bridge and toward a large tunnel.

Behind them the goblins were starting to recover and Bilba could hear the sounds of more coming from every direction. From the sound of their movement they hadn't been affected by the light.

The Man stopped and Bilba fetched up against his back. She looked around him and mentally cursed at the sight of goblins swarming onto the bridge. It rocked wildly and she grabbed onto the rope at her side, the rough fibers scratching against her hands.

She turned, ready to go back, and found more goblins blocking them in from the other side.

Bilba sighed and lifted her sword.

A roar split through the air.

Bilba blinked, her mind struggling to put so familiar a sound into so unfamiliar a setting.

In front of her a number of the goblins began panicking, cowering and looking up and to the left. Bilba followed their gaze and found herself blinking again at the sight of no less than four dragons flying into the cavern.

What? She thought, then immediately, Syrath, what are you doing? Get out of here!

He ignored her, as he was prone to do. She saw his mouth open and a great gout of flame leapt out, burning a number of bridges in his path and sending goblins scurrying away shrieking.

Move movement caught her attention and Bilba felt her blood run cold at the sight of orc dragons flying into the cavern, at least two dozen if not more. She didn't see Azog among them but it didn't mean he wouldn't show up.

Syrath! She yelled. Are you mad?

Exceptionally so, the answer came back. What was the whole dying thing you just tried to pull off?

Bilba didn't answer. One of the other drakes, a huge black and gold one, soared past. A memory niggled at the back of her mind, her mother's voice speaking, but she brushed it aside. What were the odds? Surely there had to be more than one black and gold dragon in Erebor now. Another dragon darted by, a bright green color and clearly an adult. It was only the second time she'd seen adult drakes aside from Syrath's mother and that had been long ago and in poor circumstances. Seeing them now, with Syrath, drove home the realization that he was still just a child, one she'd been dragging out to fight orcs for four years.

Syrath changed direction...and Bilba felt her world crumble beneath her feet.

He had a rider.

She only caught a glimpse of him, a blond, male dwarf, and then she lost sight as they went to destroy another bridge.

She didn't have to ask who the rider was.

She swallowed, fighting to keep her mind focused on the task at hand, and turned to face the goblins in front of her. Until that point they'd been staring in stupefied horror at the dragons massacring their kin.

That changed once she beheaded a couple of them.

On the other end of the bridge the goblins apparently got the idea of hostage taking and surged forward to swarm the wizard. Within seconds Bilba found herself back to back with the man, swinging her sword while he used his staff.

As she fought Bilba tried to pretend her eyes weren't burning, that tears weren't tracking down her face and her heart wasn't shattering in her chest.

Squelch, her blade sank in the chest of a goblin.

Stupid, she was just so stupid.

Weight dragged at her arm as she angled the sword, flicking the goblin over the side. She kept her injured arm close in to her side, hoping she hadn't permanently damaged it.

How could she ever have thought Syrath would want her?

Another goblin appeared and she dropped to one knee.

She had fallen.

Pain ripped through her leg as she twisted it the wrong way and she couldn't bite back the scream that broke out from between her teeth.

And Syrath had immediately gone and found his second rider.

She drove the blade into the eye socket of a goblin looming over her and pushed forward, knocking him back into his fellows.

He had come back for her. The voice was small, far in the back of her consciousness and Bilba bit her lip until she drew blood.

Maybe. Maybe.

She had no doubt the other rider was better than she was, it didn't take much. Less broken, less damaged, less angry at everything. For all she knew they'd already forged a soul bond.

She decapitated another goblin even as a wave of pure despair washed over her.

If they'd forged a soul bond it meant she was on the outside, set apart from them.

Alone.

A rush of air passed over her and blue flashed over her head.

Bilba!

Syrath came around again, spiraling around the bridge and Bilba caught a glimpse of the dwarf on his back holding his hand out to her.

She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Wordlessly she sheathed her sword and raised the arm, keeping her bad one to her side.

A second later the hand of the dwarf who'd soon take Syrath from her closed around hers.

***

Orcrist was beyond magnificent.

There was no other word to describe it and even that one didn't do it justice.

Fili was still stunned Glamdring had found a way into the mountain, somehow locating passages and tunnels large enough for him and the others to move.

He hadn't even bothered fighting the orcs or their dragons, just shot right past them and into the mountain itself.

When they'd flown into the cavern he hadn't seen anything at first, aside from scores and scores of goblins of course.

Then Glamdring had changed direction, his focus clearly on a specific area. Fili had followed that line of sight...and felt his heart jump in his chest.

The figure fighting on the bridge was like none other. A warrior of legend made flesh. Even from a distance he'd seen her moving like grace personified, her body an extension of her sword.

Then they'd arrived, he'd reached down...and felt her hand close around his.

He pulled her onto Glamdring's back easily, his eyes taking in the blood caking her clothing, the blistered skin on her leg, the way she favored one arm. Her hair, the color of burnished copper, had come loose from its braids and hung in partially dried clumps around her face.

Her clothing was damp as well and, even through her shirt, he could feel cold coming off her skin.

She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

"Are you alright?" he blurted, even as he mentally kicked himself for his own stupidity. Of course she wasn't alright, any fool could see that.

She turned her gaze on him, eyes the color of amber, and Fili felt the breath leave him as though he'd been physically kicked.

Her eyes were completely empty, blank. The look she leveled on him might be the same she leveled on an insect.

She hates me, he thought dumbly, forgetting he still had his shields wide open from his attempts to contact Glamdring.

It's not personal. A voice suddenly spoke in his head and Fili jerked, his eyes snapping to Glamdring. She hates everyone.

Fili looked at Orcrist again, almost convinced the ice in her eyes might be capable of actually opening lacerations.

On the one hand his dragon had finally spoken to him.

On the other his dragon partner, who might possibly be the most beautiful and amazing woman he'd ever seen, hated him...and everyone else.

Well, Kili's voice spoke in his mind, where he'd apparently been eavesdropping. You did say once you hoped your dragon partner and dragon would be interesting.

Interesting, Fili clarified. I said interesting, not insane.

Apparently you and Mahal share different definitions of the word.

Clearly.

***

The dwarf was gaping at her like a fish.

He also had his shields wide open, suggesting he was an outright idiot.

In response, Bilba locked hers down even tighter.

She shifted and caught sight of the black and gold dragon again. It was truly massive, larger than any of the other adults currently battling the orc dragons. She watched as it swooped down to pick up the wizard on the bridge.

As it did she caught a glimpse of the rider on its back. A large, powerfully built dwarf with tattoos on his head.

A large...powerfully built...tattoos on his head.

Bilba wrenched her eyes away, finding it suddenly hard to believe. Surely her luck couldn't be that bad, could it?

Syrath banked suddenly, avoiding an outcropping of rock, and Bilba fell to the side.

Immediately arms closed around her, arresting her fall even as she felt the male dwarf slide to the side with her.

The straps were still tied in the same messy knot she'd put them in when the orcs had first chased them.

Making a snap decision, Bilba quickly untied them and proceeded to lash the dwarf in place, tightening the straps around his thighs, legs and waist. He protested, saying something, but she ignored him.

She reached out to Syrath.

We need to get out of here, fight them in open air.

He agreed and straightened out, shooting for the opening leading out with a roar.

Bilba sat down in front of the dwarf. His arms slid around her waist and tightened, holding her in place.

Bilba allowed it. She didn't fancy slamming into the side of a mountain for a second time.

She risked a look back and saw the orc dragons were pursuing, as she'd suspected they might.

Her eyes fixed on the black and gold dragon again for an instant and then she tore her eyes away.

They shot through an opening into a narrow passage and Bilba ducked low, staying close to Syrath's hide as they darted through the twisting paths of the mountain.

Finally light shone ahead of them. When they shot out Bilba had to shut her eyes a moment to allow them to adjust.

When she opened them again she couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face. The clouds had mostly cleared overhead, leaving the sun in all its glory shining merrily down. Under them a river unspooled through a meadow of verdant green, trees lightly dusting the landscape at various intervals.

Joy rose up inside her. She hadn't thought she'd ever see the outside world again, not after she'd fallen from Syrath's back.

The pain receded and she found herself slipping back into the disconnected state she'd been struggling to find after the goblins had grabbed her.

She shrugged off the dwarf's arms, ignoring his protests, and stood up. She'd fought with far worse injuries in the Arena, she could do so again now.

Syrath, she asked, where are the orcs?

Just coming out, behind the green and the black and gold one. We could go up and avoid them if you want.

Bilba felt her lips draw back in a sneer. She drew her sword and held it in her good hand. Now where's the fun in that?

You have a point.

He turned around.

The other dragons were already lifting, making for higher altitudes beyond what the orcs could follow.

"What are you doing?" the male dwarf asked, still strapped in behind her.

Bilba sighed and opened the very first shield in her mind, not as far as she usually allowed Syrath but close.

Making sure they don't hurt anyone else.

"You're hurt! You don't have to do this!"

She ignored him.

She hesitated, then sheathed her sword, deciding on another course of action. She retrieved one of her spare bows and a quiver of arrows, strapping both on with ease. Using them would hurt worse than anything but they were also the best way to fight in the air. She shifted her body and pushed to her feet, grabbing the dwarf's shoulder to edge around until she stood behind him. She slid her feet in along the dwarf's sides, tangling them in the straps until she was reasonably anchored in.

She let herself go after that.

Arrow after arrow flew through the air, each one finding its mark. Drawing the string back each time caused pain to bloom in her shoulder, so bad she nearly threw up each time. Sweat poured down her face and her breathing came in ragged gasps behind clenched teeth but she pressed on.

It didn't matter what the orcs or their dragons did, where they tried to go.

Syrath spiraled through the air and Bilba went with him, barely registering the sky that was sometimes above her and sometimes beneath. Her body was wrenched to and fro, the straps nearly cutting off the circulation in her ankles as they fought to hold her in.

The other dragons returned and she ignored the black and gold one as best she could, tried not to check and see what its rider was doing.

As some point it occurred to her that the male dwarf she was nearly straddling had gotten her last bow and his own quiver of arrows and was doing a pretty good job himself. She felt a small, grudging sense of respect for him, not that she'd ever let him know.

Finally there was only one orc dragon left.

It flew well below them, fleeing back toward the safety of the mountains. Bilba hadn't noticed how far they'd come from them.

Syrath had gone silent some time ago, his body lagging with fatigue. Still he had turned back, of his own accord, and was tracking the final dragon from above. He was every bit as bad as her when it came to hunting them down. It had been him after all who had come to her and asked how she'd come to have him, what had happened to his mother.

She'd told him.

He had the right to know.

His mother, his mother's rider, Daisy, Primrose's wings, her rider. Syrath had lost as much to the orcs as she had and had as much reason to hate them as she did.

Bilba frowned, barely noticing how her own chest heaved, how black spots danced in her vision or how blood ran down her fingers from the constant drawing back of the bowstring.

Syrath needed to rest, which meant the orc needed to die quickly.

She replaced the bow and remaining arrows and slid her feet out of the straps.

Then she jumped.

She heard the dwarf yell and then his voice was lost in the rush of wind past her ears.

The orc dragon came up fast. She almost missed it but, at the last second, reached out and grabbed part of its tail with her good arm. She clambered up, drawing her boot knife as she did. Her bad arm barely worked, the feeling nearly gone from it and her hold on the knife was weak. She needed to get this done fast, before she lost use of it completely. The knife was small, barely good for anything, but more than adequate to drive into the thigh of the orc that was already turning toward her. The action stunned it just long enough for her to get fully on the dragon's back, and kick the orc off.

They really should learn to invest in straps.

The dragon started to buck wildly and she dropped to her knees, fighting to keep her balance.

She pulled her sword out with nearly numb fingers, and almost dropped it as the blood on her hands made it slick and slippery.

Taking a deep breath she raised it up and calmly drove the point into the base of the creature's neck.

It barely even screamed as it died.

It fell out from beneath her and Bilba sighed, her body slumping in relief.

She released the sword, unable to hold onto it any longer. Wind wrapped around her body, roared past her ears.

She fell for a second time.

Sparkling blue flitted through the sky and swirled around her in a loop. A massive hand, tipped with sharp claws, closed carefully around her.

The ground continued to rush toward her but at a slower pace.

Finally it was near enough and the hand released her, dropping her into a jarring crouch that immediately buckled her bad leg under her.

Syrath set down a few feet away, more a barely controlled crash than a landing.

The area was empty of trees and vegetation, just a wide open, rocky plain. Casting about, Bilba noted Mirkwood on one side and Erebor on the other.

They were safe enough.

She got to her feet and stumbled to Syrath's side, noting how hard he heaved for breath.

She collapsed against him, at the juncture between his head and neck, and shut her eyes as her own body fought for breath.

She was vaguely aware of someone shouting at her after that, the distant vibration that was probably other dragons landing, and then a lot more shouting after that.

Bilba didn't bother to listen to any of it. With her adrenaline fading the lengths to which she'd pushed her body were making themselves known.

Footsteps crunched through the dry grass and she sensed someone kneeling beside her.

Something touched her and Bilba reacted by instinct, her hand snapping out, palm extended like a knife blade intended for the jugular of whoever had disturbed her.

A hand like an iron manacle locked around her wrist, stopping it mid-strike.

Bilba opened her eyes in surprise...and froze as she found herself face to face with the tattooed dwarf.

"Relax," he groused, "I'm trying to help you."

Bilba jerked her hand back and curled away from him, pressing closer into Syrath. He was nearly asleep, so exhausted his body had pretty much demanded it.

The dwarf stood up and backed away, toward the gold and black dragon and, oh, how she knew that dragon and wished she didn't.

"Black and gold, Bilba, the only one of his kind! And he was big, even for a drake he was considered huge. There was always a crowd anywhere they would go, everyone waiting in line to see--"

"Xalanth."

Bilba started.

The tattooed dwarf nodded to a bearded, dark haired dwarf who'd ridden with him. "And this here is Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain."

Thorin. Bilba knew that name too though she'd forgotten the description of the face that belonged to it.

The tattooed dwarf frowned at her, as if unhappy over something, but then moved on, indicating a younger, dark haired dwarf. "This is Kili, Prince under the Mountain." He nodded toward the blond dwarf, the one who'd ridden Syrath. He was staring at her like she was some kind of bizarre creature he'd never seen and he was trying desperately to identify. "And, this, is Fili, Crown Prince under the Mountain."

Of course he was, Bilba thought. Syrath's two riders, an escaped, damaged slave and a Crown Prince. Somewhere Mahal, creator of the dwarves, was no doubting laughing hysterically at the joke he'd played.

The tattooed dwarf was speaking again, introducing himself, but Bilba shut it out.

She didn't want to hear him state his name.

She already knew it.

Dwalin, son of Fundin.

Dwarf of Erebor.

Captain of the Guard of the King under the Mountain.

Warrior.

Husband.

Widower.

Traitor.

Coward.

Her father.