Chapter 97: Chapter 97: Heading to Erebor
-Erebor-
Kili, Fili, and Dwalin were already leaving Erebor with their heads bowed low. How did they leave? The answer lay in the rope hanging at the entrance to Erebor. Bofur, stationed as the guard, asked why their spirits were so down, only to shudder at the madness of Thorin accusing Aldril.
"How is this possible? Aldril would never do such a thing," he said with sadness. He couldn't comprehend it.
Had Thorin lost all reason? Aldril was his companion, no, it would be more accurate to say that Aldril was already a friend. They had fought and risked their lives together. Did that mean nothing to Thorin?
"Don't overthink it," Fili reminded him, giving Bofur's shoulder a light pat. Those taps triggered a memory. "If Thorin has succumbed to madness, doesn't that mean Bombur's body cannot be recovered?!" he exclaimed in pure fear. His pale face showed the unmistakable expression of someone who had witnessed the most horrifying sight imaginable.
How could he not be afraid? The body of his best friend, Bombur, might now be irretrievable. "I have to speak with Thorin!" he concluded aloud, only to turn halfway around before two hands gripped his shoulders.
"Don't do anything reckless, Bofur," Kili said with as much tact as he could muster. Now was not the time to confront Thorin, not even for him. Kili, his nephew, acknowledged it. He was certain that, if not for Balin, Thorin would have killed him right then and there.
"Then what do I do?! Bombur's body won't be recovered if Thorin remains in this state!" The desperation in his voice was a stark reminder that this dwarf, standing before them, was Bombur's best friend.
With a sigh, Fili patted his shoulder, trying to bolster his resolve. "We wait," he said, pausing as he glanced further into the mountain. "We wait and pray that Thorin regains his senses," he concluded, his slumped shoulders a clear sign of his own doubt. He had no hope.
Years ago, his mother had told them about the descent into madness that plagued the line of Durin. "Our family is cursed," she had said while preparing dinner for him and his brother. "Nothing has been the same for our bloodline since Durin's fall," she explained. Back then, they had dismissed her words as mere childhood tales.
Now he could see the truth. His stubborn mother had vehemently refused to let them join Thorin. "He may be my brother, but you are my sons!" she had said through tears. "What will I do if I lose both of you to our family's madness? If the madness doesn't kill you, the dragon will!" Each word, laden with sorrow, had shaken their resolute hearts.
Who could bear to see their mother cry? But they had to go. They had to free their people or, at the very least, reclaim enough gold to survive.
With heavy hearts, they didn't turn back. They had to forge a better future. Outsiders could never understand the misery, hunger, and fear they endured after being expelled from Erebor. They had lived it.
Their childhoods were anything but peaceful, robberies, murders, a cascade of tragedies that had driven many of Durin's people to madness.
The tragedy only deepened when most of their men fell to the rusty swords of orcs during their attempt to reclaim Moria, the Battle of Azanulbizar.
-Erebor's Treasure-
Bilbo and Balin gazed from above at the countless mountains of gold. The dazzling golden glow blinded the eyes and had the power to drive the greedy mad. A sinister touch invaded the hearts of those obsessed with treasure. Smaug's magic only affected those who fervently coveted the gold. It was no wonder that Thorin succumbed to madness so quickly after just a glance.
Our dear Bilbo, with slumped shoulders, occasionally glanced at the old dwarf, who kept his unblinking eyes fixed on the treasure. The silent atmosphere unsettled Bilbo, leaving him at a loss for words. Finally, mustering his courage, he looked at Balin.
"Balin, if Thorin finds the Arkenstone…" he began but faltered. His nerves gnawed at him, unsure if he should continue.
The old dwarf's gaze was warm. 'Why am I so nervous?' Bilbo wondered. Balin's patient expression encouraged him to continue, alleviating his anxiety slightly. Taking a few deep breaths, Bilbo regained his composure and asked with renewed determination, "I mean, if Thorin gets it, could it cure his madness?"
Balin, still smiling, shook his head, a hint of disappointment shining in his eyes. "I don't think so, Bilbo." He appreciated the hobbit's concern, suspecting the reason behind the question. His years of experience had taught him that Bilbo either had the stone or knew its whereabouts. But what good would it do to give it to Thorin?
"His madness began the moment he laid eyes on the treasure. The dragon's magic still lingers here. Those who covet gold are doomed to eternal madness," Balin explained, much to the hobbit's dismay.
"Thorin was infected by this magic, just like his grandfather," he said, more to himself than to the dejected Hobbit. "We can only pray that Thorin becomes the first in all this time to recover from the dragon-sickness," he explained. "So it's best that the stone remains unfound."
"But why search for it with such fervor and desperation? Is it true that it grants the right to command the armies of the dwarves?" Bilbo asked after a few moments of silence. He wanted to understand, to comprehend Thorin's obsession with that stone.
With a sigh, Balin's shoulders slumped, and his elderly figure seemed to age even more during those few minutes of conversation with Bilbo. "It is just a precious stone..." he said, pausing. "It's more about vanity. That stone grants no power; it is simply the vanity of possessing it," he explained.
"Simple and pure vanity."
----
The echo of footsteps heavy with metal filled the dark green expanse. Stones trembled, and the few animals present bore witness to black shadows moving in formation.
Disquieting sounds emerged now and then, and raised spears bore testimony that this black stain was an army, an army of worn armor, rusted swords, and poorly crafted spears. The army of Dol Guldur, commanded by Azog the Defiler, marched toward Erebor. Not long ago, Sauron had given the order to claim this strategic point while he remained in the fortress of Dol Guldur.
Foolish goblin! He was unaware that the master he served had already been expelled by the White Council. But even if he knew, he wouldn't care.
Far from Sauron, Azog presented himself as an arrogant being, a creature unafraid of anyone or anything. Of course, this was just a façade. Inside his deformed body, his spirit faltered. Yet, he resolved to achieve the vengeance he desired.
Marching at the head of the army atop his Warg mount, his fierce appearance instilled fear in the orcs behind him. Not long ago, they had witnessed a massive fireball falling near Erebor, attributing it to a divine phenomenon.
The ancient blood inherited from the first orcs made them tremble with fear, as if a predator from antiquity was descending upon them. This fear drove many orcs to try escaping, only to be slain as cowardly deserters in the eyes of the others.
It was in that moment, as Azog wondered about his son's fate and the lack of news, that the roar of a Warg and the panting of an orc caught his attention. In the distance, he spotted one of the orcs who had accompanied his son.
How did he recognize him? It was easy to tell, his hideous face, combined with a scar running across it, confirmed his identity. Yes, Azog was not only brutal and violent but also possessed a sharp memory, always recalling the orcs he had encountered, even if only visually.
With a growl from his Warg, the other Warg halted, and the orc dismounted with fear written across his face. He imagined what would happen next. But what else could he do?
"Speak!" was the only word Azog uttered. He wasn't one for long-winded discussions; orcs were direct, without the need for the fanfare of men or elves.
"Bolg was killed by that human and..." was all the orc managed to say. The rest of his words went unsaid. Why? His head had been severed from his body. Azog was already in a foul mood, and now, with the news of his son's failure, it worsened.
"That accursed human!" he growled in rage. He wasn't angry over Bolg's death. No, his fury stemmed from his son's failure and the fact that the human-elf still lived. What would he tell his master?
"No, I must kill him myself," he told himself. Now, Aldril was a priority, even above the line of Durin.
-Mirkwood Coast-
"Women and children will remain here!" Bard shouted, having already reached an agreement with the elves. After all, he could now be called a king. Yes, governor was a title for Lake-town, but now, the only place left for the survivors was the valley. A new king had risen.
Bard, King of Dale and Dragon Slayer, what an extraordinary man to follow.
"Those who can still fight will come with me to Erebor!" he proclaimed. "We will make those dwarves fulfill their promises!"
***
Filthy orcs! Here is your food!
I have seen that many fics have been deleted by webnovel, let's hope nothing happens.
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