Thorin had been trained to kill men and hold a line in battle since he was old enough to lift a sword. His father had begun his training personally, holding Thorin to standards that some might have deemed unfair, too unyielding for a boy.

But Thrain had known, Thorin realised as he slashed his sword across an orc's neck, his company steadfast behind him. Thrain had known even then that Thorin would serve his grandfather, and when enemy soldiers challenged his king, his people... They would not show him mercy.

Thrain –– Freris –– had realised that one day he would be king, that he would have to lead them. And they had wanted to ensure that Thorin was ready when he did.

Thorin raised his shield, his arm already aching, getting a look at the bloodbath that the battlefield had already become. The dwarves were outnumbered two to one. They were scattered, what was left of Thorin's company the only dwarves that still held some kind of line. But most were already dead. His friends and comrades...

Already lying unmoving. Already voices he would never hear again.

And Arien... He had lost her.

She could be dead.

He gritted his teeth as he buried his sword in the gut of an orc, anger boiling in his veins at the thought. He would not let that happen.

He yanked the sword free as another wave of orcs rushed upon them, feeling some of his company balk. Start to give in to fear.

"These are soldiers, same as you," he growled. "They bleed like the rest of us. And will die from the same wounds, too."

He didn't let himself glance to his left, to where his brother fought some way off. On the march to Moria, Thorin had agreed to teach Frerin new ways to fight, how to keep an ancient, strong orc down; go for the eyes, neck or heart. Snap a vital organ and they'd be down.

Easier said than done. His brother had gone pale-faced at the thought of it –– open combat, blade-to-blade, against real, bloodthirsty enemies bent on ripping you to shreds. Rightly so. But Thorin had had more tutoring and experience than his brother.

And Thorin's current duty wasn't to remind his warriors of the blunt facts. His duty was to make them willing to die, to make this fight seem utterly necessary. Fear could break a line faster than any enemy charge.

Experience and training had taught him that. And he had told Arien as much.

He shoved his sword into an orc's throat, ignoring the spray of blood that made the hilt slippery. There were so many of them. He could not see any hope of the dwarves' victory.

But he would not let his own fear override his resolve.

"We are soldiers of Erebor," Thorin went on. "And this is the land of our forefathers. It is our duty to slaughter any who defile it. We will not give it up to a bunch of orcs."

A few cheers, and his company's fear began to ebb away.

Thorin made himself lift his sword, made himself take orc after orc. Made himself into their prince and leader, who would fight and die beside them. As his father had taught him, as was his duty, long before his home was taken.

Not again. Never again –– and certainly not to orcs.

A horn blared harshly from the gates.

Thorin paused for a second, glancing up.

The clash of sword on sword quieted for a moment as a great pale orc appeared in the gate, a guard of huge, strong orcs around him.

Azog.

This was Azog the Defiler, whom the messenger dwarf had spoken of.

The orc laughed cruelly.

And began to unleash hell upon the soldiers of Erebor.