Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Disclaimer: The main characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the unknown characters belong to me.

Rating: possibly Teens in later chapters, for the horrors of war. Right now I will go for General.

Series: The Mazarbul Chronicles – a series of independent stories, featuring various Dwarves.

Archiving: Edhellond, Gildor’s Library and my own website. Everyone else: please, ask first.

Summary: A possible reconstruction of Balin’s fated attempt to retake Moria. Contains his life story (or a possible one) and uses earlier material from HoME 6-10, including his (later rejected) son, Burin.

Balin’s heroic – some would probably say foolhardy – quest to re-take Moria from the Orcs after all those years has always fascinated me. I’ve been planning to write the chronicle of this brave yet failed deed for a very long time. The only thing holding me back was that I couldn’t really imagine what kind of Dwarves would be willing to go on such suicide mission.

Then I read “Of Fire and Stars” by Gecco aka Ro and saw her wondrous Dwarf drawings on Elfwood and DevianArt. Even though those were not Tolkien’s Dwarves, they have inspired me greatly. So I have begun to work out character sheets and backgrounds for the characters, starting with the handful actually mentioned by name in LoTR and adding more as I went on, until I reached the number of about 50. Somehow I could not imagine that it would be a great army that went on this quest, so I thought that would be enough. After all, Thorin & Co were only thirteen when they set off against the Dragon, right?

I used Ro’s drawings as inspiration and a list of Viking names to name my Dwarves. Ro and I have also agreed in some characteristics typical for the various Dwarven kindreds, although I have to admit that the IronFist characteristics are entirely her invention. Credit be given where credit is due. However, I see Dwarves as thinking of themselves less darkly than Ro does, and I take some poetic licence by not giving my Dwarf women beards. I simply assume that they wear fake beards when on a journey.

This is going to be a lengthy story, with a lot of original characters added to the mix. The events in Moria only come in the last chapters, and there will be much exploring of Dwarven culture and society. You have been warned. :)

Náli is a canon character. He went with Balin to Khazad-dûm in TA 2989, but was slain in 2994, while defending Durin's Bridge and the Second Hall. That is all we know about him. My take on him was based on a wonderful drawing of a young Dwarven thief by Ro (aka Sabra R. Hart), which you can view in her Elfwood gallery.

Rei is an OFC, also based on one of Ro's drawings. The innkeeper is Butterbur's father, of course, as this part of the story takes place a few years before Balin's expedition to Khazad-dûm, when Barliman was a young man still. Hallavor is Halbarad's father, by the way. His name was not given, but Halbarad had to have a father, after all, and since he is the only Ranger named in The Books (aside from Aragorn, of course), I chose his family to have a tie-in with canon.

Náli entered Bree following the Great East Road westwards. By that time, he had had a very long journey behind him – one that had begun in Rhûn, years earlier, where his entire family had been killed by the enraged Easterlings when trying to pilfer the halls of a powerful chieftain. Náli himself only survived because he had already been sent out on a scouting mission to Dorwinion, where they intended to make their next move.

This had been a sad but not entirely unexpected fate, as Náli was a thief, from a family of thieves. They belonged to the StiffBeard clans and were thus smaller, more slender than the average Dwarf, and specialized in pickpocketing, petty theft, burglary, cheating in games and so on. Náli himself had been brought up to be a burglar and a thief, but as this was a dangerous occupation, he had also been taught to fight with the dagger and the whip… and to fight dirty. In time, he also learned to wield a Haradric-style scimitar, for it served him better than a longsword.

The fate of his family shocked Náli badly enough so that he did not dare to work in his trade for a while. Instead, he wandered from settlement to settlement along the River Running, eking out a meagre living on the fairs as a knife thrower, doing tricks with his whip or wrestling with Men twice his size – and winning.

After a while, however, he grew confident enough again to return to thieving, and he joined a small caravan of FireBeard Dwarves who were on their way home to the Ered Luin. FireBeards being nasty customers as a rule, he did not had to worry about them being overly curious about his affairs; they had hired him as a guard and paid him for his service – other than that, they ignored him, which was just fine with Náli.

They crossed Mirkwood, using the Old Forest Road that had been cleaned after the re-taking of Erebor, so that once again, it could be used for proper travelling. They passed the Anduin at the Old Ford and went up straight to the Misty Mountains, where they intended to get to the other side through the High Pass.

They came down to the Lone-lands, after crossing the Hoarwell via the Last Bridge, and followed their way on the Great East-Road, which was a relief. The FireBeards planned to push on with the best speed they were capable of, along the northern border of the land of the Halflings, for their dwellings were under the northern chain of the Blue Mountains, but Náli had plans of his own, and those were different from the one of the FireBeards. Plans that involved a visit to the infamous Barrow-downs, to take a look at the riches that were said to be entombed there with the northern Kings of old.

Before he could undertake such an ambitious adventure, though, he needed supplies. Thus he parted ways with the FireBeards after they had passed the Midgewater Marshes, and while the others took a night's well-earned rest in the Forsaken Inn (mere ruins in these days, but still with a more or less water-tight roof), Náli continued his way to Bree-land.

This was a small, inhabited region, like an island in the empty lands round about. Besides Bree itself, which was the chief village, there was Staddle on the other side of the hill, Combe in a deep valley a little further eastward, and Archet on the edge of the Chetwood. All four settlements were clustered around the slopes of the Bree-hill, and beyond them was a small country of fields and tamed woodland only a few miles broad. Small it might be, yet this tiny country had bent with the ebb and flow of many hundred years, for it had been settled by Men of Dunland in the Elder Days – and they were proud of their heritage, regardless of the fact that in these days, Dunlendings were less than well-liked among other people, at least where Men were considered.

The Men of Bree still showed many traits of their origins, being brown-haired, broad, and rather short, cheerful and independent. They served no Lord, though in the days of the North-kingdom they had nominally accepted the Kings of Fornost ruling over them. Nowadays, they belonged to nobody but themselves; yet they were more friendly and familiar with Hobbits, Dwarves, Elves, and other inhabitants of the world about them than was usual with the often treacherous race of Men.

As Dwarves usually got along with Dunlendings well enough, Náli based his plans on the openness of the Bree-folk, trusting his skills to get into their purses in the inn, of which the FireBeards had been talking so fondly. At first, he had to wait for his former travelling companions to pass through the village and be safely gone, so that no-one would recognize him upon his arrival. That would have raised questions which he preferred to avoid, if possible.

Thus he went to Staddle first, the village on the gentler southern slopes of the Bree-hill, which was mostly inhabited by Halflings – even though these here lived in small houses rather than in the usual holes like in their own land. There he recalled his skills as a knife-thrower and showed tricks with his whip, which the Halflings found most intriguing, and they fed him graciously for his performance, even though they paid him little coin.

After a few days, he left Staddle for Combe, an even smaller village in a valley on the eastern flanks of the hill, and from there to Archet in the Chetwood, which lay north from Combe. Only when he could no longer hope to live out of his tricks did he continue his way to his actual goal: to the village of Bree, perched under the frowning hill-brow on the west side.

Coming from the Chetwood, he followed the old North Road – the great ancient road that had once been most important, as in the times of the North-kingdom of Men, many people had passed between Fornost in the North down to Tharbad, and beyond to the realm of Gondor. After the fall of the northern realm, though, the Road was seldom used and came in disrepair, grass-grown and untended, for which reason it became known as the Greenway.

It crossed the Great East Road just west of the Bree-hill, and as with many old settlements, the Bree-men had done their best to protect their village from possible perils coming along the Road. Thy built no walls, but dug a deep trench – known as the Dike – with a thick hedge on the inner side. The Great East Road passed through the village, thus a causeway was built across the Dike at the Road's entry in the West and at its exit in the South. At the hedge the Road was blocked with heavy oak-wood gates that were tended all the time. These gates were closed at nightfall; but just inside them were small lodgings for the gatekeepers.

Inside the village, the Road took a great sweep southwards, around the hill, then it turned east again. A small lane curved away from it to the North, forking so that one branch of it climbed the crest of the hill, while another one led through a small opening in the hedge for a shorter route to Combe and Archet, and joined the Greenway, further north.

This was the place where Náli intended to enter the village. Dwarves who travelled on the East Road, to and from the Misty Mountains, used the South-gate or the West-gate, like the band of FireBeards with whom he had journeyed lately. He did not want to be noticed by any possible kinfolk who might have recognized him for who – or what – he was, therefore he had to avoid the gates preferred by them.

Contrary to what other races might believe about them, Dwarves acknowledged theft as a means of living, and were not even all too much bothered by its existence – as long as other people were the victims. In fact, thieves had their own guild, just like other craftsmen, and outsmarting a well-known and particularly skilled thief was a popular sport among them. Of course, if the thief proved less skilled and was clumsy enough to let himself be caught with his hands in the pockets or bags of another Dwarf, he could not count on mercy. Dwarves were as fiercely jealous of their wealth as their fame said, and thieves knew what they were risking for a living.

So did Náli, and this was the reason why he did not intend to cross the hedge by any of the gates, not even through the small northern opening. A Dwarf could always recognize a thief by the mark of the Thieves' Guild tattooed on his shoulder, and while they did not warn other people as a rule, stating that everyone has to take care of his or her own belongings, there always were a few who would buy favours by the life of a fellow Dwarf. Usually those who had been stolen from by a skilled thief before.

Thus Náli found it safer to climb the hedge, which was well within his skills. He intended to make for that famous inn he had heard so much about in the other villages: the "Prancing Pony". 'Twas said to be a meeting place for the idle, gossipy, and curious among the inhabitants, large and small, of the four villages; and a resort of all sorts of wanderers, and for any travellers that journeyed on the East Road. This included Dwarves in various numbers, but Náli trusted that he could remain undetected in the crowd. He did not intend to search the baggage of his own kin anyway. Not when stone drunk Men – or Halflings – made so much easier prey.

He sat down in the cover of the hedge to remove his heavy travelling boots and put on the light footwear he used when climbing or running around on someone's roof: thick woollen stocks that were parted at the big toe, with thick leather shin-guards, fastened with leather straps. These, and his light leather armour, enabled him to be fast and noiseless like a cat, while the hard leather hauberk still protected him from knives thrown at his direction… which happened sometimes.

He stuffed his boots into his backpack and was just about to climb the hedge, when the clattering of hooves reached his keen ears. It came from the South, along the Greenway, rapidly nearing the way-crossing. Náli decided to take a look at the travellers before entering the village. 'Twas always good to know new players in advance. Thus he hurried along the hedge towards the West-gate, all the time careful to stay well-covered.

Soon enough, the riders came into sight. There were two of them, one riding a big, raw-boned grey stallion, the other one a pony. 'Twas not one of the small, round-bellied, stubby-ledged animals, so perfect for Halflings or the children of Men, though, but a thick-necked, strong and sturdy beast, powerfully built, with long, shaggy mane and tail and feathering at its hooves. This was a hill pony, also known as a Dwarf pony: a breed not much smaller than the thick-legged, sturdy horses bred in Lossarnach, capable of carrying or pulling heavy loads while still keeping up with the steeds of Men.

Dwarves might be short compared with Men (even with the short and rotund ones of Bree), but they usually weighed just as much as any men, if not more, due to their powerfully built, heavily muscled bodies. Adding the fact that most Dwarves preferred to wear armour when on a journey and that they all carried heavy weapons, those hill ponies truly had to be strong and fast, to carry their masters without falling over dead in the middle of the way.

The sturdy animal trotting alongside the raw-boned grey horse was obviously such a pony, therefore its reader had to be a Dwarf. No other race used hill ponies (not that Dwarves would sell them to other people anyway), finding them hard to keep. Some said they were just as stubborn as Dwarves, and they usually shared their masters' general dislike for Elves and Men.

And yet the rider looked nothing like the average travelling Dwarf. Just like his companion, he wore a travel-stained cloak of some heavy dark material (perhaps green; not even the night eyes of a Dwarf could made out the colour in this darkness), with a wide hood pulled deeply into his face, and high boots of supple leather, although caked with mud. They must have been on the road for quite some time.

As Náli watched, the two riders reached the West-gate. It was shut, of course, but the gatekeeper –a grubby-looking Man with a pipe in his mouth – opened the small door cut into one of the heavy wooden gate-wings and stepped out, holding up a lantern.

The taller rider tossed back his hood, and Náli could see in the light of the lantern that he was not one of the stocky, swarthy Bree-men but tall and pale and black-haired, with clear grey eyes and a noble, though somewhat dour face. Guessing the age of a Man was not an easy thing, but Náli judged him to be about forty or so.

"Come on, Huw," he said, with amusement in his deep, rich voice. "I have been here often enough, so that even you would remember me."

"Oh, 'tis you," he replied with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. "Y'always poppin' up, y'and yer restless kind."

"For which you should be eternally grateful, you and your fat and lazy kind," the other rider interrupted. "Who would keep evil away from your very doors, would the Rangers not roam the wild lands?"

The gatekeeper answered something, but Náli no longer listened to him, for the voice of the smaller rider was a female one, albeit deeper than that of most women – at least where the daughters of Men were considered. Dwarf women on the other hand… But what was a female Dwarf doing in Men's clothes, travelling with a Man – and a Ranger, at that?

Náli had heard of the Rangers, of course. Everyone who had ever set foot in Eriador had. Those were a rare breed of Men: tall, dark, short of words, who lived in the wild lands beyond Bree, where no other Men had settled dwellings within a hundred leagues. They were believed to have strange powers of sight, and to understand the speech of beasts and birds – not that the latter would have been unheard of. Many Dwarves still understand the tongue of ravens, due to their long friendship with the wise birds. Although, Náli had to admit, it was unusual for men. As a rule, they lumbered through woods and meadows like some big oafs, as if no other creature aside from them existed.

But even if those Rangers were different, what was this one travelling with a female Dwarf? Dwarf-dams rarely left their dwellings, even less with strangers, nor did they wear Men's clothes. Náli decided to investigate. Pockets were always there to be picked, but this was a true mystery; one he was determined to solve.

The two mysterious riders had come to an agreement with Huw the gatekeeper in the meantime, and were allowed to enter the village, albeit grudgingly. With the noiseless, limber grace of a cat (which no Man would have expected from a person as short and sturdy as a Dwarf), Náli climbed the hedge while the gatekeeper was distracted by the newcomers, ran atop of it to the gatekeeper's lodge, and hopped down from the lodge's roof, landing noiselessly on his feet on the other side, thus sparing himself the pain of crossing the Dike. Then he followed the two as they were slowly making their way up the hill.

He pulled a face while doing so. Dwarves had very sensitive noses, and the stench of the place was every bit as horrible as Staddle or Combe or Archet had been. Actually, Staddle had been a lot less offensive, being populated by Halflings mostly, and the Little Folk was usually a lot cleaner. Why Men liked to run around unwashed so much was beyond Náli's understanding. Filth was the breeding place of diseases and plagues, and yet Men did not seem to care.

Náli stared at the open sewer running down on one side of the road of hardened earth with a disgusted scow. He had never been to any of the great cities of his people – like Erebor or the Iron Hills – but he was sure that even the relatively small dwellings in the Blue Mountains were kept in better order. No Dwarf would ever live in the neighbourhood of their own waste. 'Twas disgusting!

Like the other villages of Bree-land, Bree itself failed to impress him in any way. Above the Road, there were some hundred stone houses (surprisingly good stonework for Men, but far below Dwarven standard), nestling on the hillside with their windows looking west. East and above them (and thus in safe distance from the stench of the sewer) were the holes of the Halflings, delved into the hillside.

Down on the Road, where it curved to the right to go round the foot of the hill, the famous inn of Bree stood: a three-storey building of blackened old oak-beams and whitewash, with two of its wings running back into the hill itself, with a courtyard between them. There was an archway in the front centre, permitting entrance to the courtyard, and at the same time supporting the upper rooms. Náli nodded in mute appreciation; 'twas a clever design.

The two Rangers – for, strange as it sounded, the Dwarf-dam had to be some sort of Ranger, too – dismounted and led their steeds through the central arch and into the courtyard. A Halfling came running up to them, offering stabling for their horses, and the Man accepted. The two then passed a door on the left to the Common Room, and, after some hesitation, Náli followed them. Under different circumstances, he would have spied out his surroundings first, but right now, he did not want to lose sight of his primary targets. Besides, judging by the noise within, the room was full already. Even a lonely Dwarf could hope to blend in with the crowd.

And indeed, the Common Room was large and crowded enough for him to remain largely unnoticed. Náli blinked a few times, allowing his eyes to get used to the brightness within after the darkness without – if one could, indeed, call the blazing log-fire in the wide hearth a true light source. There were lamps hanging from the beams, too, but so clouded with smoke that their dim rays very nearly got lost in it.

There were heavy tables of dark, polished oak, rubbed smooth by the countless customers that had sat at them during the long years of the inn's existence. Some of them were long, with low benches on both side, some round, surrounded by chairs – but there seemed not a single seat to be free. On the benches were various folk: Men of Bree, of course, as well as some from Combe, whom Náli recognized and thus tried to avoid their attention; a merry crowd of local Halflings, occupying most of the long tables and chattering over enormous mugs of beer; a couple of Dwarves at one of the round tables, apparently of the BroadBeam Clans, if their rich clothes and beetle-black eyes were any indication; and other figures, sitting in shadowy corners, whom Náli could not quite make out in the smoke and shadow,

The Ranger and his short companion found a small table in one of the corners, and Náli chose his own place carefully: one from where he could see them well, but they would not spot him immediately. A fat, elderly man, who must have been the innkeeper, hurried to their table. He obviously knew the Ranger and even paid him some grudging respect. Náli could not hear what they were talking about – there was just too much noise in the inn – but shortly thereafter a young, rotund man, looking so much like the innkeeper that could only be his son, arrived with tall tankards of beer and large bowls of soup, as well as with some cold meats and fresh loaves, all this arranged on an enormous wooden tablet.

Náli felt his stomach clench painfully. His modest earnings in the other three villages had barely been enough to keep him alive, and seeing all that food was almost more than he could bear. He needed to get some coin, and soon, or he would starve. Yet at the moment he was too busy watching to care for his nagging hunger. For the two Rangers were removing their heavy cloaks, and for the first time, he finally had undisturbed view at the strange Dwarf-dam – well, aside from the thick smoke, that is. And what a sight it was!

She would have been considered pretty, even with the measure of other races. For Dwarven eyes, she was a stunning beauty, with her smooth, heart-shaped, doll-like face, perfectly arched, thick copper eyebrows and full, bow-shaped mouth. She had the small, lean, compact body of a StiffBeard, with a narrow waist and firm breasts, but powerful arms and muscular legs as all Dwarves had. There had to be some IronFist ancestors somewhere up her family tree, though, for her thick, shiny hair, which she wore in a single braid and adorned with colourful glass beads, had the colour of dark copper, and her large, almond eyes were a deep amber, also an IronFist trait, and a rare one at that. Under her Ranger cloak she wore a light hauberk of hard leather and a short battle hammer on her weapons belt. Instead of the longbow of her companion, she carried a weapon largely unknown in these lands: a crossbow, as they used it in some Haradric realms, obviously made with her size in mind, and inlaid with intricate silver patterns.

Náli was lost. Completely smitten. He felt his body twitch uncontrollably, like from some sudden sting of a bee or a wasp. His face, he could feel it, was glowing like a furnace; he could only hope that no-one could see it in all the smoke and the dim light. His heart was racing, as if he had been chased over a long distance by murderous, horsed Easterlings, and every single muscle in his body thrummed like a plucked bow-string. Or would that be the string of a harp?

For a moment, he felt panic rising from the pit of his stomach. He was still way too young for the love-longing; usually he would still have decades to go, but the elders said that with some Dwarves, it could happen ahead of time. And what else cold this be, this sudden, heavy feeling in his stomach, the heat that threatened to consume his every single limb?

The elders had never explained what it would feel like or how it would come. He would recognize once his time has come, they had said. And they had been right. There was no need for words, as words could never have described… this. Now he knew what it felt like, to find the person who was the One for him – and that he would never be able to open his heart for anyone else.

His plan to raid the Barrows had just become even more important. This particular female might be living with Men and tossing time-honoured custom out of the window – was he not travelling without wearing a fake beard to hide herself from the eyes of strangers? – but she was a Dwarf. And custom demanded that a Dwarrow-dam be wooed with rich gifts. No self-respecting male Dwarf would act otherwise. And where else could a starving young thief get anything to impress his chosen one with than from the treasure chambers of other people – even if those other people had been dead and their graves haunted?

Rei and her foster father, Hallavor of the Northern Dúnedain, had ridden up the Greenway with barely any rest. The Rangers of the North were hardier than any other Man, and Dwarves were notoriously resilient against the hardships of travelling, thus they preferred to get the long way behind them as quickly as possible. Hallavor and the Men under his command had spent nearly twenty years, keeping watch at the old Dúnadan outpost hidden among the ruins of Tharbad, together with their families, but their time was up and could finally return to the ancestral home of their kin in the Angle, near the Vale of Rivendell. Hallavor had been the last to leave, having sent his family aforehead, to get settled 'til he could also follow them, leaving everything ordered for his successor.

Rei was part of that family – had, in fact, been part of it since the age of barely beyond twenty. Her family – her Dwarven family – hailed from the StiffBeard clans, and her parents had been wandering traders. Her father had also offered his skills as a cutler to the scattered farmsteads along the Road. They had led a rather frugal life, until ambushed by an Orc band and murdered to the last Dwarf, who happened to be Rei's baby brother. Rei herself only escaped due to the arrival of a small group of Rangers, led by Hallavor, but there had been no help for the rest of the family. At least the Rangers gave them a decent burial, even though it was just a mound of smaller stones raised above their bodies.

Hallavor then took the young Dwarf-girl into his home and raised her together with his own children. Rei received the same thorough weapons training as Hallavor's boys, and she was taught woodcraft, herbal lore and writing as well – everything a Ranger needed to know. She was considered one of the troops, and she went on patrolling the woods and roads with them. She proved herself countless times, earning the respect of these proud and brave Men – although her customary Dwarven cleanliness served as a source of amusement sometimes. Not that the Rangers were as filthy as many other Men, but when out in the wilderness, they considered such things as soap or a comb rather unimportant. Rei did not share their opinion.

Sometimes Hallavor worried that she would miss her own people. But Rei had already so gotten used to the life in the great outdoors that she could not imagine living in an underground Dwarf city, in some cave, no matter how rich and beautiful it might be. The StiffBeards were a breed of Dwarves who spent their lives mostly on the surface anyway; the only Dwarves bothered with growing food, and they were the ones who bred the strong hill ponies for all other Dwarven kindreds. So nay, this was not such a big change for Rei – and she was quite content with her life as a Ranger.

Though she still considered Tharbad as her home – the only one she had ever known as the Wanderers had no place to return to – she had little doubt that she would get used to the life in the Angle soon enough. The people living there were the same ones she had lived with all these years, and she would get out into the wilderness with the Rangers just like before. Mayhap she would even be assigned to the troops that watched the borders of the Halflings' land. She hoped so. She liked the Little Folk, for they were a simple and cheerful people, and yet surprisingly resilient when they had to. And the Halflings themselves were less wary towards a Dwarf than they would be towards any Man.

This was not her first visit in Bree, either. Hallavor had ridden up to the Bree-land at least once a year, to exchange news with the innkeeper (who was a shrewd and wise old man, despite his looks and his sometimes distracted manners), and he often took Rei with him. That gave her the chance to keep in touch with her own people, although many Dwarves shook their heads in discontent when they realized that she lived with the folk of Men.

'Twas unbecoming of a Dwarrow-dam, they said, ever for one of low ranks. StiffBeard traders and their progeny did not exactly have a high standing among their own kind, but even so, Rei could have many suitors of good breeding, for she possessed skills that were rare among Dwarves, and she was a trained warrior. She was simply not interested. And while she had nought against a quick tumble in the hay with the one or other handsome Dwarf male, she was not going to bond with any of them. She was young and more than willing to wait 'til she would meet him who would be the one for her… if ever. If not, she was happy enough with the life she had. Not everyone had to breed.

The innkeeper's young son, whom the other Men just called Barley (though it could impossibly be his true name) had brought their supper, and Rei suddenly realized how very hungry she was. Hallavor and the other Rangers often teased her about having the appetite of a Halfling, and how such a short person could eat so much. They also liked to wonder (just within her earshot) whether she might burst one day, if she kept eating like that.

She just shrugged it off, reminding them that while she might be short, she had the weight of a grown Man, and she needed to eat – a lot – to keep up her strength… another trait that seemed to amaze them to no end, although she was fairly average as Dwarves go. Though while she would have no chance against a trained BlackLock or IronFist warrior, the giants of the Dwarven race, she might well be able to beat an average male of any of the other kindreds.

With luck and speed, she added modestly in thought. Female Dwarves were usually larger and stronger than their males, yet it would have been a grave mistake to underestimate any potential adversary. And Rei Hreinnsdóttir made no such foolish mistakes.

Finishing her bowl of excellent broth, she draw her long Dwarven knife to divide the mouth-watering roast meat into two equal portions (Hallavor needed to keep up his strength, too), when the feeling of being watched – the feeling that had hunted her ever since entering Bree – returned. Her cheeks were burning: a sure sign that a Dwarf male with definite interest was staring at her. Dwarrow-dams always knew; 'twas an instinct.

She had experienced this before, many times, in fact, yet right now, the feeling was much stronger. Her cheeks were in flame. That could have only been someone hit by the love-longing. Rei groaned. That was truly the last thing she needed right now. Males hit by the longing, especially young ones, could be very bothersome, not to mention stubborn and mulish and dim-witted… and hard to get rid of.

Hallavor asked no stupid questions. During the long years she had spent with his family, she had learned a lot about Dwarves, More than any Man ever had… or ever would, most likely.

"One of them?" was all he asked, nodding discretely in the direction of the bunch of loud – and already very drunk – BroadBeam Dwarves, sitting at a nearby table.

Rei shook her head, looking around for the source of the strange feeling. At first she could only see Bree-folk: Men and Halflings in a colourful mix that seemed to fill every corner of the inn. There was no other group of Dwarves anywhere within eyesight. It took her several moments to discover the lonely figure, half-hidden near the hearth.

"Him," she said softly, guiding Hallavor's look with her eyes only. The Ranger gave a barely visible nod, signalling that he had spotted the Dwarf, too.

"Never seen him before. Must be new here… mayhap the young tumbler who is said to have visited the other villages in the recent weeks."

They both watched the young Dwarf inobtrusively over their supper. He was a handsome one, for sure, with his short, compact body – he could not been taller than Rei herself, who was small for a Dwarf – wide, light grey eyes and golden hair, which he wore down, with only a thin braid hanging over his left temple, its end fastened with a brass ring. His beard was short, reflecting his young age, as yellow as his hair, and it seemed soft, almost silky. He wore a light leather hauberk, without a shirt underneath, dark grey britches, leather wrist-guards, and one of those very broad leather belts, specially made of several connected leather stripes, so that one could attach and carry heavy weapons and pouches to it. Quite a few of those pouches were indeed attached to his belt, aside from a wicked-looking whip and a scimitar strapped to his back.

Curiously, he also had a high leather collar of a similar design as his belt, adorned with brass buttons. The collar seemed to have no true purpose (unless one knew what it was for), and he had a cloth wound loosely around it. However, it was his footwear that caught Rei's attention at once.

"He is a thief," explained Rei with a scow. "One of those Wanderers who travel all over Middle-earth, looking for easy prey. Although this one does not seem to be very successful."

Hallavor stared at the young Dwarf with renewed interest. Sure, the lad seemed worse for the wear, his clothes tattered and patched on numerous places, and he also looked as if he had not had a decent meal for quite some time, but that did not mean that he would live off other people's pockets. On the other hand, only a Dwarf could ever judge another Dwarf rightly, so Hallavor was willing to take Rei's word for it.

"Look at his shoes," answered Rei. "They are light and soft, made to climb walls and run on roofs. And he only wears leather armour, to be light and flexible and able to move around fast. And see the cloth worn loosely around his neck? He covers his face with it when going after his business, so that people would not easily recognize him. 'Tis strange, though," she added thoughtfully. "Dwarf thieves work in teams, as a rule. It makes things much easier and safer. Why would this one be here on his own?"

"Mayhap he is scouting for the others," said Hallavor. "Or he has lost his team."

"StiffBeard," answered Rei without hesitation. "Small, with grey eyes, and that single braid above his temple… yea, definitely StiffBeard."

"With that hair?" Hallavor shook his head. "I think not. And his beard is not the least bristling, either. Nay, you must be mistaken."

"Nay, I am not," said Rei. "I am well capable of recognizing my own clansmen when I see them. As fort he hair – mine is different, too, and it still makes me no less a StiffBeard. He must have had a StoneFoot ancestor somewhere along his bloodline. A grandparent, most likely, as such traits usually reappear in the second or third generation."

"We should invite him to our table," said Hallavor. Rei stared at him in surprise.

"Well, to begin with, he seems hungry, and we have more than enough, even taking your appetite under consideration," he replied with one of his rare smiles. "Secondly, we might find out what he is planning, had his tongue loosened a bit by Master Butterbur's excellent ale."

"'Tis not hard to guess what he is up to," answered Rei with a derisive snort. "To pick our pockets, to cut our purse-string or to get away with our supplies, what else? If you are not careful, you might even end up without your sword… or, at the very least, without your pipe."

"Do you truly believe he would try anything like that while you are watching him?" asked Hallavor mildly.

"Not if he values that head of his, he would not," Rei snapped, not truly understanding what had made her this annoyed. While thieving was not one of the truly valued trades, thieves were accepted in Dwarven society – 'til they got caught. Mayhap she had lived with Men too long, taking over their values, without realizing it.

"You are the one who knows Iglishmek," pointed out Hallavor, "as your people adamantly refuse to teach it to anyone. It would draw a great deal of unwanted attention if I started to shout at him across the entire inn, would it not?"

That was undoubtedly very true, and while Rangers were generally accepted in Bree, even though the Bree-folk made no attempts to befriend them, they preferred to remain in the background, watch and learn. Thus Rei had no other choice than to catch the eyes of the young thief and signal him to come over to their table.

At first, the young Dwarf seemed shocked, almost frightened, like someone not used to people being friendly to him; considering his trade, that was probably understandable. Rei had to repeat the gesture, a little impatiently now, ere he finally awoke from his near-frozen state and slowly began to make his way through the crowd.

Being caught watching shocked Náli a bit. That had never happened before, yet at the moment he did not really had all his wits about him. Being hit by the love-longing was a powerful and somewhat disturbing experience for a Dwarf, especially for such a young one; which was the very reason why it usually happened at a much more mature age. He was confused, frightened and unsure about what to do. He would have preferred to quietly retreat somewhere where he could think before starting to look for the necessary supplies – but then the copper-haired beauty caught his eye and signalled him in Iglishmek that he should go over to their table.

He was not ready to face her yet… or that big Man in her company. She must have recognized him as a thief by his footwear, he realized, it had been stupid of him not to change back into his boots before entering the inn. But he had been too carried away with curiosity to take simple precaution. Now he was going to pay for his mistake. Men had no acceptance whatsoever for his trade, and for a thick-necked Dwarf, being hung was a slow and extremely painful death.

Trying to run would do him no good, though. She could raise all the customers with a single outcry, and against so many not even a Dwarf would stand a chance. Nay, the best thing he could do was to obey… and to hope that she was still Dwarf enough to be more accepting than her companion.

Slowly, hesitantly, avoiding the collision with dunk customers with a limberness no-one would have expected from a Dwarf, he made his way to their table. To his surprise, the tall Man was watching him with mild curiosity, but not unkindly. 'Twas the Dwarf-dam who seemed seethe with anger, for some reason. Náli thought it better to be very polite and submissive.

"My lady," he said with the deepest, most formal bow he could produce. "You have asked for me. How can I be of service?"

"By telling me your name, to begin with," she replied, her amber eyes glittering. "I already know what you are, so you need not to bother with that part."

"Náli, son of Máni, at your service," he replied with another bow, this one half-directed at the Man, who nodded. The Dwarf-dam did not bother to return his bow, just nodded tartly.

"Rei Hreinnsdóttir, at yours," she said. "And this is my foster father, Hallavor, a Ranger of the North… just like myself."

The Man nodded again. He seemed faintly amused by the whole situation; something Náli failed to understand.

"Well, Náli son of Máni," said the Ranger, "you seem to have taken quite an interest in my daughter here, so I thought we would better get knowing each other. Have a seat and share supper with us. You look as if you could use a decent meal right now, and we can talk better with a full stomach."

Which was very true, as the embarrassingly loud rumbling of Náli's stomach promptly proved. The poor Dwarf's cheeks burned with shame, but the Ranger just smiled and called the innkeeper to bring them more food. A "Dwarven ration" he called it, and Náli needed all his willpower to keep up his manners when a large bowl of delicious, hot rabbit stew was placed before him, with a loaf of freshly baked bread, and a generous portion of roast mutton, heaped onto his plate by the Lady Rei's very own hands.

For quite some time, they were silent, each one paying his or her supper full attention and eating with healthy appetites. Náli was in complete bliss, finally being able to fill his belly, after a long time of frugal meals, while sitting across the table of the most breath-takingly beautiful female he had ever seen in his young life. Rei, too, mollified considerably as her hunger was stilled, although she kept the young thief sharp looks full of mistrust. Well, at least she was not ignoring him completely.

After they had all eaten their fill and were now nurturing their respective tankards of beer, Hallavor turned to the young Dwarf. His mannerism had subtly changed, signalling that the pleasantries were now over, and the investigation had begun.

"Well, Master Náli," he said. "My daughter tells me that you are a thief; is that right?"

That was not a pleasant question, considering that Men usually saw thieves as filth, not acknowledging the skills this particular trade demanded. But Náli was not backing off.

"'Tis a strange trade for a lonely Dwarf," the Man commented. "I was told that thieves work in teams, as a rule."

"We do," answered Náli bitterly. "Unless we are clumsy enough to get caught and beaten to death."

"Is that what happened to your team?" asked Rei. "We heard of no Dwarves being lynched anywhere near."

"It happened in Rhûn, years ago," Náli suppressed the urge to scream out his grief and sorrow 'til he could scream no longer. "My family rarely visited these lands. I was born near the Sea of Rhûn myself."

"Your family?" if Rei's stricken face was any indication, that particular piece of news had hit a nerve. "How many of them…?"

"All of them," replied Náli. "My parents, my uncles, my aunt, my four older brothers. I was not with them at the time. Found only their heads on poles when I returned from my scouting mission."

"'Tis not good to make an enemy of the Easterlings," said the Ranger softly. "They are not the most forgiving people."

"Thieves make enemies everywhere," he replied simply. "My own people would not have shown any mercy, either. Ours is a perilous trade. One has to be good to survive."

"Apparently, you are fairly good, if you managed to make all the way from Rhûn to here on your own," said Rei, impressed.

"I was not on my own the whole time," admitted Náli. "A good stretch of the way I made with a bunch of FireBeards. They hired me to protect their caravan."

"Aye, I do remember having mentioned that they crossed the village a few days ago," said Rei. "You must be the tumbler, then, who has entertained Combe and Staddle and Archet lately."

"One has to eat," replied Náli with a shrug, "and they had naught worth stealing."

"Honest work does not seem to have earned you a lot of food," commented the Ranger dryly. "And the towns of Lindon are a long way from here."

"I am not heading for Lindon," said Náli. "The last thing I need is to become the errand boy of some fat trader."

"But there is nothing out there, further in the West, other than Lindon," pointed out the Ranger. "Unless you want to go to the land of the Halflings, that is."

"Nay," said Náli, hesitating whether he should tell them the truth, and finally opting for it, in the hope that it would impress the Lady Rei. "'Tis the Barrows I am heading for. They say there is a lot of treasure in there, ripe for the taking. I intend to take it. I am fed up with being poor and starving half the time."

"Aside from the fact that those are the bones of my own people you seem so ready to disturb, you would be making the worst mistake of your life if you truly entered the Barrows," said the Ranger seriously. "The only thing you would find there is your own death… or worse."

"I am not afraid of dead people," replied Náli. "They are dead. What could they possibly do to me?"

"I sincerely hope you will never find out," replied Hallavor, and some disturbing knowledge seemed to cloud his noble face for a moment. "But the dead are not the only things to beware there. Evil creatures have settled in the Barrows, a long time ago; and if you are truly mad enough to go there, you will never return. Many have tried to enrich themselves on the treasure of a people long gone. Not one of them has ever returned. Neither will you."

"You are a fool," said Rei, her beautiful amber eyes darkening with anger. "You have no supplies, no knowledge of the place, and you heed no warnings. Fine. Be a fool. You deserve your fate."

"No-one deserves the fate that awaits them in the Borrows," corrected the Ranger. "More so as they say death is not even the worse you can find there. I would spare you that fate, young one, if you would but listen."

"Men are frightened by their own shadows," answered Náli, carried away with his desire to impress the Lady Rei and already full of excitement about the new adventure waiting for him. "Dwarves are not so easily scared off."

"For the skulls of male Dwarves are made of dumb stone," grumbled Rei. "Let the fool go to meet his doom, Hallavor. We cannot save him against his own will."

"Nay, but we can at least try," replied Hallavor good-naturedly. "Should you change your mind, Master Náli, and chose to go to Lindon after all, you can join us part of the way. We shall stay in the inn for the next couple of days."

"We shall?" asked Rei in surprise, after Náli had expressed his sincerest thanks for the supper and taken his leave from them. That had not been their original intention. They had planned to leave Bree, first thing in the morning.

The Ranger nodded. "I fear that our young friend will try to get some supplies in the usual way," he said. "And that could become… ugly."

Rei shrugged. "He is a thief. He knows what the risks are. If he wants to be hung so badly, who are we to hold him back?"

Hallavor gave her a searching look. "Would it truly mean naught to you if the young fool got himself lynched? The Bree-folk are good people, but they do not bear with thieves the same way Dwarves do."

"Dwarves deal with thieves like any other folk, once they are caught" answered Rei. "And while I do not wish to see the little fool hang from a tree-branch, I cannot change what he is planning to do and how the Bree-folk are going to react. We should leave as we have planned. We are needed at home; and he is not our responsibility."

Hallavor remained silent for a moment. Rei was right, of course; they were needed at home, to replace those who had gone to Tharbad. And yet he could not help but feel bad by the thought of leaving the young thief to his fate.

"Is this what you truly wish to do?" he finally asked. Rei nodded without hesitation, and Hallavor sighed. "Very well, but let us make a deal: we shall wait one day. No longer."

"'Tis a waste of time," Rei shrugged. "He will not make his move, as long as we are here. But let us stay one day, if it makes you sleep more peacefully."

Iglishmek is the sign language of Dwarves. They are no more willing to teach it to other people than they would teach Khuzdul, their spoken language.

We do not know whether Halbarad had any siblings or not. I decided to give him brothers, as that would make a better contrast to the female Dwarf living with them, but that is purely poetic licence. As this story begins approximately in 2985, T.A., Halbarad would be between forty and fifty at that time, assuming that he was around seventy during the Ring War. That would make Hallavor between seventy and eighty, considering the fact that as a rule, the Northern Dúnedain did not marry young.

Dwarves aged even more slowly than the Dúnedain – a Dwarf around sixty would still be considered young and just in marriageable age. Thus I made Rei about the same age as Halbarad, which would make her still young and adventurous four years later, when the quest to re-take Moria began.

When in the next morn Hallavor went down to the stables of the Prancing Pony to look after their mounts, he was greeted by a string of very creative curses, delivered in Westron, Adûnaic and even in the harsh tongue of the Dunlendings, which many dwarves had learned to speak since Thorin Oakenshield had lived in Dunland with his following after the coming of the dragon. Unsurprisingly, the source of this creativity was Rei, stating very unflattering things about the young Dwarven thief’s character, parentage and honour – or, more precisely, the complete lack thereof.

“What happened?” asked Hallavor, amused, for Rei could be quite… entertaining when in full rage – unless said rage was aimed at himself, that is.

Rei gave him a furious look. “That little…” there came a word even Dunlendings only used when very, very drunk and much stronger or better armed than their opponent, “had stolen my pony!”

“Well,” said Hallavor reasonably, “what have you expected? He is a thief, is he not? Or did you truly think he would walk all the way to the Barrows?”

“I expected him to value his worthless life enough not to steal my pony!” answered Rei darkly, and she counted the coin in her belt purse. “That will do.”

“It will do what?” asked Hallavor, although he did have an inkling… and did not like it a bit.

“To rent a pony from Master Butterbur, what else?” she snapped. “I am going to get my pony back. I only hope the Barrow-wights will leave something of that miserable thief for me to tear to piece. I will pluck out his beard, hair by hair for this!”

“I do not think that would be such a good idea,” said Hallavor in concern. “Going to the Barrows, I mean. What you do with the thief is your business.”

Rei shrugged. “And I do not care. I shall not let a thief of no significant breed and no family to have robbed me, and a male one at that. Some males need to be put to their places, and that is something I am very good at.”

That was certainly true, for Rei never had any difficulties to properly put Hallavor’s sons to their place, even though they were all adults now and twice her size. Hallavor also knew that when she was in this enraged mood there was no reasoning with her.

“All right,” he said with a sigh. “Let us talk to Master Butterbur. If you are going to get into serious trouble, I am going with you.”

“There is no need,” said Rei. “I am more than capable of dealing with one delusional Dwarf on my own.”

“Mayhap so,” answered Hallavor sternly, “but not even you can deal with the Barrow-wights on your own. In truth, I am not even certain that we can deal with them together. Yet if you wish to go, I shall go with you. I have been there once, looking for the Chieftain – it was bad, and we barely escaped with our lives. I shall not allow you to go there alone.”

While it was true that Náli was a thief and knew little else than what his trade required, he knew his own trade well and was most certainly no fool. He knew all too well how perilous a task it was to try raiding the Barrow-downs, and he met every possible precaution to get out of there alive and hale.

For that reason, he took the considerable risk of “borrowing” Rei’s pony from the stables, right before sunset, when both patrons and servants of the Prancing Pony were asleep. Like all StiffBeards, he knew how to treat the good beast, so that if would follow him willingly; not causing any noise that would wake the stable hands. Having a mount was important, in case he would have to flee the Barrow-downs; and just like the Dwarves themselves, Dwarf ponies were fast and resilient and not easily frightened. The good beast could save his life, if needs must be.

Under different circumstances, he might even have harkened the Ranger’s warnings, for the Barrow-downs had a sinister reputation in Dwarven legends. Many a dark tale spoke of the Great Barrows; of the green mounds and the stone-rings upon the hills, and in the hallows among the hills. These had once been fortresses upon the heights, the legends said. Kings of small kingdoms fought each other fort he overlordship, and there had been victory and defeat, ‘til the towers fell and the fortresses were burned, and what had once been homes were turned into tombs.

Dead Kings and Queens were lying under the mounds, behind shut stone doors to this day, the legends said, surrounded by great treasures of gold and precious stones, and no-one dared to disturb their rest… for the hills were not empty. A long time ago, a shadow had crept out of the dark place that had once been Angmar, the Witch-king’s sorcerous realm, and the bones were stirred in the mounds. Barrow-wights did now dwell in those hollow places, creatures of unknown origins and great malice, fingering gold rings and gold chains with their cold, bony fingers – and when someone was mad or greedy enough to visit the Barrows, they were never seen under the Sun again.

Náli, like all Dwarves, had listened to those legends from a very young age, and he never doubted their truth. Trying to raid the Barrows was madness, he knew that, but he was desperate. He needed something upon which he could build a new life – and he had been hit by the love-longing, unexpectedly and without warning, and he needed riches to woo her who he found to be the One for him. Thus he had put his well-grounded fears aside and even risked her wrath by stealing her pony so that he would be able to win her good graces. Dwarven courtship was not an easy thing.

He left Bree under the veil of darkness, taking advantage of the fact that the gate-keeper had looked into the tankard a little too deeply in the previous night. Dwarves could move every bit as noiselessly as Hobbits when they wanted to, and thieves like him made a true art of it. Opening the gate, leading the pony out, then shutting to gate again and climbing over the hedge was an easy enough task for such a limber youngling. For a while, he led the pony on rein, so that the clattering of hooves would not alert the drowsing gate-keeper.

Only when he could be reasonably sure that he was out of earshot did he mount and urged the good beast to a light gallop. He wanted to make this raid as quickly as possible – ere, in fact, Rei would figure out why her pony was missing and tear his head off his shoulders. Dwarves were generally jealous of their possessions, and Dwarf-dams were ten times worse than the males.

He rode without a break all morning. The Road wound around the Bree Hill, but he left it early on, following a path that led him straight to the Old Forest, along the floor of a small, flat valley. Crossing that hollow, he had to go around the feet of a steep hill into a deeper and broader valley, and then up over the shoulder of further hills, up and down and up and down, on to new hill-tops and down into new valleys.

He could see no trees, not even bushes, and no water. ‘Twas a desolate country of grass and short, springy turf. It was eerily silent all around him, save the whispers of the wind over the hills; the only other voice he could hear were the far-away cries of invisible birds. Their high, lonely calls sounded strange in his ears, and he wondered briefly what kind of creatures they might be.

As he rode on, the Sun climbed higher upon the sky above his head, and the air grew hot and humid. It seemed to him as if the light wind would be dying down a bit more with each new ridge he climbed, ‘til the air lay hot and heavy upon him, stifling his breath.

About mid-day he came to a long valley that was winding away northwards. He pulled out the battered scroll with the ancient map that had been in his family’s possession for at least eight generations and kept by the eldest son all the time, and checked out his surroundings. Aye, there was the doorway: an opening between the shoulders of two steep hills. Beyond, there seemed to be no more hills in the North, just a long, dark line: that of the trees marking the Road. On the eastern side, though, the hills were higher, and crowned with green mounds; and on some were standing stones, pointing upwards like warning fingers.

He knew he had come the right way then, and put away the scroll carefully into its leather holder. Now all he needed to find was the guide-post. He looked around diligently, seeking something that would match the description of Clan legends – and found it: a hill whose top was wide and flattened, like a shallow saucer with a green-mounded rim. He quickly climbed the hill, dragging the reluctant pony after him, and descended into the hollow circle on the hilltop.

In the midst of that hollow there stood a single stone, standing tall under the Sun and casting no shadow at this hour. But Náli knew that in three hours’ time, its shadow would point in the direction of the Great Barrows of long-dead Kings of Men. Until then, he could do nothing, thus he sat down, his back against the east side of the stone, so that he could watch the movements of the cast shadow. It was pleasantly cool, as if the Sun had no power to warm it; and as he was very hungry, he took the food and drink he had… liberated from old Butterbur’s pantry and had a good noon-meal under the open sky.

Other people, even most other Dwarves, would have found such arrangements rather uncomfortable. But Náli’s entire family had lived on the wain for generations. For him, eating – and even sleeping – in the great outdoors was the most natural thing, and even a pleasant one by such nice weather. Even Rei’s pony seemed to have overcome its dread from the place; it stood comfortably grazing nearby.

Yet as he sat there, watching the ninth-hour-shadow to point him in the right direction, gleaming mist began to settle upon the guard-post hill, thickening slowly as the time went by. The pony became restless and tried to leave on its own; Náli needed all his considerable strength to restrain the frightened beast, and the thought that it might be wiser to listen to the animal did occur to him. But then he remembered the fiery beauty of his One, the gleaming of her eyes and her amazing strength, and he strengthened his faltering heart and held onto his plan.

When the ninth hour finally came, the hill was but an island in the sea of thick, white fog. The long, pale shadow cast by the standing stone stretched eastward but was barely visible in that white sea. Fortunately, Dwarves were very good at calculating directions, and thus Náli was reasonable certain that he would be able to keep his bearings, even without a visible sign. He knew the right angle already; the rest was instinct and the unwavering Dwarven sense for geometry.

He clambered to his feet and led the pony over the rim and the long eastward slope of the hill, right into the sea of white fog, following the shadow as well as it was possible under the circumstances. As he went down, the mist became cold and damp, bedewing his braid with grey drops. He began to shiver; not because of the cold, as Dwarves were hardy and not bothered by unpleasant weather, but because he could feel that this fog was not a natural thing. During their lives as wandering mummers and jongleurs, several members of his family had been able to do simple tricks. These barely involved any magic at all but had honed his instincts to feel it; to feel any kind of magic, and now he could definitely feel the presence of some fool sorcery. It seemed to him that the Barrow-wights had sent this unlikely weather to confuse him; or to frighten him away.

They had apparently never met a Dwarf before… most likely not a Dwarven thief, in any case, whose heart burned as hot for their treasure as their own hearts were cold and dead. Now reassured that he was indeed on the right path, Náli looked right before himself and followed the shadow of the standing stone to keep a straight line, in the hope that he would find the treasure chambers of the Barrows after all.

He was going slowly, as he could not see what was before his feet, and he did not want to walk into a hole or a trap. The pony followed him reluctantly; he had to drag the poor beast forward by force. All too soon, it seemed that a darkness began to loom on either side of him…. and the mist was thinning. There were dark patches now in the sea of white fog; small ones, but getting darker by the moment, and now he knew that he was on the right path. Soon, he would be crossing the Gateway to the Barrows.

And indeed, some twenty steps further he came to something that looked very much like a headless doorframe: two large standing stones, leaning slightly towards each other, with just a wide enough gap between them to allow a mounted Man to cross. For the young Dwarf it was a comfortably wide passage, and one he had heard about in ancient legends all his life. He passed between the stones eagerly, not the least bothered by the darkness that fell around him at the same moment. He was a Dwarf, used to dark places. His night vision would do well enough with the smallest residue of light that could be perceived a little further away, right before him.

He went on unwaveringly, and as he proceeded forward, all of a sudden the mist seemed to roll up and fall aside, and now he could see clearly the darkened sky and the far-away stars above his head. Now he could clearly see the great Barrow looming westwards from him, blotting out the stars; a large, dark shape, forbidding and ominous.

He remembered the old tales again: of the dreadful spells of the Barrow-wights; of their icy touch that could freeze the marrow in one’s very bones; that no-one who had ever entered the Barrows was ever seen again. But he also remembered the beauty of the Lady Rei, the fire in her bright eyes, the way the lights danced on her copper hair… and he knew he would not back off.

“Nothing dared, nothing gained,” he murmured to himself encouragingly. He pulled out the powerful gem he had inherited from his grandmother, the one that had been used to repel evil spells, and with a deep breath, he headed forward again.

Rei and Hallavor had no difficulty following the trace of the young thief – they simply followed the hoofprints of Rei’s pony. And not the hoofprints alone; Dwarves having a much sharper sense of smell than any Man could ever hope for, Rei easily recognized the scent of her faithful beast. It was still fairly fresh.

“He could not have left longer than a few hours ago,” she said, sniffing at the hoofprints. “Two hours tops, I would see.”

“I am surprised that Baraz would obey him in the first place,” commented Hallavor, leading his much bigger horse on rein. Rei had named her pony for its reddish-brown coat. Rei shrugged.

“He must have still smelled of me,” he said. “Perchance he went to the stables right after we parted company.”

“Well, as long as you can follow Baraz’ scent, we still have some hope to find that young fool alive,” grinned Hallavor.

“Oh, I very much hope so,” retorted Rei, her eyes blazing with anger. “I wish to be the one to tear him apart, from limb to limb.”

“You are too hard on him,” said Hallavor, suddenly very serious again. “Have you not told me that Dwarves cannot choose whom and how the love longing hits them?”

“Of course I am,” she replied indignantly. “I may be low-born, but I have my own value.”

“Why, then, are you so angry with that poor lad?” asked Hallavor. “He cannot help being in love. You are worth his love. He is even from the same clans as you – what is your problem with him?”

Rei glared at him with eyes huge like saucers in disbelief. “He is a thief, Adar!”

“So he is,” agreed Hallavor. “Which is, I am told, an accepted trade among Dwarves, with its own Guild and rules and skills. Admittedly, not one Men would see as such, but he is not a Man. He is a Dwarf, and not a bad-looking one at that, even seen through my eyes.”

“Are you telling me I should accept him?” Rei still could not quite believe it.

Hallavor shook his head. “Nay. That choice is yours, and yours alone. What I am saying, though, is that you spend too little time with your own kind. If you want to ever have a family on your own, that needs to change.”

“I need no family,” grumbled Rei. “I have you and yours. That is enough.”

“Enough perchance for now, while you are young and adventurous,” said Hallavor gently. “But what after my sons wed and leave the house to build families of their own? What when I die? You will outlive us all; not even Dúnedain live as long as Dwarves do in these days. I do not wish you to be left alone. That is not a good way to live, for Men or Dwarves.”

“Binding my life to that of a thief and spend it on the run from those he has stolen from would not be such a good life, either,” answered Rei.

“True enough,” said Hallavor. “But accepting his courtship does not mean you will have to bond with him, if I understand Dwarven customs correctly. It only means being courted, which would make you the more interesting and desirable in the eyes of other, hopefully more acceptable males.”

“Being courted by a common thief does not count as a particular honour,” pointed out Rei.

“Is he but a common thief?” asked Hallavor. “Would a common thief have managed to make the long and perilous way, mostly on his own, from the Sea of Rhûn to Bree? Would a common thief dare to raid the Barrows, just to be able to wow the lady of his heart properly?”

“A Dwarven thief certainly would,” said Rei. “We are a hardly people. We never do things by halves.”

“I know that,” Hallavor laughed quietly. “Oh, believe me, daughter mine; I know that all too well. I have raised you, after all.”

"Why are you pressing me, then?" asked Rei sulkily. "You know I do not wish to bind myself yet – to anyone."

"I understand that; you are still young for a Dwarf," replied Hallavor in agreement. "All I want is that when you feel like binding yourself, there would be suitors to choose from. Why are you so reluctant? There is naught to fear."

"Oh, aye, there is," said Rei quietly. "What if he does turn out to be the One for me? Then I would have no choice than spend my life with a thief – and I do not want such a dishonourable life."

"I can see why," answered Hallavor, "but why should you? He is a very skilled thief, it seems; and many of the skills needed by a good thief are very useful for a wandering trader, a mercenary or a scout. He must not remain a thief. He could do other things just as well – if someone made him interested in changing his life."

"Mayhap so," allowed Rei. "I still cannot fathom why you seem so enthralled with the thought of me and him together. As you said, I am still young. I have plenty of time to choose."

"You have," said Hallavor. "And we shall be happy to have you with us as long as you wish to stay. Forever, if you want; my sons and grandsons would honour our agreement. But if you do choose to rejoin your own kind – would you be happy and content to live in some underground cave, no matter how wondrously made and rich it was?"

"I think not," she said. "I am a Ranger; and even before you rescued me, my family had been traders, living in the great outdoors, always on the Road. Dwarf or not, I could not live in a cave any more than you could."

"That is what I thought," said Hallavor. "In that case, however, your choices will be severely limited, I fear. Most Dwarves prefer their caves, and the ones that live on the Road are not always… desirable characters."

"Alas, I fear you are right," admitted Rei glumly. Then, apparently, a thought occurred to her, for she began to grin from ear to ear in such a wicked way that it made Hallavor shiver involuntarily. "Very well, then," she said. "I shall accept his courtship – if he returns from the Barrows with a suitable courting gift."

Náli reached the Great Barrow, the one the legends named as the resting place of long-dead Kings of the Elder Days, while the other, smaller ones were said to house the Kings and Queens of fallen Cardolan. He recalled the description of the entrance and how to find it, and let go of the poor pony, knowing that he would never be able to drag the good beast into the Barrow. Nor did he need to do so. He could carry great weights on his own back, like every other Dwarf; he would only need the pony to escape afterwards. Thus he left his mount behind and began his search.

For a Man, the Barrow would not look differently from a natural hill. But Náli was a Dwarf, accustomed to see the structure of both natural and Man-made shapes at once. Besides, he had seen enough burial mounds in both Rohan and Rhûn to know where to look for the entrance. He felt the stone under the grassy hill, and similarly, he found the place where once had been a gap in the stone, wide enough for a grown Man to pass through, by pure instinct.

To his surprise, the entrance was no longer walled in with huge boulders, as it should have been. Either the Barrow had already been raided by grave-robbers, or the ancient legends were true, and the Barrow-wights more than just tales meant to frighten too curious Dwarf-children from wandering off on reckless adventures.

It mattered not, though. Barrow-wights might be real, but the treasures of the dead Kings of Cardolan certainly were, and that was what he had come for. If there truly were wights in the Barrows, well, even monsters could be slain by a determined Dwarf. He just needed to be fast and kill them ere they could cast one of those dreadful spells upon him about which only whispered tales dared to speak. He touched the protective gem again, then took a deep breath, his hand on the hilt of his long knife, and entered the Barrow.

He came into a narrow stone corridor that was almost completely dark. Even his night eyes failed to make out any details, but further before him there was a faint, pale green light. He hoped it would be the central chamber that might have either one of those magic lamps the Men of Westernesse had once been known to use – the ones that needed no oil to burn and never heated up, no matter how long they had been in use, due to some Elven sorcery – or was getting some illumination through narrow shafts cut in the ceiling, like Dwarven mines. In any case, there was no other way to go, thus he followed the light and hoped he would not walk right into a trap.

The chamber in which he finally got was as large as a great hall in the castle of a King of Men: at least twenty feet high and twice as much in diameter. It was built in a perfect circle, so perfect that it would have made even a Dwarven stone-mason proud, entirely of stone: of huge boulders set upon each other, without the use of mortar, so precisely that not even a blade of grass could have been forced between them. Náli was duly impressed. The Sea-Kings and their ancestors had apparently known how to make good stonework.

Along the circular wall, like the spokes of some giant stone wheel, stood the final resting places of the dead Kings and Queens. They had no coffins, just smooth, perfectly cut slabs of black, white or grey marble, and their enbalmed bodies lay there, robed in white and richly adorned with jewellery and other valuable items. Their faces were covered with masks shaped in their likeness, made of gold for the Kings and of silver for the Queens. They were formed so well that they almost seemed alive. About them lay many treasures: drinking cups of gold and silver, adorned with jewels; wine jugs of bronze inlaid with enamel; weapons of outstanding excellence, from jewelled daggers to longswords in beautifully-wrought scabbards, bows of the horn of some great, unknown beast, decorated with golden rings; even battle-axes of clearly Dwarven workmanship.

And jewellery of any kind, of course. On the heads of the dead Kings and Queens were golden circlets, jewelled and decorated with hearts, arrow-heads and kingsfoil leaves of gold and various other patterns. About their waists were girdles of gold or silver chain, braided and knotted in different patterns, not two of them the same, scattered with jewels or crystal ornaments. On their bony fingers were jewelled rings, and shields were at their feet, brightly painted with the emblems of long forgotten royal Houses. Even their shoes were gilded and set with semi-precious stones.

Náli knew better than touch the dead, of course. He might not fear them, but every Dwarven thief knew that one should have respect of them, thus everything they were wearing was out of the question. Fortunately, there was enough treasure laid about them, and he did not hesitate to help himself.

First, he chose a sword; one that might have rather been a dagger for the Men who had once made it. It was long, the blade slightly bent like that of a scimitar, and keen, of amazing workmanship, carved with serpent-forms in red and gold. It had a black scabbard, wrought of some strange metal, light and strong, and set with many fiery stones. Whether by some strange magic worked in the scabbard or because of the spell that lay on the Barrow, the blade seemed untouched by time, free of rust, sharp, and glittering in the pale green light. Náli swung the strap of the scabbard across his chest, so that the hilt, wrapped in black leather and gold wire, would be ready right behind his shoulder, and unfolded his sack to fill it.

There was plenty to choose from, but he did not want to waste his time, so he stuffed everything in reach into the sack: gold and silver chains, collars that had originally been made to go with breastplates, rings and bracelets and brooches of various shapes. He looked at the horn-bows longingly, but they were definitely too long for him, made for Man-use. Thus he grabbed a pair of double-axes instead. They, too, were a bit long for a Dwarf, but not overly so. He could shorten or even replace the hilts later to match him better.

In his haste and greed he did not even notice when the green twilight grew stronger around him, and when a cold murmur began to rise and fall somewhere far away… or so it seemed. 'Twas a sad and dreary sound, an endless lament without words, like the never-ending murmurs of the Sea. A chilly sound it was, and Náli began to shiver uncontrollably, ere he would truly notice it. The half-filled sack dropped from his suddenly nerveless fingers, and that was, in fact, his salvation, for the ringing of gold and silver was a sound no Dwarf could fully ignore. The spell was broken, if only for a moment, and he realized that he needed to get out ere the Barrow-wight – for what else could be the source of that dreadful song – finished the incantation.

He grabbed the sack with one hand, one of the battle-axes with the other, and ran for the mouth of the corridor, grateful once again for the unerring Dwarven sense of direction, without which he would have already been dead twelve times over. Yet ere he could have reached his goal, a creaking and scraping sound could be heard. One of the huge boulders on his left slowly turned outwards, revealing another, equally dimly-lit passageway, and in the frame of that doorway there was a tall, spidery dark shape, like a shadow against the stars. It had no clearly outlined features, just two large, luminous eyes, cold and cruel and lit with a pale light that seemed to come from some remote distance.

"Thief," said a voice, deep and cold, as if it had come from out of the ground. "I have been waiting for you. Come; all that is there will be yours, forever."

With that, the dark phantom reached out with what seemed the bony hand of a skeleton and grabbed Náli's arm. Its touch was cold like ice and its grip stronger than the iron jaws of a bear trap.

Mere Men would have dropped unconscious from that icy touch alone. But Mahal had made his Children from the very bones of Arda, and they were not very suspendible to spells. Thus instead of turning into stone by the incantation that was still going on somewhere (or into something equally unfeeling and unresponsible), Náli twisted around within he grip of the Wight and dropped to the ground, breaking its hold. He rolled over with the same momentum, then jumped to his feet, snatched up the axe and swung at the monster, aiming a hand's breadth under the luminous eyes where its neck should have been.

The thing's head broke off clearly, as if made of dried clay, but at the same moment, the blade of the axe splintered, too. Náli threw away the useless hilt and reached for the other axe, half-deafened by the bone-shattering scream of the creature, but quickly backed off when he saw that the now headless corpse was following him, undisturbed, Apparently, some monsters could not be killed, after all – presumable because they were already dead.

Náli's only hope lay in speed now. He hurled the sack half-full of treasure at the Wight, grabbed randomly around him to find some other weapon with his now free hand, just in case he might run into any other opponent on his way out that he actually could kill – and then he ran.

He ran like a frightened rabbit when chased by wolves, with the bitter realization in his heart that even if he managed to escape – which seemed fairly unlikely at the moment – there would be nothing that he could offer to the lady Rei as a courting gift. He had taken the insane risk for nothing, and that was the worse of all.~TBC~

The Book of Mazarbul

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author's notes: The particulars of the Barrows' history and the origins of the Barrow-wights are taken from "The Tolkien Bestiary" by David Day.

"Longshanks" was originally one of the names given to Aragorn. Since Halbarad's family was most likely of pure Dúnadan blood, too, I thought it would match his father just as nicely. The Hobbit they meet is, of course, not Farmer Maggot from LOTR, but his father.

Chapter 03 – Rescue, Courtship and other Complications

'Twas late afternoon, almost evening, when Hallavor and Rei, too, reached the standing stone, the shadow of which was supposed to point into the right direction of the Great Barrow. However, the Ranger only shook his head when looking at the long, thin shadow that stretched out before them for a while, ere getting lost in the thick, white fog.

"We cannot follow it, not now," he said. "The shadow only shows the right way at a certain hour of the day."

"Do you know which hour that would be?" asked Rei.

"Unfortunately, not," answered the Ranger. "But I do believe we can assume that it is already over. Look: our young friend was here… and is now gone."

"Mayhap we can follow his footprints then, despite the fog," suggested Rei. "I am not interested in the Barrow anyway. I want him."

"Are you certain you do?" asked Hallavor. "I know you are angry, but is the chance to kick the youngling's backside worth the risk?"

"Oh, aye," said Rei with glittering eyes. "That filthy thief has stolen my pony! I want Baraz back – and I want to pull his beard out, hair by hair. You can turn back if you are afraid."

"Daughter, mind your tongue when you are talking to me!" retorted Hallavor sharply. "I shall not have you talk to me in such insolent manner, no matter how angry you are. You know I would never allow you to walk into grave peril alone, but I can rightly expect you to listen to me when I am telling you about dangers I know more of than you do. Am I understood?"

Rei had the decency to hang her head in shame. "Forgive me, Father. 'Tis just… I am so angry…"

"I understand that," replied Hallavor, "and perchance I understand the true reason for it more than you do. That is no excuse to be rude and inconsiderate, though. I know Dwarves can have a fearful temper, but I hoped I had taught you proper manners. You will not shame my House with such behaviour again. Ever."

"Nay, Father, I shall not," said Rei meekly. Dwarf women were generally expected to treat their males from above; in her anger she had forgotten that Hallavor was not only a Man but a Man of royal descent, even though only through a side branch. His ancestors had ruled Cardolan a long time ago, and through his mother's line he was closely related to the current chieftain of the Rangers as well.

Consequently, he was the best person to ask about the Barrows and their horrible dwellers, given that they had once been part of the kingdom of Cardolan, together with what had become the land of the Halflings since the fall of the North-kingdom.

"Are these truly your ancestors, the Men buried here?" asked Rei, gesturing vaguely in the direction where she guessed the Barrows to be behind the impenetrable curtain of fog.

The Ranger nodded. "They are; but the Barrows are older, much older than my family… indeed, than our people in the whole. When my ancestors returned on their ships from fallen Númenórë, this place had already looked the same for a long time: no trees, no water, only grass and turf covering dome-shaped hills that were crowned with monoliths and great rings of bone-white stone. Our sages say that these hills were the burial mounds that had been made in the First Age of the Sun for the Kings of Men."

"Who were these Men whose Kings lie here?" asked Rei, her curiosity now piqued. Dwarves loved tales from old times, and the Rangers were usually able to deliver them at wish.

"We know not," replied Hallavor. "Their deeds were no longer remembered, not even then, not even in legend. Nonetheless, the Barrows were sacred and revered, for the entire Second Age, and at the beginning of the Third – 'til out of the Witch-kingdom of Angmar many terrible and tortured spirits fled across Middle-earth, desperately searching to hide from the ravening light of the Sun."

"What kind of spirits were they?" asked Rei, fascinated and terrified at the same time.

"Demons whose bodies had been destroyed," replied Hallavor. "They were looking for bodies, in which their evil spirits could dwell. And so it was that the Barrows became a haunted and dread place."

"The demons then became the Barrow-wights, did they?" Rei guessed. "Undead… things that animated the bones and jewelled armour of the ancient Kings of Men who had lived in this land in the First Age of the Sun… long before your ancestors would come here."

The Ranger nodded. "I little doubt that they were disturbing the rest of my forefathers as well," he said. "The Barrow-wights are of a substance of darkness that can enter the eye, heart and mind – and crush the will. They are form-shifters and can move from shape to shape and animate whatever creature they wish."

"But what is their true shape?" asked Rei. "That should be the one in which they would be the most vulnerable, I deem."

"I fear I cannot tell," answered the Ranger. "All I know is that they often show themselves the unwary traveller in the guise of dark phantoms with cold, luminous eyes. Their voices are cold, too, and their bony hands have a touch like ice and a grip like the iron jaws of a trap, 'tis said."

"Is it true that the can lay a spell on any living thing?" asked Rei.

Hallavor nodded, his eyes becoming haunted. "Aye, that they can. They very nearly lured me into one of the Barrows when I last was here. Without the chieftain I would have been lost, young though he still was, barely a Man grown… at least for one of our kind."

"So the Barrow-wights can be defeated, then," concluded Rei.

"Not easily," replied Hallavor. "They are powerful spirits that can be held at bay only with a spell of strong incantations."

Rei's eyes sparkled with excitement. Among other things of power, Dwarves liked spells, too, and were a great deal less reluctant to use them than Elves and Men.

"Do you know the spell, too?" she asked.

"I know the words," answered the Ranger, "and as I am within my rightfully inherited lands here, I might have the power to cast the spell successfully. I cannot promise that it would work, though. I am nowhere near as strong in such matters as my ancestors used to be."

"For shame," Rei sighed. "Is there no other way to destroy them?"

"They only can be destroyed by exposure to light," replied Hallavor, "for light is that they fear most. They are lost and tortured spirits, whose last chance to remain in Middle-earth depends on the dark safety of the Barrows. Once a stone chamber is broken open, light would pour in on the Barrow-wights and they would fade like mist before the sun and gone forever."

"I doubt that we could break open any burial chambers," said Rei with a frown. "Not without a dozen of my kind with great hammers."

"Nay," the Ranger agreed, "and we have wasted enough time with storytelling already. Let us find our young thief and flee from here as long as we still can."

Náli's escape from the now headless Barrow-wight was not of any lasting effect, unfortunately. Without a chance to consult his secret map, which would have been difficult while running for his life, he soon lost any sense of orientation. He was aware of the fact that he was running in circles inside the Barrow, but everything was better than letting that… that thing catch him. At least as long as he was running, he was not dead.

But the dark magic of the Barrows was such that not even a panicking young Dwarf could keep running indefinitely. After a while – whether it had been a moment, an hour or a lifetime, he could not tell – his knees finally gave in; he faltered and fell to the cold, hard stone ground. For a moment nothing happened; nor was there any sound, and he almost began to hope that he might have managed to shake off his pursuer, even though the smaller, more sober part of his mind knew all too well just how unlikely that would be. And indeed, ere he could have clambered to his feet again, that iron-cold, iron-hard grip seized him anew. This time the icy touch went to the very marrow of his bones… or so it felt. He was almost grateful when darkness enveloped him.

Yet Dwarves are made of stronger stuff than the rest of the Free Peoples, and thus when he came to himself again, his mind cleared quickly. As he had heard told of in old tales many times, he found himself lying flat on his back upon a cold slab of stone. Unlike the unfortunate victims in those stories, however, he was still wearing his own clothes, and even his backpack and the weapons he had picked up earlier lay next to him. Of the Barrow-wight, there was no sign. Either it had gone to call the others of its kind… or to find another corpse to possess. Evil spirit or not, it probably could not do much without the proper body part at his disposal.

Whatever the reason of its absence might be, Náli did not intend to wait for its return. That he still had his things was a heartening thought, so he got a hold of himself and climbed down from the stone altar… or whatever else that slab upon which he had been laid might have been. Now that his senses had returned to their usual awareness, he could hear that sad and dread chanting again; that cold murmur that he had heard before and that had made his heart heavy with fear and sorrow. This time, he could even figure out some of the grim, hard and miserable words. Not all of them, but enough to fill him with dread anew.

Cold be hand and heart and bone,

and cold be sleep under stone:

never mare to wake on stony bed,

never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead.

For some reason, those last words broke the spell that had nearly caught him already. In the secret tongue of Dwarves, the Moon was named Máni, and Máni had been the name of his own father, named after the Man in the Moon, the protector of thieves and lonely travellers. Náli regained full awareness once more, and now he was angry. Aye, his father was dead, killed by the cursed Easterlings, but he… he was still alive and would be damned if he let some Barrow-wight beat him!

His adventurous spirits lifted again, he grabbed his backpack, picked up his weapons, and – after having stuffed a few handfuls of the jewels laying around into his pockets – he determinedly set off to find a way out of the Barrows.

He had examined the perimeter of the whole thing at least four times ere he would admit that it was hopeless. There was simply no way out, none at all. All passageways that he had seen before were now sealed, including the main one through which he had come in in the first place. He was trapped in the Barrow, imprisoned, caught.

Elves or Men, or any other creatures might have panicked from that realization. But Náli was beyond panicking now; he felt a strange calmness fill his heart. He might have spent his entire life in the great outdoors, but he was still a Dwarf; being in a stone chamber under the earth frightened him not. It was a natural thing for him, and so was fighting. He would make his last stand here, in the burial chambers of long-gone Kings of Men. He would fight 'til his last breath, and he would die with the lady Rei's name on his lips.

Decision made, he sat down on the slab of stone again, with the great axe in his left hand and the beautiful sword he had found in his right, and waited.

As expected, Rei and Hallavor had no difficulty following Náli's footprints, despite the thick fog enveloping them at the very moment they headed for the Great Barrow. Dwarves had the weight of grown Men – or more – and thus when wearing heavy travelling boots, they made deep footprints; deep enough even for someone without Ranger training to follow them. Hallavor could have done so blindfolded, and Rei was almost as good. Plus, she had the nose of a Dwarf – like a bloodhound, her foster father liked to tease her – and thus she could easily smell both her stolen pony and that cheeky little thief who had taken the good beast.

They followed the same path Náli had trodden a couple of hours earlier, and soon they reached the two huge standing stones that leaned slightly towards one another like the pillars of a headless door. Beyond them a dark, black shape loomed ominously against the clouded sky. Despite its less than inviting sight, Hallavor was relieved.

"We have come the right way," he said. "That before us is the Great Barrow."

"And that at its foot is my pony," replied his Dwarven daughter grimly.

Indeed, there was poor Baraz, sweating and trembling in this hostile neighbourhood. She neighed happily upon seeing her mistress, and trotting to Rei, bumped her shoulder with her nose, nearly overthrowing her. For her part, Rei was every bit as happy, petting and stroking the neck of her beloved steed, making sure the pony was unharmed.

Hallavor, however, was worried about wasting precious time and urged her on. Not having a map like Náli had, he could use only half-remembered tales and lays to find the entrance of the Great Barrow. He had never quite come this far when entering the Downs in the company of the chieftain all those years ago.

After some desperate searching, he finally found the doorframe outlined under the withered grey stone of the barrow. But no matter how much they tried to get the door open, it did not give… as if it had been sealed by more than merely a complicated lock.

"I sense magic at work… and not of the good sort," said Rei, shivering a little. Dwarves, while only used the simplest forms of whetting and creating spells, had a strong sixth sense for whatever magic had been used near them.

"Just what I needed," groaned Hallavor angrily. "I cannot break a sealing spell cast by a Barrow-wight. I am not a magic user myself, and need all my strength to speak the words that would break the Barrow itself."

"Then speak the words, now!" answered Rei urgently. "When the Barrow's spell breaks, mayhap we shall be able to open the door as well."

"If I can break the spell of the mound," corrected Hallavor, "we can only hope that our young thief will be reasonable enough to run for his life. We cannot enter the Barrow to search for him; that would mean the death of us all."

He squatted down in front of the enchanted doorframe and brought forth the ancient ring he had been wearing on a chain around his neck for as long as Rei could remember. He laid the ring on a flat stone before him.

"This is the ring of the Kings of Cardolan that used to symbolize their powers over these lands," he said. "It belongs to me by birthright, and by the same birthright, it gives me a certain… power over the resting place of my ancestors. Whether it will be enough to break the Barrow open or not, I cannot tell. We shall see."

He cradled the ring with both hands and closed his eyes, focusing on the enormous task that lay before him. After a moment, he began to speak – not in Westron, not even in Sindarin that was often used by the Dúnedain when dealing with Elves or with their own kind, but in a rougher, ancient tongue that Rei could not understand but had come to recognize as Adûnaic. A tongue long fallen out of use and only spoken among the Rangers when they did not want anyone else to understand them.

The words of the spell were ancient. They came from the olden days before the Fall of Beleriand and had once been spoken by the chieftains of the Edain to keep all evils at bay, to chase Morgoth's creatures away from their settlement. The spell itself had been detected in these very Barrows, written on the walls above the heads of dead Kings or Queens, to ensure their peaceful rest… as long as there still was someone to cast it.

Rei could not understand a word of the spell, but she could feel its great power… and she could see how much strength it was draining from Hallavor. She wondered whether if it would work at all… whether it was worth to risk her foster father's life to try saving that obnoxious little thief. Whether they should just leave Náli to the consequences of his own stupidity.

Then she heard a loud, rumbling sound, as of stones rolling and falling, and in the red light of the setting sun, she could see one side of the Great Barrow crack open, as if a narrow door would be opening in the western side of the hill.

"Father," she said urgently. "It is happening… see!"

Hallavor looked up, his face drawn and grey with exhaustion. "Good," he said. "Go and call him. He shall not have much time."

After a moment of hesitation, Rei ran up the hillside and stuck her head through the door-like opening. Her glance fell into a small, stone chamber, with long slabs of stone lining its walls, and richly clad corpses lying on those slabs, lots of treasure heaped up around them. In the middle of all this, on one of the empty slabs, Náli was sitting, holding a beautifully-crafted, large battle-axe and looking around himself wildly. Glancing up, he spotted Rei, and his eyes widened in awe.

"My lady Rei! What are you doing here?"

"I came to get my pony back – and to tear you apart from lib to limb, you miserable little thief!" growled Rei. "My father, though, believed it to be his duty to save your worthless life – so get out of there lest all his efforts might prove made in vain!"

Náli did not need any further encouragement. Grabbing sword and axe, he hurriedly crawled out of the stone chamber, accepting Rei's outstretched hand for support. Barely was he out under free heavens, Rei let go of him – and backhanded him with a force that made him stagger and nearly knocked hi off his feet.

"That was for having stolen my pony," she told him. "And believe me, this is just the beginning."

"Rei," Hallavor interrupted. "We do not have the time for this. Not yet. Night shall fall, soon, and we need to leave this place at once."

Rei nodded, and – grabbing Náli by the scuff of his neck – went for the ponies; her own and the one they had rented from Butterbur. Hallavor secured the ring around his neck again and mounted his own horse. They fled the way back on which they had come with the best speed the horses were capable of, followed by a long, trailing shriek that was fading away into an unfathomable distance behind them.

"Hurry up!" Hallavor urged them forward. "My spell will only keep the Barrow-wights at bay for a short time. We must reach the feet of the Downs before nightfall. If we can do that, we shall be safe, spending the night in the house of an old friend."

Náli found that a promising perspective – and was greatly surprised by Rei's pitiful groan.

"Tell me that we are not going to enjoy Tom Bombadil's hospitality, Father," she all but begged.

Hallavor shot her a baleful look. "You can turn back and enjoy the hospitality of the Barrow-wights," he replied tersely. "I for my part shall be happy to sleep under a roof tonight where no evil things can enter; for the spell-casting has drained a great deal of my strength, and I am weary."

That silenced both young Dwarves – not that Náli would have felt like arguing, he was too busy nursing his jaw that Rei had nearly dislocated with her powerful backhand stroke – and followed him across the hills, 'til they finally reached a small stream that was merrily bubbling southwards. By the sight of the water Hallavor seemed greatly relieved.

"Elbereth be thank," he said. "This is the Withywindle, the stream that crosses the Old Forest near the Halflings' country. We have not got lost as I feared. Now all we have to do is to follow the stream and we shall come out of the Downs right at Bombadil's house."

Náli was glad to hear that. He had had enough adventure for the next year or so – and preciously little gain out of it – and wanted nothing more than a good evening meal and a halfway comfortable bed… well, and perhaps some medicine for his bruised face. He did not feel up to deal with anything more at the moment. Rei seemed less than happy about their destination but chose not to protest again, as Hallavor was very obviously not in the mood to argue with her.

Thus they followed the stream in not-quite-comfortable silence, dragging along the frightened beasts 'til they finally came upon a small stone house, sheltered under an overhanging hill-brow, from which the Withywindle bubbled down in merry falls.

For some reason he could not quite explain, Náli felt all his sorrows lifted from his heart at the sight of this friendly little house; and he could not help but smile when he saw him who had to be the master of the house step out into the porch to see what kind of guests had come into his domain.

It was perchance the strangest person he had ever seen – and he had seen his fair share of queer people during his long journeys between Rhûn and Eriador – a Man, or at least so it seemed. At any rate, he was too tall to be a Dwarf, although still not quite tall enough for a Man, not even for one of the Bree-folk. His round, ruddy face and long, brown beard, too, were rather Dwarfish, but no self-respecting Dwarf would ever put on such ridiculous yellow boots and such a tall, battered old hat, with a long blue feather stuck into the band, no less. Blue must have been his colour, for his coat was blue, too, and so were his eyes; blue and very, very bright, like those of a curious bird. Náli was certain that few things would ever remain hidden from those eyes. The round, red face was creased into a hundred wrinkles of laughter; whoever the Man was, he obviously enjoyed life very much.

Upon recognizing at least some of his visitors, the man's face broke into a wide, delighted smile.

"Friend Hallavor!" he cried out happily. "How good of you to pay a visit to old Tom Bombadil! And is this little Miss Rei? My, but you have grown in the years I have not seen you. How long has it been? Five years? Ten?"

"More like twenty, I would say," replied Hallavor. "How are things going in your hidden little corner of the world, Iarwain? You have been undisturbed, I hope?"

Tom waved off his concern with a large hand. "Oh, you know me, friend Hallavor; little even disturbs Tom Bombadil within his own borders. And I do not go out a lot in these days. Have people come to me instead."

"I seriously doubt that many would find their way either through the Downs or across the Old Forest," said Hallavor dryly.

"Those who need, do," replied Tom simply. "You have, have you not?" Then he gestured invitingly towards the house. But do come in, friends! Goldberry has just laid the table in the main room; she will be delighted to have guests sitting with us tonight."

He led them over the wide stone threshold into a long room, filled with soft golden lights that came from a row of lamps swinging from the beams of the roof. In the middle of the room stood a table of dark, polished wood, and on the table many tall, yellow candles burned brightly. The entire room was wrapped in that gentle golden glow – it was very soothing.

A lovely woman came out of the kitchen to greet them, her gown green as young reeds, shot with silver-like beeds of dew. Her golden belt was shaped like a chain of flag-lilies, set with the pale blue eyes of forget-me-nots. She wore her long, pale gold hair down, tumbling over her shoulders, and her own rustled softly as she came laughing to greet them.

"Welcome, good guests!" she said, her voice clear like the falling rain over the surface of a deep, clear lake. "Welcome to the house of Tom Bombadil. I am Goldberry, the River-daughter, his wife. Sit now and wait 'til the Master of the house tends to your tired beasts; then we shall have evening meal together."

Náli was all too happy to sit and rest in one of those low, rush-seated chairs standing around the table, and Hallavor seemed relieved, too. Only Rei shot dark looks at the lady of the house; Náli could for his life not understand why. Mistress Goldberry seemed friendly enough, busying herself about the table, setting plates and food upon it: yellow cream and honeycomb, white bread and butter, milk, cheese and green herbs and ripe berries. Náli could feel his stomach grown loudly, and he became deep red with embarrassment, but Goldberry just smiled at him and went on with her work.

As soon as she was done, Tom returned and led the guests to their room, so that they could wash themselves before sitting down to supper. It was a low room with a sloping roof, with walls of clean stone but mostly covered with green hanging mats and yellow curtains. On the flagged floor, which was strewn with fresh green rushes, four thick mattresses lay, three of them piled with white blankets, as if their hosts had known they were coming and how many of them there would be.

Against the opposite wall was a long bench laden with wide earthenware basins, and beside it stood brown ewers filled with water, some cold, some steaming hot. Náli groaned in pleasure by the mere sight of such comfort. He could not remember the last time he had a proper bath or a soft bed to sleep in. There was not much luxury when one was living on the road, and even in the villages of the Breelands, the best he could hope for was getting the chance to sleep on the straw in one of the stables.

When they were all washed and refreshed, they returned to the main room and sat down for supper, Hallavor and Rei on one side of the long table, Náli alone on the opposite side, while at either end sat Goldberry and the Master. There was a fire in the wide hearth before them, and it was burning with a sweet smell, as if it were built of apple-wood. The smell made them even hungrier, but no matter how much they ate, there always seemed to be more, 'til even Náli felt full enough to burst.

After supper, Tom and Goldberry rose and cleared the table swiftly. When everything was set in order, the lights in the room were put out, except one lamp and a pair of candles at each end of the chimney-shelf. Goldberry then took one of the candles and wished them all a good night and deep sleep, ere retreating to her own bedchamber. Halabor went out to the porch to have a pipe and a long-overdue chat with the Master of the house, for Tom and he had known each other for a long time and often sent messages, exchanging tidings that worried them for some reason.

That left Rei and Náli alone in the main room. There were both too tired and too full to go to sleep right away; thus they, too, left the house and went to the flower garden, as Rei had the one or other bone to pick with her devout admirer.

"For stealing my pony, I should tear you to pieces with my bare hands," she told him without preamble, but her eyes were not half as cold as they had been before; a good meal always mellowed her mood, and besides, the fact that he had dared the Barrows and faced a Barrow-wight, just to be able to court her, impressed her, almost against her will. "In truth, I might still do so. But Father meant I ought to listen to you ere I beat you to a bloody pulp. So I strongly suggest you start talking, as long as I am still willing to listen."

"I did not intend to steal your pony," answered Náli defensively. "I just… I just borrowed her. How else was I supposed to get to the Barrows and back? I would have given her back, I swear by Mahal's beard!"

"Yea, sure," Rei shook her head doubtfully.

"I should have!" insisted Náli. "Had I the coins, I would have rented a pony from Master Butterbur, but I had nought, not even enough to eat. Which is why I wanted to raid the Barrows – how else could I hope to court you?"

"What makes you think you do have a chance at all?" asked Rei with an arched eyebrow.

Náli's shoulders sagged in defeat. "I had to try something. From the moment on when I first set my eyes on you in the Prancing Pony, I knew you were the One for me. That it could be no-one else but you. I hoped that if I could return with a sack of treasure from the Barrows, you would at least consider accepting my courtship."

Rei shook her head. "I have got a home and a purpose among the Rangers. 'Tis a good life. Why should I wish to run off with a thief, to live in danger and poverty on the Road? What could you possibly offer me that would be worth such a foolish choice?"

Náli reached into his pockets and took out the handful of gemstones he had managed to stuff there back in the Great Barrow.

"This is all I could take with me – all that I can offer," he said. "Please accept them as my courting gift. I know they are not much… but they are everything I own."

"Then you should keep them," said Rei. "You should sell them to a goldsmith and be freed from poverty for a while. That was your original plan, was it not?"

"That was before I met you," replied Náli. "I… I do not want them anyone if I cannot have you."

Rei shook her head in exasperation and gave the gemstones in Náli's broad palm a closer look. Then she suddenly took in a sharp breath.

"Have you any idea what you managed to stuff into your pockets?" she asked in amazement, picking out four small, round, deep blue stones with multi-facetted surfaces. "These are moon-stones of incredible value! The Dúnedain of old wore them as rings or brooches. 'Tis said that if two lovers carried such stones on them, they could feel each other from great distances. These stones are very rare, as they cannot be found anywhere in Middle-earth. They were brought from Westernesse, thousands of years ago, before the Isle of Númenor was swallowed by the Sea."

"You mean they are magic stones?" asked Náli, stunned by his own good fortune.

Rei nodded. "Many stones have strange powers, as we all know. But these… the Elven-smiths of Rivendell have told me about them. They said, the stronger the bond between two lovers is, the longer the reach of the stones would be. It always depends on the owners, apparently."

"Imagine what they could do, set into betrothal collars," said Náli dreamily.

Rei laughed. "You never give up, do you?"

"No," replied Náli simply and poured all the other gemstones into her cupped hands. "Please, have them. I have no use for them," and with that, he stood and went back into the house.

Rei stared after him with mixed feelings for a while. She liked the stones just fine, but she felt bad about keeping them while still reluctant to accept his courtship. Considering how poor he was, it just did not seem right. But she could see that he was adamant about giving them away, and so she stored them in her belt pouch, uncertain what to do with them. She would think about that tomorrow. Right now, all she wanted was to sleep.

In the morning, all three of them woke up wonderfully refreshed after a night of undisturbed sleep. It had rained in the night, apparently, for through the open windows at either end of the guest room they could see water dripping from the edge of the thatched roof. But the morning itself was bright and clear, and the sky pale blue, with only small puffs of white clouds upon it.

After they had washed and got dressed, Tom called them to the breakfast table, and they went eagerly. They ate in Goldberry's company, while Tom was tending to their steeds. They were nearly done with eating when he came back in.

"Your beasts are ready and eager to go," he said, "and you would do well to start early. For while it promises to be a glad morning, weather in this country is a thing even I cannot be sure of for long. In truth, it can change quicker sometimes than I can change my jacket."

"I thought you were the master of these lands here," said Hallavor teasingly.

"I am," answered Tom with a merry wink, "but I am not the master of the weather; nor is aught that goes on two legs."

They laughed at that – even Náli felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted off his heart – and agreed to have an early start. Hallavor hoped they could strike the East Road in a day's journey and get back to Bree late in the night. It would be a considerably longer way than the one on which they had come, but Hallavor wanted to make a wide bend around the Barrows and did not mind the time they would lose. Neither did Náli, to be honest. The last thin he wanted was to face a Barrow-wight again.

Thus they said their farewells to Tom Bombadil and his lady and set off to return to the village of Men after their short trip to the enchanted lands. They were all glad to leave this strange place behind them, despite the tranquility and hospitality of Tom's house.

They rode all day, not too quickly, but steadily and with only a few short breaks at every four hours or so. Hallavor expected them to reach Bree about an hour after the closing of the gates, which would make it possible to slip into the village drawing as little attention as possible. He preferred it that way, and besides, it would be safer for them all. The Bree-folk were good people, but suspicious about strangers.

Shortly before nightfall, however, they came across a waggon, drawn by two stout ponies. In the driving seat a broad, thick-set Hobbit was sitting, with a round, red face and curly, iron-grey hair.

"Hoo," said the Hobbit, and the ponies came to a halt obediently. They must have had excellent training; but again, with Hobbit ponies, that was not surprising. The Little Folk tended to their beasts better than anyone else in Middle-earth.

Their master looked at the mixed group of travellers with shrewd interest.

"My, my," he said. "If that ain't Master Longshanks and his Dwarf lass! What are you doing in this wild country, my good Ranger? I thought you've left Bree two days ago already. At least that's what old Butterbur told me when I delivered him his taters. It seems he was wrong, though."

"Not entirely," replied Hallavor. "We have left Bree on urgent business two days ago. But that has been dealt with, and we are going back for supplies before we set off for our home. "Tis good to see you again, Master Maggot. How are you and your family doing in these days?"

"As well as it can be expected," answered the Hobbit with a shrug. "I've not been the same since the missus passed over some four years ago. I'm getting older, I am; but that's fine. My eldest son's old enough to take over the farm, once I'm gone. I've taught him all that I know. The only thing he needs is a good wife, and he'll do just fine. That, I still want to see: the next generation of Maggots in Bamfurlong. After that, I'll close my eyes in peace."

"I am certain that the farm will be in good hands with your eldest," said Hallavor in agreement; he knew the farmer's firstborn, who was as stout and hard-working a Hobbit as all the others in- or outside the Shire. "What other news did you hear in Bree, though?"

The Hobbit shrugged again. "Well, folks in Bree seem to be a mite upset. Apparently, some thief not only has pilfered old Barliman's pantries, he's also stolen the pony of one of his patrons," he looked pointedly at Náli who tried to seem unfazed, although his stomach suddenly shrunk to the size of a small, wrinkled apple.

"They say 'twas some young Dwarf, one that used to do tricks in the other villages," continued the Hobbit. "They spoke about hanging him, should they get him, they did." He paused, then added carefully. "I wouldn't show my face in Bree for a while if I was him, for sure."

"They would hang someone for having stolen just a bite of food?" asked Rei.

"'Tis not the food, 'tis the pony," explained the Hobbit. "Big People take such things seriously, as I'm sure Longshanks has told you."

"But it was my pony, not theirs!" said Rei, shaken by the mere thought of hanging someone.

"That might be so," replied the Hobbit, "but that doesn't matter to them. They've got laws against such things; very strict laws. One cannot blame them, I s'pose, living by the Road, where all kinds of people come along, not all of 'em savoury."

"But-but I got my pony back!" exclaimed Rei.

The Hobbit shook his head. "That won't matter to them, not a bit. They're good folks, the Bree-folk are, but they take theft very seriously. Always have."

Hallavor and Rei exchanged worried looks. They knew, of course, the harsh laws of the otherwise decent and friendly Bree-folk against theft, but they had not expected Náli's deed having been found out already. They had kept the fact of Rei's pony being stolen to themselves; but whatever Butterbur might be, he certainly was no fool and figured out the reason why they had needed to rent one of his ponies.

"We cannot take him back with us," said Hallavor. "Bailing him out of the holding cell would be a great deal more complicated than simply letting him go. And while I do not condone theft as a rule, we cannot let him be hung. That would be a bit harsh; more so as you did get Baraz back."

"So what are we doing with him?" asked Rei. Hallavor gave her a thoughtful look, as if trying to guess her intentions.

"'Tis up to you," he said. "'Twas you pony that he stole; 'twas you whom he wanted to impress. Do you want to save him?"

Rei sighed. "Aye, I do. He cannot help being hit by the love-longing; 'twas not his choice. And he is a thief; that is a trade among us. Not a highly respected one, granted, but an accepted one. I do not want him to be executed for what he is."

"What are you planning to do then?" asked Hallavor.

Rei did not answer at once. After a moment, though, she dismounted and led his pony to Náli, handing the lad the bridle.

"Take her," she said. "I must bring the other pony back to Master Butterbur, but you shall need a steed to get away from here as quickly as possible."

Stunned, Náli started to stutter his thanks, but she silenced him with a brash gesture.

"'Tis only a loan," she warned. "I want Baraz back, as soon as you are safely out of the Breelands. Do not even think about slipping away with her – I am a Ranger, and a good one. I can find you, wherever you are trying to hide. I shall meet you at the Forsaken Inn; and be Mahal be merciful to you, should you not wait for me there – for I certainly will not. Go now, ere I change my mind!"

A frightened and confused Náli thanked her profoundly and galloped away on Baraz' back, following the East Road as it led westwards, to the Weather Hills. Hallavor stared after him for a while, then he sighed and shook his head.

"I have a bad feeling about this; a very bad feeling," he said. Then he turned to the Hobbit who had been watching the events with great interest. "Master Maggot, could we pretend that you have not met us today?"

"Why, certainly, my good Longshanks," answered the Hobbit brightly. "I'm not planning to go back to Bree any time soon, and who else would think of asking me about you? I won't even have to lie to anyone."

"Thank you," said Rei quietly.

The Hobbit shook his head. "Don't mention it. The lad might be a thief, but I don't want to see him hung."

They thanked him again, and the Hobbit parted ways with them, driving his waggon homewards. Hallavor looked at Rei thoughtfully.

"You realize, of course, that the lad is your responsibility now," he said.

Rei nodded. "Believe me, Father; I am not particularly happy about that. But I could not let him die."

"I understand that," Hallavor sighed. "Does this mean you are accepting his courtship?"

"I might… consider it," answered Rei carefully. "I am not yet certain about that."

"I would hate to have you leave us, but this is perhaps for the best," said Hallavor. "Sooner or later, you ought to return to your people. And courtship does not mean necessarily betrothal. I wonder, though, what has changed your mind so quickly."

"That I can show you," Rei smiled and poured the gems into his palm. "Have you ever seen moon-stones, real ones? I never believed that they even existed. And now… look what little thief has brought me from the Barrows! Are they not beautiful?"

Hallavor, staring at the legendary treasure of his forefathers in stunned awe, could not even answer her. It was as if the old tales had come back to life before his very eyes. Aye, Dwarves were drawn to treasure more than any other people, but no-one could have looked a these stones and not be captivated by their beauty. Small wonder that even Rei's heart had mellowed a bit towards the lovesick youth who had risked everything to get them for her from a haunted Barrow.

~TBC~

Author’s note: This chapter has been inserted after more than two years, because I felt from the beginning that the transition between Náli’s rescue and the meeting with Flói in Mirkwood was too abrupt. So, here you can follow the journey of Rei and Náli from Bree to that point. As it would be too long otherwise, I’m going to post it in two parts.

As Farmer Maggot had warned them in advance, Hallavor and Rei found the village of Bree in quite the uproar. It was not so as if the patrons of the Pony had never been stolen from before – but having snatched the steed of a guest and pilfered the inn’s own storerooms, all this without anyone noticing a thing, was something new and worrisome in the eyes of the Bree-folk. Master Butterbur, who was not only the owner of the inn but also the provost of the village and the head of their Council, was beside himself with righteous anger.

“Never has such a thing happened in my time!” he complained, raising his hands in horror. “A good pony stolen from an esteemed guest, from under the very nose of my stable hand, and him a Hobbit and all, who hears the grass growing on a good day! What are we coming to? I marvel how that little thief has achieved that in the first place?”

Indeed, fooling the eyes and the ears of a Hobbit was no small feat, not even for a Dwarven thief, who would have been able to get by most other people. Small wonder that the good Master Butterbur was a tad upset.

“Well, it was a Dwarf pony,” Hallavor pointed out reasonably, “and it might have smelled its mistress on the thief. He had spent part of the evening in our company, after all.”

“True enough,” allowed Master Butterbur, his beady little eyes narrowing in suspicion. “And what business was a thief having with ya, Longshanks? You Rangers truly are a strange lot.”

“He looked like one who had not had a good meal for some time,” replied Hallavor with a shrug; the bad reputation of his kind among the very people they had been protecting, often at the cost of their very lives, for uncounted years, no longer bothered him. “We did not know he was a thief; and ‘tis a rare thing to see a Dwarf travelling alone.”

“True again,” said the innkeeper reluctantly. “You’ve paid the price for yer good-heartedness, it seems. But I warn ya: as you’ve invited the thief to yer own table, I cannot be made responsible for yer loss.”

“Nor have I expected it,” answered the Ranger. “However, as both thief and pony seem to have gone lost in the Barrows, my daughter here will need a new steed. Do you think you could help us with finding one?”

Master Butterbur eyed Rei and her heavy saddlebags doubtfully. “We ain’t have them Dwarf ponies here in Bree as a rule, and I don’t think a lesser one could carry her and her belongings,” he said. “But I shall see what I can do for ya.”

It took a few hours, but in the end the innkeeper did find them a Dwarf pony indeed: a small, dun-coloured, ill-fed creature for its kind. It had lamed and been left behind as useless by a Dwarven merchant group a couple of weeks before, but a Hobbit farmer named Appleseed had taken a liking to it and nursed it back to health again. It was not such a noble beast as Rei’s own Baraz, and it was still way too underfed, but it would do, Rei decided. At least if would be able to carry her weight without staggering – the usual Hobbit ponies would not.

After some long and delightful haggling, they agreed in the price, and Rei led over the pony – a gelding by the name of Toby – to the stables of the inn.

“So, what are you planning to do now?” asked Hallavor, when they could be certain that no-one else was listening.

“I shall take Toby to the Forsaken Inn,” answered Rei with a shrug. “That little fool gave me all the jewels he had got out of the Barrows, every single one of them. ‘Tis only fair that I give him at least a steed to ride in exchange. For I want my Baraz back.”

“I am not sure,” admitted Rei. “What you have said about seeking out my own kind… I would like to do that. Mayhap I should pay Erebor a visit, as I have already seen the settlements in the Ered Luin and have no wish to live there. I might fit in with the people in Erebor better.”

“That is a long and arduous journey for someone on their own, even for a Dwarf,” warned Hallavor. “Thorin Oakenshield and his company needed eighty-four days between the Shire and Laketown; and while they were forced to make detours here and there, which you might be able to avoid, it would still take months. And even in these days, the Road is full of danger for a lonely traveller.”

Rei sighed. “I know that, Adar. But I feel this burning urge to see the Kingdom of legends under the Mountain; and mayhap I shan’t have to travel alone.”

Hallavor gave her a sharp look. “Are you planning to take your little thief with you on that journey?”

“He would come,” said Rei confidently. “He is a Wanderer without a family.”

“And he has fallen for you beyond help,” added Hallavor. “Would it be fair to him, though? To use the longing he cannot free himself from, just so that you would have a travelling companion?”

“It would give me the chance to know him better,” said Rei. “Besides, he cannot remain here if he values his neck, can he? The Bree-folk are decent people and friendly to all creatures, small or large, but they would have no qualm hanging him.”

Hallavor shook his head in tolerant amusement. Only a Dwarf could have such love for rare jewels, the heart’s blood of earth and stone, that a generous courting gift of precious stones, taken from a haunted barrow by risking one’s very life, would soften them towards a previously unwanted suitor so much. ‘Twas amazing how quickly Rei had come from wanting to tear Náli apart with her bare hands to considering travelling with him all the way to Erebor.

On the other hand, the moonstones were indeed rare and precious beyond imagination; almost as much as mithril in these days, or perchance even more so, as they could not be found in Middle-earth at all. And it was not so as if Rei would have anything to fear from the besotted little thief. Aside from the deeply ingrained respect of Dwarf males towards their women – towards any Dwarf-dam, not just the one commanding their hearts – she was a trained warrior. She could have beaten male Dwarves twice her size without breaking a sweat.

“Very well,” the Ranger said. “If ‘tis truly your wish to get in touch with your own kind again, I shall not stand in your way. We can even travel together, as far as the Last Bridge; it is on my way to the Angle, after all, and our paths will run together for quite a while yet.”

Rei would never show the relief that filled her heart, realising that her foster father was right. Adventurous and brave though she might have been, ‘tis was good to have Hallavor’s guidance for a good portion of the way.

Náli reached the Forsaken Inn almost a day before Rei’s arrival, but that was not surprising. Rei had to return to Bree first, to brig back Master Butterbur’s pony and to pick up her and her foster father’s belongings, while Náli himself could take the direct way. Moreover, as he was still riding Rei’s sturdy and resilient hill pony, he could cover some twenty to twenty-five miles a day easily.

He crossed the Greenway right above the defile of Andrath – a broad ridge of downlands, an eastern outlier of the Barrow-downs, south from the Bree-land – and rode in a more or less straight line eastwards, until he hit the Great East Road again. From there, he simply had to follow the Road itself, until he caught sight of the Inn. That was familiar territory already, as he was basically backtracking the same way he had come with the FireBeard merchant caravan only a few weeks earlier.

The Forsaken Inn – in truth barely more than an ale-house with only a handful of chambers for guests passing by who wanted to spend the night under a solid roof – was a relic from the old days of Eriador, when the roads of the North-kingdom had been much travelled and well watched, and trade had been flourishing. One look at the building revealed that its better days were long gone, but at least it still had a roof, even though a damaged one, and it still could be used as a resting place.

Built on a small, flat hillock overlooking the Road, it was a moderate, two-storey building, made of whitewash and sturdy oak beams, with a few trees on one side, weatherworn to the point of slowly falling apart, and clearly in desperate need of a new roof. But one could still sleep in what once had been the common room without getting drenched, should a quick shower of rain sweep over the Road.

Entering said common room, leading Rei’s pony on the reins, Náli looked around with interest. He had parted ways with the FireBeard merchants right before reaching the Inn, so this was his first chance to see it from the inside – and he found that he liked what he saw.

The common room must have been a welcoming place, back when it had still served guests. It was a large hall, once probably filled with sturdy tables; large enough for several dozen customers. It was empty and had fallen in disrepair long ago, save from the huge stone fireplace dominating the end of it; one large enough to crouch in and to spend warmth for the whole building, if properly heated. Náli walked over to it, admiring the excellent stonework and wondering if a Dwarven stone-mason had been involved. He could not find the usual signature symbol of any known artisan, but that did not mean a thing. It could have been a young, skilled apprentice who had not yet earned the right to have a symbol of his own. The recurring motives of sun and stars could have meant a StoneFoot mason; they loved to decorate their handiwork with such celestial symbols.

The counter on the left, behind which a now unhinged door led to what had probably been the kitchen, must have been a wonderful piece of woodwork once, too… before more than the half of it had been hacked up for firewood. Its basic design could still be seen by the experienced eye: a half-circle of stout, dark-tanned oak, once perhaps polished and shiny, decorated with the carven images of grapevines and forest animals. The artisan in Náli – and there was one, however deeply hidden, in every single Dwarf’s heart, no matter which trade they ultimately chose to follow – mourned for the state of the once beautiful handiwork, but the counter was well and truly beyond repair by now.

Half a dozen rooms upstairs, meant for the owner’s family and for the odd customer, were in similarly desolate shape. The roof was leaking, the furniture long gone (probably to feed the great hearth below), and even the windows were missing. These must have been pleasant chambers once, though, with the great chimney running up in the middle, warming them nicely, without the need for a fire in the rooms themselves. Whoever had built the Inn all those years ago, they had designed it cleverly.

Náli returned to the common room that could serve him both as a stable for the pony and as a place where to sleep, and decided to make himself comfortable. Perhaps the Lady Rei would look at him with more acceptance if he prepared for her a suitable place to rest. Fortunately, her meagre belongings had been fastened to the pony’s saddlebags upon his departure for the Barrows, so he had all the things he needed.

The FireBeards who had passed through last had left a neat stock of firewood, but common courtesy demanded that he did the same for the next traveller coming this way. So he went out to the nearby woods to collect some. Fortunately, there was enough dead wood lying around on the forest ground; all he had to do was to drag the thick boughs back to the Inn and split them to right-sized pieces – not a true challenge for a Dwarf. He fetched a work-axe from his bundle and went to work.

He finished within a short hour. Then he kindled a small fire in the hearth, let out the pony to graze near the building and laid out his bedroll to rest. He was tired and more than a little shaken still from his recent adventure in the Barrows; yet sleep seemed to avoid him for quite some time, worried about his future as he was.

Rei and Hallavor reached the Forsaken Inn on the next day, around the third hour. They saw no need to hurry, and so they camped outdoors for the night, setting off for the last leg of their short journey just a little after sunrise. Hallavor set a moderate pace, secretly wishing to delay the parting from his beloved foster daughter as much as he could. For he knew already what Reid did not, not yet: that she would stay with her own kind; most likely with her little thief, too.

‘Twas hard to for a Dwarf to remain untouched by the smouldering heat of the love-longing aimed at one – or so the Wizard Gandalf, who knew more about Dwarves than anyone else who was not a Dwarf himself, had once said. The Rangers of the North were on friendly terms with the bearded race, but Dwarves guarded their secrets as jealously as they guarded their treasure, and Hallavor was quite certain that not even Rei had revealed him anything of true importance, in all the years that she had spent in his home, as part of his family.

After all those years, there still were many things Dwarven he did not know or could not fully understand. The true extent of the love-longing being one of those.

“You truly expect him to wait here for you, despite the danger of being found by the enraged Bree-folk?” he asked doubtfully. In love or not, every Man with half a sense of self-preservation would have ridden on, putting as much distance between himself and those who wanted to hang him as possible.

Rei smiled confidently. “Worry not. He will be here,” she said with utter certainly, knowing of her spell over the young male, even though not willingly cast. Then she raised a hand and pointed before them. “And there he is”

Following the direction in which she was pointing, Hallavor spotted the young Dwarf indeed. Náli was standing by the low stone troug next to the well in the courtyard, performing the cleansing ritual Dwarves meticulously observed each morning – assuming there was enough water available. They were a fastidious race, in spite of what other people (mostly prejudiced Men) would think about them.

Rei was watching her suitor with the eyes of a woman who, no matter what race, usually looked at something they liked a lot. Hallavor could not blame her. In the eyes of an unbiased beholder, the young thief was a handsome lad, even by the measure of Men. Perhaps about five feet even, which was not very tall for a Dwarf, he was still an inch or two taller than Rei, stocky and broad-shouldered, with large, flexible hands, his arms and legs corded with thick muscle. His broad back and wide chest tapered down to a trim waist and narrow hips. He was all muscle and sinew, with not an ounce of fat on him, but also lithe and cat-like fast at the same time.

“He does not look half-bad, for a scrawny little thief,” Rei judged, eyeing the handsome face, only partially obscured by the short, neat golden beard, with appreciation. It was a different emotion from Náli’s complete devotion to her – but it was a beginning, Hallavor found.

To give him credit as a woodsman, Náli spotted their approach earlier than most other people would have, and given that they were both Rangers, that was no small feat. Not the least bothered by his own partial nudity which, once again, showed that he was accustomed to living among Men, as most Dwarves were self-conscious when revealing their bodies to outsiders – he bowed politely, while water was still dripping from his hair and beard.

“Lady Rei, Master Longshanks… welcome. I have already kindled a fire in the common room, if you would care to rest and eat a bite,” he said.

“He has good manners for a Wanderer and a thief, I have to give him that,” whispered Rei to her foster father. “No doubt, though, that the food he offers has been… liberated from Master Butterbur’s pantries. I know not if we should accept.”

“We have compensated him for his losses, so we might have something out of it, I deem,” replied Hallavor philosophically, giving the old, faded leash-marks criss-crossing Náli’s back a meaningful look. It seemed the young thief had not always been successful in his undertakings; and Hallavor knew how harsh the Easterlings punished thievery, even in fairly minor cases.

Thus they all sat down in the common room of the Inn, as soon as Náli put his shirt on again, and had a modest breakfast of bread, cheese and dried meat. The only thing Rei contributed to the meal was tea, which Náli eyed with great interest.

“I heard of this but never tried it,” he said. “’Tis the herbal drink of the Halflings, is it not? They are said to be obsessed with it.”

Hallavor nodded. “It is called tea, and is quite different from the brews other people make of healing herbs. It requires a particular leaf, which Hobbits grow in the warm and wet southern part of their small country, and I find it has an invigorating effect. My people get it from the Shire, just like the pipeweed.”

Náli’s eyes brightened considerably at the mentioning of pipeweed. Like most Dwarves, he was clearly fond of it, but the longing on his face also revealed that it must have been quite a while since he had last had any.

“Oh, pipeweed,” he murmured. “I haven’t had a smoke since… well, since I had to flee Rhûn,” his face darkened with the memory of his slaughtered family. “There were times I thought I would go crazy without it; but food was a more pressing issue.”

The Ranger, quite devoted to the pipeweed of the Hobbits himself, had mercy with the young Dwarf and offered him his ersatz pipe – a simple wooden one – and a relaxing smoke. Náli accepted thankfully, and for a while they just sat there, blowing smoke rings in blissful silence, while Rei, who had not picked up the custom herself, wrinkled her nose and made wry faces when the smoke went her way.

“All right then,” said Hallavor, after they had emptied their pipes. “Let us make plans. I know what my daughter here has in mind, but where do you intend to go, Master Náli?”

“I truly cannot tell,” he replied. “Originally, I planned to raid the Barrows, and then go to the Blue Mountains with my booty. Try to find a place to live there; mayhap even learn a different trade. I have done the odd bit of leatherwork, nothing fancy, just horse gear, and I am good with ponies. There are small settlements of our Clan in the Blue Mountains; I hoped that I might fit in. But I cannot show my face so close to Bree any time soon, so that is no longer an option.”

“The same is true for this place,” added Náli, looking around in the half-ruined inn with regret. “I would not mind living here for a while, hunting for food, mayhap even doing some repairs. ‘Tis a good, solid building still; with a lot of work, the Inn could even be opened again. But it is too well-known and too close to Bree. I do not wish to wake up dangling from the end of a rope one day.”

“Then I shall make you an offer,” said Hallavor. “My daughter found in her heart the wish to visit her kind in Erebor: to see the Kingdom under the Mountain with her own eyes. However, I cannot go with her any further than the LastBridge; I have obligations towards my own people that I cannot ignore. Would you be willing to go with her?”

‘Twas a rhetorical question, of course. They both knew that Náli would follow Rei anywhere, as long as she tolerated his company. But courtship and matchmaking had their unwritten rules that had to be followed. Also, the request signalled Rei’s willingness to accept Náli’s suit, at the very least, if nought else; thus Náli agreed to go with her readily and happily.

“Excellent,” said Hallavor. “Now, ponies like yours can get from here to the Weathertop, which is halfway from Bree to the Last Bridge, in six days; in five, if you ride in a great hurry, but I see no reason for that.”

“The merchants who hired me as a guard took seven days from the Water Hills to here,” said Náli, “but their heavily loaded carts slowed them down considerably.”

Hallavor nodded in agreement, “We shan’t have the same burden; yet it would be better to go at a slower pace, for your steeds will have a long way before them yet. We can get from the Weathertop to the LastBridge in less than a week, though; there I shall turn to the South, for my way leads me to the Angle, and you can go on to the North, towards the High Pass, after crossing the River Hoarwell.”

“I know,” said Náli. “I came the same way with my FireBeard employers. I can backtrack our path across Mirkwood on the Old Forest Road; ’tis quite safe in these days, as the Wood-Elves have driven the Great Spiders back south from the Road. If we are watchful, we ought to reach the River Running without difficulties. From then on, all we need to do is to follow the river northwards. It will lead us directly to the Mountain.”

“That it will,” Hallavor agreed. “Young as you may be, Master Náli, you already are a Dwarf of many journeys, it seems.”

The young thief shrugged. “I am a Wanderer, from a long line of Wanderers. My kin has known nought else for unnumbered generations.”

Hallavor kept his expression carefully neutral. He had learned enough about Dwarves on his long journeys across Eriador, not to mention through his rare encounters with the Grey and Brown Wizards, to know that StiffBeards in general and Wanderers in particular were looked down at by wealthier, more powerful clans. Which was foolish, considering their vitally important role in Dwarven economics. After all, they provided everyone else with the sturdy Dwarf ponies and saw to it that the wares were brought from one settlement to the other, wherever they were needed. They were the backbone of Dwarven society, counting the highest numbers due to their large families, and performing the most menial tasks others found below their dignity. Yet without the StiffBeards to do all that hard and dirty work, every Dwarven settlement would long have drowned in chaos.

Náli, for his part, did not seem the least ashamed about the twin stigmata he had to wear: being a lowly StiffBeard and a Wanderer – not to mention a professional thief. That, at least, was promising. Standing up for oneself was the beginning of commanding respect from others… something he would need if he wanted to win Rei’s heart and to find his place in Erebor. He was versatile and quick-witted, though; Hallavor doubted not that he would adapt.

“All right,” said the Ranger. “Let us rest here tonight. In the morn, we can set off for the Last Bridge with renewed strength again.”

They spent the rest of the day and the following night in the Forsaken Inn: Hallavor and Rei went a-hunting in the afternoon and returned with several coneys, which they skinned and gutted to roast over the fire in the hearth, to have something to eat during next day’s journey.

In what once must have been the inn’s kitchen, Náli found several pots and cauldrons, most of them twisted and leaking, but he managed to hammer out the dents from a smaller one. In that, he made an excellent stew from the ears and legs and innards of the coneys, seasoning it with some herbs he found in the nearby woods and just a pinch of salt from his meagre provisions. Even Rei admitted that he was a very good cook, and after a dinner that filled even the bottomless Dwarven stomachs, they all went to bed contentedly.

In the next morning, they rose with the sun, as they wanted to get away from the neighbourhood of Bree quickly, for Náli’s sake. They ate the rest from the previous evening’s rabbit stew for breakfast, quickly re-packed their supplies and left the inn behind. Náli was greatly moved by the fact that Rei would have thought to bring a stead for him. Toby the pony might not look much, but it was surprisingly strong, like all Dwarf-ponies, and had a smooth gait, which a less experienced rider like Náli appreciated very much.

They rode for several days, in a slow but steady manner, with short breaks during the day and sleeping on their bedrolls under the stars at night, just a bit away from the roadside, in the woods. Both Hallavor and Rei knew these woods like the back of their hand, and so it was no hardship for them to find something edible on the way to save the supplies for the journey across the Wilderland: berries and mushrooms, eggs from birds’ nest, even honey at one occasion. They also hunted every other day, building up a supply of salted, roast meat for the less comfortable part of the young Dwarves’ journey.

‘Twas on the fifth day when the land before them began to rise steadily. Far away, in considerable distance in the east, the line of the WeatherHills appeared on the horizon. The highest of them – the one called the Weathertop – was at the right of the line and a little separated from the others. It looked like a turned-over tankard, slightly flattened on the summit.

“We’ve done well,” judged Hallavor. “The Road runs directly at the feet of the hills. If we go on as we have so far, we can reach the Weathertop by nightfall and rest on the summit, in the protection of its ancient stone ring.”

“I remember seeing it from afar,” said Náli. “It looked like a rough crown on the old hill’s head; a tad ominous, if you ask me. I wonder what it used to be in its heyday: a castle of some sort, where your people lived, Master Longshanks?”

“Not a castle; a great watch-tower, back before the North-kingdom would be divided,” replied the Ranger; he did not seem to mind Náli adopting the Bree-folk’s nickname for him. “My people never actually lived here; but they did defend these hills against the Witch-king of Angmar and his dark creatures. We shall follow the screened path that once served the forts along the walls; walls that have long been gone.”

“You’ll see ere night falls,” answered Hallavor, urging his horse to a faster pace.

As they pressed forth, only slightly faster than before, the hills drew closer like the jagged edge of a broken blade. In some places they rose to a thousand feet, in other places they fell to low clefts or passes again, which led to the eastern land beyond. As they came closer to the ridge, the young Dwarves could see along its crest the remains of what once must have been crumbled walls and dikes, now overgrown with green grass.

“There are still ruins of the old stonework in the cleft!” cried out Náli in surprise. “Your people clearly knew how to build sturdy walls.”

“What you see there is the last great effort of Númenórean craftsmanship,” said Hallavor solemnly. “The Men of the West brought knowledge with them, most of which has been forgotten in the meantime.”

“A shame,” commented Náli; like all Dwarves, even those not maser artisans themselves, he had great appreciation of all things made by skill, knowledge or magic. “But at least their work has endured to give weary travellers shelter, even in its ruins.”

Hallavor nodded in agreement, and they continued their journey. Right before nightfall they had reached the feet of the westward slopes. There they kindled a small fire and waited for the night.

“Tomorrow we will rest on Weathertop,” said Hallavor. “This is our sixth day out from Bree, for Rei and me, and I have not met any of my own kin yet, which is not how it should be. We are riding towards our home; we ought to have crossed paths with one of the patrols by now.”

“The only thing we can: we go on and look out for any sign from our people. Let us hope this means no reappearance of Orcs or Wargs in these lands.”

That was an unsettling thought, and so they continued their journey in the morning in a much more sombre mood than before. After an hour they found the path of which the Ranger had spoken on the previous evening: the path leading directly to the foot of the Weathertop, and turning to the right, they followed it southwards. It was cunningly made, winding itself in a line that would keep them as much hidden as possible from the view, in all directions. It used the natural formations of dells and steep banks, and where it passed over more open ground on either side of it there were lines of large boulders and hewn stones screening them almost like a hedge.

“I am not sure I like this path,” muttered Náli, as they rode along a stretch where the stones were unusually large and closely set. It made him uncomfortable; he felt like a trapped animal. “We might be well-hidden behind these walls, but we cannot look outside, either – so what have we gained?”

Even Rei, who had been there before, nodded in agreement. Hallavor, the only one tall enough to peek over the stones from the saddle with a little effort, hid his smile and rode forth.

Around noon they finally drew near the southern end of the path. There they saw right before them a steep green bank, leading up onto the northward slope of the Weathertop like a bridge across a dry dike.

“Let us make for the top at once, while the daylight is still broad,” suggested the Ranger. “There we can have the best-protected place for the night. And we will have a good look at the Road and what might be travelling on it between here and the Last Bridge.”

Rei gave him a worried look. “Do you expect danger, or even an attack tonight?” she asked.

Hallavor shrugged. “I know not what to expect, Daughter. But if our people have recently passed by, they will have left messages, and those I intend to find.”

They dismounted to lessen the burden of their beasts and began the long climb a-foot. About halfway to the hillock, they came across a sheltered hollow, with a grassy, a bowl-shaped dell at the bottom. It seemed a good resting place for their beasts, and so they left ponies and horse behind to look after themselves, taking packs and luggage with them. There was no need to worry about their animals. Neither the Ranger’s horse nor Rei’s pony would abandon their master and mistress; and between them, they would keep Toby in his place.

It was not easy to climb the hill while carrying all their supplies, but Rangers were used to such things, and as for Dwarves, Mahal had made them from the very bones of Arda; they could endure just about everything. Therefore, the three of them only needed half an hour of plodding and climbing to reach the crown of the hill, even though the last slope had been steep and rocky. That might have been difficult for any other people, but Dwarves could draw strength from the stone, in a manner, so the two overcame the last hindrance easily.

There they stood then, upon the flattened hillock, surrounded by a wide ring of ancient stonework, now crumbling and partially covered with grass, as if the turf had tried to reclaim what used to be its realm. Even in its ruins, the watch-tower upon Weathertop was impressive, and having a thick, protective stone wall around him, even if it had gaping holes here and there and barely reached above his head, made Náli feel much better.

He tried to imagine the guards that had once stood upon the walls: tall, dark-haired Men with keen grey eyes and long, shining swords. Men like Hallavor.

“Burned and broken it may be now, yet the great watch-tower of Amon Sûl was once tall and fair,” murmured Hallavor, as if reading the young Dwarf’s thoughts. “It used to house the Great Palantír, the chief of all Seeing Stones of the North-kingdom; and it is told that Elendil, High King of both Mannish realms, stood there in its upper chamber, watching for the coming of Gil-galad out of the West, in the days of the Last Alliance.”

“Gil-galad?” Náli, who was not learned in old lore at all, repeated blankly.

“The last High King of the Elves in Lindon,” explained Rei absent-mindedly; having grown up in the house of a Dúnadan lord of royal ancestry did have its advantages. “He and Elendil led the armies of Elves of Men against the Dark Lord of Nargûn in the Battle of Dagorlad, where they emerged from the battle victorious; for the spear of Gil-galad and the sword of Elendil no-one could withstand. And though both were slain in that battle, the Lord of Nargûn was overthrown, too, and for a long time, there was peace in Middle-earth,” she gave Náli an exasperated glare. “Have you learned nothing about the past?”

“Wanderers have no songs about Elven Kings and Mannish heroes,” answered Náli flatly. “We are fortunate if our parents live long enough to teach us what we need to know about our own kind; and what we need to survive on the road, should they not be with us any longer. Being a lore-master or a scholar is a luxury we cannot afford. Not even the wise-women of our caravans remember much of what was before the coming of the Dragon to the Mountain; or the Battle of Azanulbizar. My great-grandfather died in that battle,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“He was a warrior?” Rei knew her surprise was not flattering (or polite, for that matter), but she could not help herself. It was hard to imagine Náli as progeny of some great war hero. In fact, she had never heard about any StiffBeard war hero before.

“No,” replied Náli in a dry voice. “He was a stable hand and a groom, entrusted with the care of the messengers’ ponies. He tried to protect them when an Orc patrol wanted to eat them; ended up being eaten by them instead. But by the time he became dinner, there were five less of them, family legend says,” he shrugged. “Wanderer Clans do not breed heroes, but he did his best. I was named after him.”

“Not all heroes were originally raised to be warriors,” said Hallavor, “and yet there are times when one has no other choice than become a hero. Let us take a look around and have an early dinner. I may have to leave the two of you alone tonight to do some scouting, but I would rather not do so on an empty stomach.”

They climbed onto the rim of the ruined circle to give their surrounding a good, hard look. Most of what they could see was empty land, without any distinctive features, save for random patches of woodland and here and there the glint of distant water. Beneath them the Old Road came out of the West and ran winding up and down like a ribbon, until it vanished behind a ridge of dark land to the east. Nothing was moving on it.

“There,” said Hallavor, pointing eastwards along the line of the Road. “The Misty Mountains. That is where out path will ultimately lead us.”

Náli nodded. He knew that already. But seeing the majestic shapes from this position was impressive nonetheless. The nearer foothills were green and brown and full of life, even if hidden at the moment; behind them stood taller shapes of grey, getting a tint of blue the farther away they were, and behind those again were the high peaks, capped in white, almost translucent, as if made of blue mist themselves. Milky white wisps of clouds or mist were swirling around the peaks, well below the white caps, like some living thing.

Those peaks loomed on the horizon of every Dwarf’s dream: Barazinbar, Zirak-zigil and Bundushathûr, the legendary Mountains of Moria. Náli felt a sharp tug in his heart, even though this was not the first time he saw them; and he could tell that Rei was feeling the same. This was the most sacred place a Dwarf could imagine: the place of Durin’s awakening, the cradle of their very race.

While the two young Dwarves were gazing in the direction of the lost realm of their kind longingly, Hallavor explored the ruins. Behind some fallen rocks he found a neatly piled stock of firewood and a flat stone that had the usual symbols scratched into its surface: the ones Ranger patrols used to leave messages for each other. They were based on the Elven Tengwar, but instead of full words, the Rangers used a series of abbreviations no-one else would understand. Except Rei, of course, who had been taught them, together with her foster brothers.

“A patrol passed through here two days ago,” she said, examining the stone Hallavor handed to her. “They came from the Angle and were on their way to… Fornost? That is odd. Why would they go to Fornost? It has its own garrison; there is no need for men from the Angle to go there.”

“Unless they are escorting the chieftain or one of his officers,” said Hallavor thoughtfully. “That would explain why we have not met anyone on the Road. The pattern of the patrols must have been changed accordingly. Nonetheless, I shall go out after nightfall and see whatever else I can find along the usual routes.”

“Dwarves are not the only people who can give up on a night’s rest without suffering greatly. Besides, I do not intend to stay out all night.”

Rei rolled her eyes but gave no answer to that. She knew her foster father well enough to know that any further argument would be pointless.

In the meantime, the shades of evening began to fall, and it grew cold. They lit a small fire in the protection of the stone wall and ate some of the roast meat they had brought with them, for they could not hope to find many edible things on the hilltop. Then they sat at the fire for a while, the two males smoking their pipes contentedly, and talked about the way that lay before them still. Náli, who had spent most of his life in Rhûn and had only travelled across the Lone Lands once, was particularly interested in learning more.

“It will be an arduous journey for so few, if not very dangerous,” explained the Ranger. “The lands ahead us are empty of all save birds and beasts; unfriendly places deserted by all people of Middle-earth. Rangers pass beyond these hills, of course, while on patrol, but we are few and do not tarry here long.”

“They are rare and often of evil sort,” replied Hallavor. “Trolls are known to stray down at times out of the northern valleys of the Misty Mountains. Of marauding Orcs I have not heard for quite some time; but that, too, can change quickly.”

“Most travellers would use the Road anyway,” added Rei, “and those are most often Dwarven merchant caravans, like the one that hired you on their way to Bree,” she grinned. “And they go after their own business, and have no time – or interest – for being bothered by strangers.”

“Mahal’s Children are a strange lot,” the Ranger agreed, smiling. “Well ‘tis time for me to explore the paths around the foot of the hill; if you two could see after the horses?”

“Gladly,” Hallavor emptied his pipe and rose. “Get some rest, you two. I shan’t be back for quite a few hours, but there is no need for you to keep watch, as I shall be on patrol anyway.”

With that, he picked up his sword and his long knife – taking his bow would have been pointless as only a Wood-Elf or a Dwarf could have used it in the darkness – and merged with the shadows, leaving the young Dwarves to their own devices.

Rei and Náli allowed the fire to fall to ashes ere they would go down the north side of the hill, back to the dell where they had left their steeds. Rei knew where a clear spring of water could be found in the hillside, and they looked after the good beasts, brushing them down and giving them some water to drink. As a Wanderer, born from a long line of Wanderers, Náli proved especially skilled around them; even Hallavor’s big, raw-boned horse, usually not very friendly to strangers, accepted his services graciously.

Rei watched him with a speculative eye. The young thief had already shown that he had more talents than just the one needed to pick other people’s pockets; his woodman’s skills were not far beyond those of a Ranger. But that was not truly surprising by one who had spent his entire life on the road. And he hand mentioned having done some basic leatherwork, too. Rei wondered what other skills he might have picked up on his wanderings.

“Tell me, Master Thief,” she said, “what will you do, once we have arrived at Erebor?”

Náli shrugged. “I know not. I might try to lead a settled life for a while, should you choose to stay there. Stable hands are always needed. I could learn to make saddles, too; or harnesses. Or join the scouts or messengers if they accept me. Whatever allows me to stay close to you.”

“You are too young to bind yourself for life,” said Rei, “least to me, as I have still not made up my mind about you. You should find someone who feels the same way for you.”

“That would not help, as I shan’t feel the same way for them,” replied Náli simply. “I did not choose to fall in love with you, Rei Hreinnsdóttir; the longing hit me unexpectedly, way before the usual age, and I cannot do a thing against it, even if I wanted to. Which I do not. Why would I want to love someone else when I can love you?”

He said this with such heartbreaking simplicity that Rei could not help being touched by his honesty.

“Have you never had any lovers before then?” she asked in surprise. He was a handsome lad, after all.

Náli grinned at her. “I did not say that; it would be a lie. The daughters of Men are not all obsessed with their lovers being tall. Some of them can appreciate the good things that come in small packages. The women of the Easterlings more so than the others. They are treated badly by their males; like broad mares or pack animals, at best. Thus they show great gratitude if treated gently and with respect.”

“You slept with the women of those barbarians?” exclaimed Rei in astonishment.

Náli shrugged. “They are not that bad, really. They have a harsh life, led in a harsh, unforgiving land, and that makes them harsh, too; but it also makes them strong and proud. And if I understand rightly what honour means to men, I would say that in their own way the Easterlings have honour, too – and quite jealous of it.”

“That they are. But do you think they serve the Lord of Nargûn voluntarily? What other choice do they have, with the northern wasteness on one side, the Ash Mountains at their back and the Brown Lands on their left? Do you believe the Dark Lord would spare them?”

“That they do,” agreed Náli, “and they often treat them cruelly. But life in Rhûn is cruel enough on its own, and many of the free-born Easterlings live as harshly as their slaves. They go to war often, with each other as much as with their neighbours, and sometimes they do unspeakable things. They certainly slew my family without mercy. But the Bree-folk, too, would hang me for stealing a pony, no matter how friendly and easy-going they are. Men are not that different, really, regardless where they live or what language they speak.”

“That is not true!” protested Rei. “The Dúnedain are different! My father’s people are a noble folk! They work diligently to keep Eriador free from the creatures of Nargûn – not only for themselves but for other people, too. They watch over the settlements scattered between the Misty Mountain and the Sea; they even keep the land of the Halflings safe.”

“I know,” answered Náli tiredly. “Yet even your father looked at me as if I was vermin, as soon as he learned that I was a thief. Do you believe any of us would choose a life on the road, without safety, with a wagon as the only home we had ever known, had we any other choice? It was not our fault that our own people shunned us for being smaller, weaker and less wealthy than the warrior Clans – and yet we have been the ones to pay the price, ever since the great cities of our people had fallen. We are the ones made homeless and cast out.”

He turned away, too weary to look Rein in the eyes. In the end, it always came down to this: Wanderer were treated as the lowest class; as something one used to one’s own advantage but never accepted as one’s equal.

Rei, who had escaped the fate of most StiffBeard families by having grown up among Men, felt a little ashamed. She realized for the first time that she had been too quick to judge Náli for the life he had led; for having lived out of the pocket of other people. And even though she had long since realized that he was an honest lad in his own way, she had never asked why he would choose to become a thief – until now. She had never known poverty. The Rangers of the North led a simple life, but they never lacked the basic necessities of life, and neither did those they had taken in foster care.

“Forgive me,” she said quietly. “I have judged you harshly and in ignorance, and for that I am truly sorry.”

Náli turned back to her with a sad little smile. “I love you more than life itself, Rei Hreinnsdóttir. There is nothing I would not forgive you.”

He leaned in with agonizing slowness, giving her ample chance to back off if she wanted. She did not, and their lips met for the first time, barely touching. Then Náli became bolder, the tentative gentleness of their kiss turned into passion, and Rei answered in kind.

If Hallavor noticed the change in their behaviour towards each other when he returned in the morning – and Rei was sure that he had, he was a most observant man, even as Rangers go – he gave no sign of it. They broke their fast together in the shadow of the ancient stone ring of Amon Sûl and continued their journey as soon as their saddlebags were packed.

“I have found further messages on my patrol, and even spoken to an Elf who was on his way from Mirkwood to Rivendell,” explained Hallavor. “The Road before us seems to be empty and safe; nonetheless, we should not waste any more time here. The Last Bridge is still roughly a weeks from here.”

Thus they made their way down the Weathertop and came in a while to the edge of the Road. East beyond the hill it changed its course and took a wide berth northwards, but that was of little concern of theirs. All they had to do was to follow the Road; cutting across its loop would have shortened their journey considerably, but it would also have meant to travel through wild, pathless land and perchance even get lost in the wilderness.

Hallavor would have found the right way, of course, but he saw no reason to do so. The Road was the safest and easiest way to get to the Last Bridge, albeit not the shortest; but they had time and were in no particular hurry.

As they rode on, they saw empty lands on both sides of the Road, for no-one had lived there for a very long time; not since the fall of the North-kingdom of Men. The forest had grown closer to the Road in all those years but had not quite reached it yet. Only bushes and stunted trees scattered the roadside in dense patches, with wide, barren spaces in-between. Even the grass was scanty and coarse, but the Dwarf-ponies and Hallavor’s horse were not choosy – they would eat whatever they could find and be content to fill their bellies.

The three travellers were much the same. Over the days, they rode in a slow yet steady pace, content in their silence. At the evenings, two of them went to find something edible in the woods to save their supplies for later, while the third one built a fire and took care of their beasts. On the first day Náli was the one to be left behind, but from the second evening on Rei insisted on taking him with her, allegedly to show him how scouting and food gathering was done properly.

Hallavor just shook his head with a tolerant smile, and when they returned, out of breath and with preciously little food to justify their long absence, he pretended that he had not noticed it.

Had Rei been his true daughter, a daughter of the Dúnedain, he would never tolerate her sneaking away in the woods with a love. But Dwarven customs were different, older and harsher than those of Men, and if he wanted Rei to be able to live among her kin again, he had to make allowances. Besides, he was glad that the two had apparently overcome their differences. Rei needed a life-mate from her own people, and Náli, despite his questionable profession, was not a bad sort. They would make a good match, the Ranger decided – not for the first time since they had met the young thief.

Five days passed on the Road, without their surroundings changing much and without seeing any other soul save a few birds. In their backs the Weathertop was sinking behind the horizon, little by little with each passing day, while before them the Misty Mountains loomed a little larger. They were still far enough to seem blue in the distance but became more present with every new turn of the Road.

On the sixth day, they reached a huddle of wooded hills; the Road swept around the foot of those hills, and to their right a pale grey river gleamed in the sunlight like pure, molten silver. Where the Road crossed it, an ancient stone bridge reached over the water at the bottom of a short, steep slope, resting on three mighty arches. It was wide enough for two carts – or four horsemen – to go side by side, and seemed in good condition, in spite of its apparent age.

“I remember this river,” said Náli, giving the Last Bridge appreciating looks. “’Tis the Hoarwell that flows down out of the Ettenmoors, is it not?”

“From the Troll-fells north of Rivendell, yes,” replied Hallavor with a nod. “The Elves call it Mitheithel; it joins the Loudwater in the South, after which it is known as the Greyflood. It swells to a great water ere it would reach the Sea. The only way over it below its sources in the Ettenmoors is where we are standing right now: the Last Bridge on which the Road crosses.”

Náli shielded his eyes against the bright sunlight and looked beyond the river. In a stony valley he thought to see the glimmer of even more water.

“The Loudwater, yes,” answered the Ranger. “The Road runs along the edge at the hills for many miles from the Bridge to the Ford of Bruinen, as you might remember from your travels with the merchant caravan. We shan’t cross that river together, though, as your path will turn northwards, towards the High Pass, while I shall take the path leading to the South: to the Angle, where my people dwell. Let us rest here tonight; it is getting dark. We shall cross the bridge after daybreak.”

The young Dwarves were a little surprised that he would not want to cross the river at once – it was not that dark yet – but trusted him to know what he was doing and why. Thus they dismounted and prepared their camp and their beasts for the rapidly falling night.

Náli went down to the Bridge to admire its ancient stonework – something he had not had the time when travelling with the Fire Beard merchants – and had to admit that the Men who had once lived here had been almost as skilled in shaping stone as any Dwarf. The mere fact that the Bridge was still standing, after all those hundreds of years and despite dozens of wars that swept over these lands, spoke clearly of the skills of its builders clearly.

Like all Dwarves, Náli knew a lot about stone and how to shape it, even though his skills did not reach the level of an artisan. So he could appreciate the handiwork of those long-gone Men. Perhaps more than their own descendants would.

Náli nodded. “There were true masters at work. Even a Dwarf could have learned from them.”

The Ranger laughed. “That is the greatest praise any craftsman can hope for. Now, go to bed; I shall take first watch.”

“Mayhap not,” said the Ranger with a shrug, “but so close to the Trollshaws I would rather not take any risks. Go and rest. I shall wake you when your turn comes.”

In the early morning they crossed the Bridge, and the young Dwarves were surprised to find a Man waiting for them on the eastern side. He was tall, dark-haired, grey-eyed and fairly young, clad in the usual Ranger garb and armed with a sword and with a great bow. He also had a marked resemblance to Hallavor which, as Náli found out soon enough, was not a coincidence.

He watched with a jealous scowl as Rei let out a happy shriek and gave the young Man a big hug that must have bruised his ribs. Hallavor grinned, both at Rei’s antics and Náli’s jealousy, and hurriedly introduced them to each other.

“My eldest, Halbarad,” he said. “And this is young Master Náli, son of Máni and Beva, of the StiffBeard Clans.”

“And a thief, too, I see,” said Halbarad, giving the young Dwarf a critical look, ere Náli could have recovered from his surprise that Hallavor would remember the name of his parents. Men rarely bothered taking notice of such details; however, they were important for Dwarves, particularly the name of the mother. Then the young Man looked at Rei. “You keep strange company, little sister.”

“The company I choose is not your concern, brother,” countered Rei, her beautiful eyes glittering with anger. “Thief or not, he is my chosen one, and we shall have the hand-binding ceremony in Erebor, as soon as we find there a place to live.”

“I knew it would come to this,” he said with twinkling eyes, “and I am happy for you, daughter. That is why I sent word to Halbarad with that Elf from Mirkwood and asked him to bring all your belongings.”

“You knew I would not return home?” Rei asked in awe. “But how? I did not know it myself, until a few days ago, when the longing finally caught up with me.”

“’Tis hard to resist one who loves you with all his heart and is ready to give up everything for you,” Hallavor smiled. “You have my blessing; and I hope you will find in each other what you need most. Like I found it in my wife and she in me.”

“You are not angry with me?” Rei seemed close to faint in relief. Hallavor shook his head.

“Not at all; rather the other way around. You are a Dwarf; and though we always loved you as one of our own, you cannot lead a Mannish life forever. ‘Tis only proper that our ways would part right here, at the crossing of the roads. Your life with us belongs to the past. I hope you will take fond memories with you, but your future lies before you, in the North – with him,” he nodded in the awestruck Náli’s direction.

And that was it. They did not need the carefully phrased speeches they had prepared to tell Hallavor the truth, as he clearly had known before them that they belonged together. So they spent another hour or two in the company of the two Rangers, exchanged news and words of farewell, shared breakfast and listened to Hallavor’s instructions concerning the other half of the way that still lay before them.

Rei became a little teary-eyed, now that she was about to take her leave from the Man who was like a father to her; and from the other one with whom she had grown up as with a brother. But she had made her choice, and she was not looking back. As Hallavor had said, the future lay before her, not behind her.

Finally their saddlebags were repacked – they were so full that they threatened to burst, as not only had they to find room for Rei’s belongings, but also for the food supplies the two Rangers generously let them take – and the parting of ways was imminent. Hallavor gave them his blessing and Halbarad shook hands with Náli and hugged Rei tightly, extracting from them the promise that they would send messages and even visit from time to time, and then all four of them mounted their steeds.

At the eastern beachhead their ways parted at last. Hallavor and his son turned to the South, taking the path that would lead them to the Angle, where the greater part of their people lived. Rei and Náli followed the Road northwards, for their way led to the High Pass, then over the Misty Mountains to the Vale of Anduin, and from there further to the North, where the Lonely Mountain, the last of the great Dwarf cities still in existence, was waiting for them.

This chapter has been inserted after more than two years, because I felt from the beginning that the transition between Náli’s rescue and the meeting with Flói in Mirkwood was too abrupt. So, here you can follow the journey of Rei and Náli from Bree to that point.

They were on their own now, and even though Rei was a trained Ranger and Náli a Wanderer, used to live on the road, it was a strange feeling for them both. More so as they were a family now; a concept as new and exciting as it was frightening, and in silent agreement, they chose not to discuss it – not yet.

They rode at a moderate pace northwards, following the Road that was flanked by steep lands on the left side. The hills rose steadily alongside their path; here and there upon them they could see the remains of ancient, broken stone walls, sometimes even the ruins of towers. Unlike other old stonework, though, these filled Náli’s heart with dread, and he shivered at the mere sight of them.

“I wonder who built those towers and why,” he said, rubbing his bare arms to get rid of the goosebumps. “They seem… evil, somehow.”

“They were built by evil people, or so my father tells me,” answered Rei. “By Men who fell under the shadow of Angmar and its sorcerer-King; the same one that sent the wights to dwell in the Barrows.”

Náli felt a cold shiver run down his spine again. “What has become of them?”

“They were all destroyed in the war that brought the North-kingdom to its end, a very long time ago,” explained Rei. “Nobody but birds and beasts live here now. Even the hills have forgotten them, Father says; and yet their shadow still lies upon the Lone-Lands.”

Reis shook her head. “Nay, not here; further in the North, though. We are following the path of Thorin Oakenshield and his Company now, and soon we shall reach the place where they encountered the Trolls.”

They rode on. The Road held on its way to the Loudwater, but on the other side the hills drew closer. They were covered with dark woods here; some trees all but hung over their heads, clawing their twisted roots into the stony hillsides. It was a cheerless country, but they were comforted by the knowledge that as long as they kept on the Road, they would not get lost. So they never swerved from it, no matter how uncomfortable the dark curtain of pinewood on the left side made them feel. The ponies, too, appeared to dislike their surroundings and picked a fairly quick pace, as if trying to leave the place behind them as soon as they could.

Shortly before nightfall they finally left the Road to find a place to sleep. Soon enough, they found a narrow path that climbed with many windings out of the woods and up the hill beyond. It was barely visible in some places, overgrown and cluttered with fallen stones and tree-branches in others, but with proper care it could be followed, at least if they dismounted and led their ponies on the reins.

“This path must have seen a lot of use once,” judged Rei, examining it carefully, “but not in the recent years, I believe.”

“No,” Náli agreed, “or else it would not have fallen in such disrepair. I wonder who made it, though. Perchance the Lone-Lands are not as lonely as we have thought.”

“Whoever did, they had to be incredibly strong,” said Rei. “Look at these old trees that were broken down to make a way… or those large rocks, cloven and heaved aside. This is not the handiwork of Men; they would not have the strength. Not without tools, and I cannot see any trace of those.”

“Oh, bother,” said Náli dejectedly. “We have reached the Troll-country then, I suppose.”

“Seams so, yea,” Rei nodded, “although if the path has fallen in misuse, they must have abandoned the place for years. Let’s be careful, though; I do not wish to end up as dinner.”

Náli completely agreed with that sentiment, and they cautiously followed the track for a while, anxious of the dark woods surrounding them. The path grew plainer and broader, and then turned sharply around the rocky shoulder of a hill, finally leading them – under the face of a low cliff overhung with trees – to a stony hillside. It was smooth like a stone wall, and there was a door hanging crookedly upon a great hinge, leaving barely enough room for a small child to squeeze through the crack. There they stopped.

“There must be a cave or a rock-chamber behind,” said Rei in a low voice. “If it is empty, we could spend the night there.”

“And if it is not, we can land in a pot for dinner,” replied Náli. “Surely you can recognize a Troll-hole when you see one!”

“Of course I can; I am neither blind nor stupid,” hissed Rei angrily. “And so I can also see that it has long been abandoned, just like the path.”

“So let us abandon it, too, and find the right place for our night camp,” urged Náli.

“Have you lost all your wits?” exclaimed Náli, highly agitated by the mere idea. “It is a Troll-hole, remember? Do you want to get killed?”

“Says he who went dowry-hunting in a haunted Barrow,” commented Rei, inserting her shoulder between the door and the rock wall to push it open. “Help me!”

Náli rolled his eyes in exasperation but did as he was told. With combined strength, they managed to open the door a little wider; just wide enough to slip through. There was completely dark inside, but Rei had a torch and Náli always had a tinderbox on him, so they could lit it easily.

The light fell onto the rocky floor, revealing a great many old bones; mostly but not entirely of sheep. Nothing else could be seen near the entrance, save for some great earthenware pots and broken jars.

“Let us get out of here!” begged Náli. “There is nothing of value, and the smell is beyond nasty for an abandoned hole. Someone might still be using this place.”

But Rei did not listen to him. She went on, deeper into the cave, where other seemingly empty pots stood. She turned them over, one after another, and – lo and behold! – a few coins, some gold and some silver, rolled out of their depths. Whoever had pillaged the Troll-hole before them, they clearly had not done thorough work.

“Most likely Thorin and his Company,” she said when Náli commented on that fact. “They were in a hurry, trying to get away from here, and most likely just grabbed whatever they could, as quickly as they could. Well, their loss is our gain.”

And indeed, it was a sizeable little bag full of silver pennies and small gold pieces by the time she finished her search. The thought to give Náli some of it did not seem to occur to her, and Náli felt unexpected bitterness well up in his breast because of that. For true, they were a mated couple now and shared all their possessions, but it was also true that he still had nought else but with what he had arrived at Bree a few weeks earlier.

All that he had managed to save from the Barrows, by the risk of his life and mayhap even his soul, he gave Rei as a courting gift, not keeping anything else but the great battle axe for himself… and axe he could not even wield properly. Yes, his greatest wish had been fulfilled when Rei chose to bond with him, but he was still a beggar. Even the pony he was riding had been purchased by Rei. He was nothing.

As it often happens with Dwarven bondmates, Rei must have caught the drift of his troubled feelings, for her eyes became uncommonly soft.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the small bag at him. “This will buy our way across the High Pass and the Ford of Carrock. You know those Beorning cutthroats demand an outrageously high toll.”

“We can pay them,” corrected Rei gently. “And it would be better if you did business with them. They are Men, remember? And most Men share the strange opinion that power and wealth should be exclusively handled by males.”

“All right,” he said. “But let us leave this place while we still can. I would hate to be trapped in here, should a passing Troll find the open door and decide to close it properly.”

“If this was the hole of the three Thorin and the others encountered, which I believe it was, then we don’t need to be afraid,” answered Rei, taking a last, somewhat disappointed look around them. “But you are right; we should go. Night is falling, and we need to rest.”

They squeezed themselves through between the half-opened door and the rock wall again, and returned to the patiently waiting ponies. Those seemed undisturbed, which lessened Náli’s anxiety a bit; had there been any evil creature near, the good bests would have felt it and shown fear. He released a breath he had not even realized he was holding. The fresh air was a blessing after the bestially stinking Troll-hole.

“Let us see where the path leads us,” said Rei. “There must be a clearing nearby, where one can build a fire – there was no fire-pit in the cave, and besides, the tales say that the three wanted to roast Thorin and company over an open fire.”

Náli rolled his eyes. “Just the tale I wanted to hear before going to sleep in a probably Troll-infested forest,” he grumbled.

Rei laughed. “I seriously doubt that there would be still Trolls in these woods; no live ones anyway.”

“What do you mean no live ones?” asked Náli with a frown. Unlike Rei, he was not familiar with the adventures of Thorin Oakenshield and his Company during the Quest of Erebor. Those tales never found their way to Rhûn.

They followed the path that went on again from the door, and, once more turning to the right across a level space, suddenly plunged down a thickly wooded slope. There it was broad enough for the two of them to walk abreast, with the ponies led on reins between them, although in no better shape than at its beginning, so they had to pick their way carefully if they did not want their steeds to stumble and break a leg.

Fortunately, they did not have to go far. Just a little faster below, they caught a glimpse of a clearing between the tree-trunks.

It was almost completely dark by now, but Rei’s torch cast a bright patch of light before their feet, thus they reached the edge of the clearing without any mishap. They stopped there and peered around between the trees to see if there was any danger – and that was when Náli’s breath caught in his throat.

Three huge, dark, vaguely Man-like shapes rose on the clearing, around something that once must have been a fire-pit. The two that were standing and seemingly glaring at their stooping third companion were at least twelve feet tall and built like the cave bears that certain tribes in Rhûn considered their ancestor. Their long arms hung so low that their thick, blunt fingers nearly touched their large, two-toed feet. Their legs were like tree-trunks and their bald heads seemed too small for their massive bodies and appeared to grow directly from their heavy shoulders, without any necks at all. In truth, they probably had very short and very thick necks, but those could not be seen.

In short, they looked pretty much how Náli had always imagined Stone-trolls to be, in spite of the fact that they were wearing some rough garb in Mannish fashion and only had one head, each. His Grand-dam’s tales, suitable to scare the wits out of wayward young Dwarflings, always spoke of three- or seven-headed Trolls, and even though he later learned that – like every other living creature – even Trolls only possessed one head, he could not help but feel mildly disappointed.

“By Mahal’s hammer!” he muttered, eyeing the monstrous shapes nervously, “they are very large, even for trolls!”

“They are also very dead,” answered Rei; she walked up to the Trolls with a minimum of wariness and slapped the stooping one on the enormous backside. “See? Turned back to the stone from which they had emerged at the shaping of Arda and will remain so until Durin’s Reawakening, I suppose.”

“My father says that Trolls were bred by the Great Enemy, for he desired a race as powerful as the Ents…” Rei began, but Náli interrupted her.

“The great Tree-herds of ancient times,” explained Rei. “Ents have become a myth in these days, but in the Elder Days they roamed freely the great ancient forests, protecting the trees and all living things that could not flee on their own. In any case, as Ents were to the substance of wood, so Trolls were to stone: rock hard and powerful… although the Ents were stronger,” she added as an afterthought. “They could crush stone, ‘tis said, just like the tree-roots can break rock – only faster, much faster.”

“Yea, but they are gone now, while the Trolls are still there and still powerful,” commented Náli grimly. “I have seen an entire Mannish village destroyed by a single Troll. The Men of the village tried to protect their own, but their arrows and spears were of no use against the tough hide of that monster. It slaughtered them all.”

Rei nodded. “And yet in the sorcery of their making was a fatal flaw: they are vulnerable to sunlight. The Great Enemy cast the spell of their creation in darkness; and if the light of Anor falls upon them directly, that spell breaks, and the armour of their hide grows inward ‘til they become lifeless stone.”

“I remember having seen an oddly-shaped standing stone in the middle of that village,” said Náli thoughtfully. “Could that have been the Troll that slew the villagers?”

“Most likely,” Rei nodded. “In its bloodlust, it probably forgot all about the time. They are monumentally stupid, you see. Most of them cannot even be taught speech at all, save for the barest rudiments of the Black Speech of Nargûn.”

“Is that what happened to these here?” Náli gestured at the petrified monsters.

Rei shook her head. “Nay; they most likely belonged to a newer bred. My father’s people say that the Dark Lord of Nargûn, when he rose again, went great lengths to make them more cunning. Many of them are said to serve in the Dark Tower; and even those in the Trollshaws have a craftiness of mind – one born of wickedness.”

Rei grinned. “They can be crafty when it comes to committing evil deeds, but otherwise they are still fairly stupid. The stories say that Tharkûn came upon these three, unobserved, while they were quarrelling about how to roast thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit. He cunningly made them turn on each other and quarrel long enough for Anor to come up, in which moment all three turned into stone.”

“Tharkûn?” repeated Náli in surprise. “’Twas the Grey Wizard, then, who saved them?”

Now it was Rei’s turn to be surprised. “You know the Grey Wizard?” she asked.

“Nay,” replied Náli. “But I met the Brown One once, and he told me quite fantastic stories about his… cousin’s deeds. I never truly believed them, and yet it seems tow they must have had a kernel of truth, after all.”

“The wizards are strange creatures,” Rei agreed. “Cunning, meddlesome and quick to anger, but amazing nonetheless. Sometimes I wonder whether they age at all or not. Tharkûn visited my father a couple of times, and though many years had gone by between two visits, he never seemed to change. But he always told wondrous stories: about dragons and goblins and giants and the rescue of princesses and the unexpected luck of widows' sons, so we children were looking forward to his visits,” she looked around. “Well, the place seems safe enough to spend the night. Let’s make a fire, eat and rest. Tomorrow we must leave early if we want to cross the Loudwater by daylight.”

“You want to camp here?” asked Náli, panic clearly written in his handsome face.

Rei shrugged. “Why not? Clearly, there are no live Trolls here, the glade is pleasant, and there is a fire pit ready-made. Besides, I think the presence of these three will keep possible other travellers from bothering us.”

Náli reluctantly admitted that it was probably true, and so they made their night camp in the glade, resting right under the Troll’s huge legs. The fire warmed their bones pleasantly, and the warm meal was mightily welcome. Rei offered to take the first watch, saying that she had a lot of her mind that she needed to think over, and so Náli, despite his misgivings about the place, was soon overcome by his exhaustion – exhaustion that had come more from the frights of the most recent hours than from the journey before – and felt into deep, dreamless sleep.

He did not wake up ‘til the next morning and was dismayed when he understood that Rei had let him sleep through the night. She, however, waved off his protests generously.

“You needed it,” she said. “Besides, you can return the favour tonight, as we’ll likely need to camp under the stars again.”

And so they ate a small breakfast and went on down the woods, following the same track Thorin Oakenshield and his Company had used many years before. After an hour or so – they could not have ridden more than a few miles – they came out onto a high bank above the Road. The Hoarwell was but a silver ribbon far behind them in its narrow valley, and the Road now run close to the feet of the hills, meandering eastward between woods and heather-covered slopes, towards the Ford and beyond that the Misty Mountains. They found a path that led them safely down the bank to the Road and followed the latter in that direction.

It was an uneventful journey as they rode in a quick trot, wanting to put the fair weather to good use. There was no sign of any other travellers to be seen, but they did not mind the lack of company. Around mid-day, they made a short rest and ate a cold meal, not wanting to waste time with building a fire; they would need it more in the evening, when they had crossed the Ford and found a place to rest, as the nights had begun to turn colder.

“If we keep up this speed, we shall arrive to the Mountain just in time for the celebrations of Durin’s Day,” said Rei. “I always wanted to take part of them. ‘Tis said that the festivities in the Blue Mountain cannot come close to the ones in King Durin’s city.”

“I would not know,” replied Náli with a shrug. “In Rhûn we never got to celebrate Durin’s Day properly.”

“Then you will enjoy it even more,” promised Rei; then she broke off suddenly and stooped to the ground, with a hand to her ear, listening intently.

“Hush!” she hissed. “Someone is coming. I can hear the distant sound of hooves; at least one horse trotting quickly toward us… possibly more.”

Instinct made Náli scramble off the beaten way as quickly as he could and up into the deep heather and bilberry brushwood on the slopes above, ‘til he reached a small patch of thick-growing hazels. As he peered out from among the bushes, he could see the Road lying below; and now he, too, could hear the sound of hooves. It was light and clear, drawing closer quickly – whoever was behind them, they did not try to camouflage their approach.

To Náli’s surprise, Rei made no attempts to hide, even though she rose from where she had been sitting and readied her crossbow, just in case. Apparently, she had no reason for fear from pursuit; of course, she had never been a thief, either. She could rightly expect people to be friendly to her; more so as she was the foster daughter of a Ranger and most likely known to and respected by his people.

And who else but Rangers would still be travelling in small numbers on this part of the Road?

The clicking of hooves was clearer and nearer now, and suddenly the horses themselves came into view, right below Náli’s makeshift watchpost. Two horses, both greys, but very different from Hallavor’s big, raw-boned, ill-humoured beast. These were the most graceful horses Náli had ever seen in his young life: with arched necks like those of swans, tails and manes much lighter in colour than their silvery coat, almost white; with long, sensitive faces and light yet strong limbs.

The riders upon their backs were no Rangers, either, although clad in greens and shadowy greys in the fashion of those who spend a lot of time in the woods. As they halted their steeds and dismounted to greet Rei, whom they obviously knew, Náli could see that they were very tall, taller than Hallavor even, and more gracefully built. Their glossy black hair was braided away from their pale, elegant faces – that looked so similar that it would been hard to tell which was which – in an artful fashion, with complicated knots and pleats, and lay in a braid as thick as a Man’s arm upon their backs.

The fairness of said faces, as well as the light in those wide, sea-grey eyes and the leaf-shaped ears that ran into fine points peeking out from under their hair clearly marked them as Elves. They were armed with long swords and also carried great bows across their backs. Náli, though not an archer himself, could see that those were not hunting bows. Whoever these Elves might be, they were clearly warriors.

“Náli!” called out Rei, finally remembering her life-mate. “Come out of the bushes! There’s nothing to fear.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Náli climbed down to the Road again and gave the newcomers mistrustful looks. He had never seen Elves before and was now wondering if all of them looked alike or if these two were related somehow. Whichever was the truth, there was no way to keep them apart, he realised in dismay.

“He is a bit wary with strangers,” explained Rei, becoming him. “Come, my own, and greet my old friends. These are the sons of Lord Elrond of Rivendell, the Master of the Last Homely House: Elladan and Elrohir.”

Náli looked from one Elf to another with a frown. “Which is which?” he asked.

Rei grinned. “’Tis a little hard to tell when they are together. But if you happen to see one of them drink with mortal Men heavily, you can be certain that you are seeing Elladan. While if you see one chasing pretty ellith, that would be Elrohir. Well… most of the time.”

“Have you heard that, Brother?” one of the Elves asked his mirror image in mock exasperation. Ah, they were brothers, then. Twin brothers, most likely.

“Slander, pure slander, nought else,” countered the other one. “But what can you expect from one of the Naugrim, even if she was raised by the Dúnedain?”

Náli might not have met Elves before, but he knew all too well that Naugrim was a disrespectful term for Dwarves in their language, meaning the stunted ones. His fear and amazement rapidly evaporated, giving room to anger, and he unconsciously sought out the hilt of his Haradric scimitar.

“Do not bait him, my friends,” she said. “He knows you not and might take your jest as a true insult. I wish no bloodshed before the evening meal – it ruins my appetite.”

The Elves grinned; ‘twas strange to see mischief upon those fine, almost luminous faces, but it was there nonetheless.

“Our apologies, Master Dwarf,” said one; Náli had already given up hope to guess which one. “We were only jesting indeed. Lady Rei is an old friend of us, who has visited our father’s house with Lord Hallavor several times. Are you heading for Rivendell?” he then asked, turning to Rei.

She shook her head. “Nay; he might be the one for me, but he is still a thief. I do nit wish to make your father – or anyone in his household – feel uncomfortable around him, even though I am certain that he would behave. Besides, a detour would mean that we would not reach Erebor in time for Durin’s Day.”

“Is he?” the Elf asked, suddenly very serious. “The one for you, I mean?”

Rei nodded slowly. “Yea, he is. We have bonded on the way and my father gave his blessings. It is done now.”

The Elf seemed to understand the significance of that statement because he did not ask any more questions. It was Rei’s turn to make inquiries now, and the two Elves told her readily enough that they were returning to Rivendell from patrol and were heading towards the Ford of the Loudwater (or Bruinen, as they called it in their own tongue). Which was a lucky coincidence, in Náli’s opinion, as they would know the Ford as the back of their slender hands. Náli, deeply mistrusting any treacherous waters coming from the mountains, found that thought reassuring.

They continued the ride together and rode quite swiftly after the midday break; so swiftly indeed that they covered almost twenty miles before nightbreak. Less than an hour was left to sunset when they came to a point where the Road bent right and ran towards the bottom of the valley they had just recently entered, now aiming directly at the Loudwater.

“We have two choices now,” said one of the Elves. “We can make camp now and continue our journey at daybreak; or we can use the light we still have and press on, making straight for the Bruinen and rest on the other side.”

Dwarves had night-eyes, in fact, they could see better in the dark than most Elves, save from the Avari of Mirkwood, but fords were treacherous. Trying to cross them with little to no light would have been foolish.

“Don’t bait the Dwarf, Elrohir,” warned him his brother, apparently Elladan; then he turned to Náli. “Worry not, Master Dwarf. If we press on just a little faster, we may cross the river while there is still light. And as it is under the power of my father, as well as the lands on the other side between the Ford and our valley, we shan’t be in any danger there.”

“Then let us press on,” said Rei. “I would like to spend the night on the other side.”

That decided it, and they rode on, following the Road steadily downhill. For a while only grassy patches were to be seen on both sides, but later the Road went under the shadow of tall pine-trees, and then plunged into a deep cutting with steep, moist walls of red stone left and right – not unlike a tunnel in a Dwarf settlement, Náli noticed absent-mindedly. Being surrounded by stone, strangely enough, was not reassuring, though, for the tunnel, albeit open-roofed, was narrow and seemed to close on him with every new step, and he did not know where it would lead. It felt like a trap, and Náli caught himself considering whether he would be able to climb the stone walls with the help of his pick-axe and a length of rope, should he need to run away.

Rei must have noticed his discomfort, for she looked at him encouragingly. “We are almost there – have you not come this way with the FireBeards?”

“Nay; we mad a shortcut through the hills,” answered Náli. “They did not want to risk their carts getting stuck in this tunnel; now I know why.”

“Nonsense,” said one of the Elves. “In the times the North-kingdom was still strong, Men travelled the Road all the times, with and without carts. They built it to accommodate merchant caravans as well as mounted troops.”

“I saw them,” replied the Elf with an elegant shrug. “I even rode with them, uncounted times.”

“Yea, sure,” said Náli sarcastically. “The North-kingdom fell thousands of years ago, and you are supposed to remember it?”

“Why not?” asked the elf. “I am over three thousand years old. My memory is long.”

Náli was thunderstruck. He knew, of course, that Elves – unless slain in battle or died in accidents – lived on ‘til the end of Arda… in theory. Hearing this particular Elf talking about millennia-old events while looking no older than a beardless youth among Men was an entirely different matter. For his age, Náli was already a Dwarf of many journeys, but he realized now that he still had a lot to learn about other people.

To his greet relief, the Road now run out again from the end of the tunnel into the open; it was like crossing a gate of light. Before them, at the bottom of a sharp incline, a long flat mile stretched towards the Ford of the Loudwater. On the other side of the river a steep brown bank rose, threaded by a winding path; and behind that, the tall peaks of the Misty Mountains rose like a ragged wall, peak beyond peak, towards the sky that was already fading into sunset.

“There it is,” said one of the Elves. “Your way across the river and our way home. Come! Let us make good use of the light while it is still there.”

They rode forth, down the slope, and the Dwarves followed, galloping across the flat that was the last leg of the Road, right into the river. Náli panicked for a moment as he saw the water foam just an inch or two below his feet. The Loudwater was shallow enough at the Ford for even a pony to pass it safely, but it was also wild and vigorous – and he could not swim.

“Worry not,” called back one of the Elves, already nearing the other bank. “Trust your pony to find the right way – he will, if you do not frighten him.”

Quite frankly, Náli was too scared to do anything else. Only weeks before, when they crossed the Loudwater further in the North with the FireBeard caravan, it had been just a mountain stream – here it was a respectable river, with a lot of power. Enough to wash away any careless Dwarf and drown them.

Fortunately for him, Toby was a calm and sure-footed beast. He could feel the quick heave and surge as the pony left the river and struggled up the stony path, climbing the steep bank in the wake of the Elven horses and Rei’s Baraz, He held onto the reins as if they were his lifeline, and it took him a while to realize that he was safely across the Ford.

The young Dwarves expected the Elves to ride on for home, as it was apparently close, but they did not. Instead, they camped with the Dwarves under the stars, clearly used to and prepared for such night camps; for not only did they have supplies and a tinderbox, they also had bedrolls fastened to their saddles. Which surprised Náli once again, as he had always thought that Elves would not use saddles.

“You’re mistaking us for our rustic cousins, the woodland Elves,” they laughed when he voiced his surprise. “They like to show off their horsemanship by reading their steeds bareback. We, on the other hand, prefer to let the horses carry our saddlebags, instead of carrying them on our backs; it is more comfortable that way.”

That was certainly true, although Náli had the sneaking suspicion that these elves liked to show off their finely made horse gear in turn… and with right. It was some of the finest leatherwork he had ever seen, and considering how proud the Easterling chieftains were of the barbaric pomp of their horse gear, that was saying a lot.

And so they spent the night together on a small clearing near the Ford, by a nice campfire, eating Elven food and drinking pale yellow Elven wine, and even though Náli preferred ale, he had to admit that it was very good. So good that he got a little tipsy from it and forgot all his worries for a while, resting his head on Rei’s lap and listening to the wondrous harmonies of Elven song.

The two Elves sang half the night; first in their own tongue, of which Rei understood but a little and Náli nothing at all. Later, though, they turned to the Common Speech, launching into an old ballad – probably old enough to come from the Elder Days.

Náli fell asleep in the arms of his chosen one, the wondrous images of the ballad following him into his dreams. That night, he dreamt of ancient realms and great treasures and fair maidens… yet none of those seemed half as fair to him as his beautiful Rei, be they daughters of Elves or Men.

When he woke up in the next morning, the Elves were gone and breakfast was ready. They had a quick wash in the river, ate, and then off they were on the road again, which led directly to the High Pass now, running along the Loudwater, supposedly as far as its sources. Beyond the Ford, it narrowed to a beaten path, climbing up slowly but steadily into the Mountains, to continue as the Old Forest Road – also known the Dwarves’ Road once and still called thusly by Mahal’s children – on the other side.

There were several paths that led up into the Misty Mountains and two known passes over them. But many paths were cheats and deceptions, leading nowhere or to bad ends, so it was important to find the right one. Rei and Náli, helped by the good advice of the Elves and by their unerring Dwarven sense of direction – after all, Náli had already gone roughly the same way, only backwards – managed to take the right path to the High Pass.

Long days after they had parted ways with the Elven brothers, they were climbing up and up, now leading their good beasts on the reins, for not even sure-footed Dwarf ponies could go up there with riders on their backs. It was a hard path, even for resilient young Dwarves, and Rei wondered how the FireBeard merchants had managed to come down there with their heavily laden carts, but at least not a crooked one – it led straight to the Pass.

It was long, though; almost as long as the distance from the Last Bridge to the Ford, and much more difficult to master. It was getting bitter cold up there, and the wind came shrill among the rocks; for all their endurance, both Dwarves and ponies were shivering; more so after nightfall. Also, boulders came rolling down the mountainside at times and passed among them if they were lucky – or over their heads, which was, frankly, quite alarming. Even Rei began to doubt the wisdom of passing over the Mountains at this time of the year.

“Was it like this when you came this way with the FireBeards?” she asked in a low voice, wrapping herself tightly into a blanket as they were sitting as close to their small fire as they could without getting roasted.

The nights were getting increasingly chilly and comfortless, and there were uncanny echoes all around them, so they unconsciously avoided speaking loudly. It was as if the silence would not want to be broken, except for the noise of water dripping from the rock, the wailing of the wind between the trees and the crack of stone.

“’Twas not nearly this cold,” he replied, “but it was uncomfortable enough nonetheless. One day we met a thunderstorm the likes of which I couldn’t even imagine before. No, in truth it wasn’t one thunderstorm but two of them, meeting right above our heads; their warring shook the very rocks under our feet. The lightning splintered on the peaks; great crashes split the air and rolled and tumbled into every cave and hollow. The darkness was filled with fearful noise and sudden light. All our ponies went mad with fear; some of them tore their reins and ran off into the night. We only found one of them afterwards… dead in a ravine, with all its bones broken,” he shivered. “I hope we won’t meet anything light that on our way. I was never so thoroughly drenched in my life.”

Rei, who also hated to be wet, shuddered. “I remember being caught in a storm while learning woodcraft from my father,” she said. “There was wind and rain, and the wind whipped the rain and hail about in every direction. The only shelter we found was an overhanging rock, and that was no protection at all.”

Náli gave her a sympathetic look. “I can imagine what it felt like,” he glanced up at the clear sky. “It seems, though, that we shan’t have to fear weather like that tonight, at the very least.”

“Well,” replied Náli with a wicked grin, “I can think of a way to keep ourselves warm. We can share bedrolls, blankets and body heat to be more comfortable.”

“That,” said Rei, “is the best idea you have had since we left the Ford behind.”

And so they shared bedrolls and blankets and kept each other warm during the night, and there was no rain indeed, although it was very cold. Cold even for Dwarves to suffer from it and to wake up with stiff limbs. But in the morning the sun came out again, and they went on their way with renewed vigour, and by nightfall they unexpectedly reached the highest point of the Pass: a small, flat place of irregular shape, flanked by rock walls on both sides. From there on, the path began to run downwards again.

There were caves in the rock walls, used as watchposts and as shelter by the Beornings who watched the Pass and extracted tolls from the travellers. Only a handful of them were present at any given time, as they were as solitary and territorial a people as were their distant cousins, the bears; but that was enough, as they had much likeness with bears, both in their looks and their strength.

Huge and heavily-built Men they were, with black beads and hair as thick as hedges, and with great, knotted muscles clearly visible through the rough wool and black fur of their clothing. Their calves were wrapped in wolfskin fastened with leather tongs, yet their great arms were bare, in spite of the chill of the evening, by which they seemed not to be disturbed at all.

Although not meeting them for the first time, Náli eyed them with vary interest. There were many different legends ranking around the Beornings, and not even the best scholars of the Elves – or of the Dwarves, for that matter – could tell which ones were true. Some said they were bears, descended from the Great Bears of the Mountains that had lived there before the Trolls came. Others said they were Men, descended from an ancient Mannish race that had lived there before the Dragons would invade the land and the Goblins would come out of the North. In one aspect all legends agreed, though: that they were skin-changers, sometimes appearing as huge black bears and sometimes as great, strong, black-bearded Men with huge arms and bushy beards.

They were also very observant people, apparently, for barely had the young Dwarves come out of the woods and into the open place, one of them came forth from the watchtower to greet them… rather politely, if one considered the almost legendary rudeness of his people.

“Greetings,” he said. “I am Bjarki, in charge of the Pass now. Who are you and what do you want?”

“I am Rei Hreinnsdóttir, and this is my mate, Náli,” Rei looked up at the huge Man, twice her size and likely three times her weight, without any sign of fear. “We are on our way to King Dáin Ironfoot’s realm.”

The bearded man nodded. As Dwarves were a distinctive race that could not be mistaken for – or impersonated by – Orcs or Goblins and were generally considered trustworthy, he saw no reason to ask any further questions. Dwarven outlaws were rare, and the Dwarves dealt with them themselves, not requiring – or indeed tolerating – help from outsiders.

“You are free to use the Pass, of course,” he said agreeably, “for the usual price.”

Rei’s eyebrow climbed even higher. “You demand a high price, good sir,” she said.

The Man shrugged. “Mayhap we do; but we also keep the Pass open and safe for all travellers.”

“To let them starve once they have reached the first settlement on the other side of the Mountains, for the lack of any coin left?” asked Rei.

“You can have a place to rest for the night and a warm meal before you pass,” he said. “It would only cost you another silver penny, each.”

The two Dwarves exchanged looks of agreement. One silver penny for shelter and meal, albeit not exactly cheap, was a reasonable price, though they still found the toll outrageously high. But they had no choice – either they paid what was demanded, or they would have to return to the Ford, turn to the South and try their luck at the Redhorn Pass. Which not only would bring them widely off-track but they would also arrive late enough to be caught by the first snowfall on Barazinbar; and that was the last thing they wanted.

“Very well,” said Rei unhappily, as she hated the thought to part from most of the silver coin she had found in the Troll-hole but saw no other way to get over the Mountains. “We shall take the meal and spend the night before we pass. If we have to pay your horrendous toll, at least we shall leave well-rested and with our bellies full in the morning.”

The man took no offence – coming from a rather blunt people, he found blunt speech apparently in order, even if aimed at himself. He led them into one of the caves, where they could spread their bedrolls on the low benches running along the cave walls for the night. This was going to be the most comfortable bedding they had had since leaving the Forsaken Inn, Náli realized.

The cave had a doorway directly into a much larger one, in which a great hearth, warming all adjacent chambers, stood. Three other people – two men and an as-yet beardless youth – were sitting there, around a long table, in the middle of which an earthenware pot of the size of a cauldron stood, smelling deliciously of herb and onion, eating their supper. There was also a plate, as big as a mill-stone, with a generous heap of the famous honey-cake of the Beornings piled upon it.

“Hey, Elgfrothi,” the Man who had introduced himself as Bjarki called out. “We have customers. Make room for them!”

The youth, whose name was apparently Elgfrothi, stood and took his bowl with him, joining the other two on the opposite side of the table. Bjarki gestured the Dwarves to sit on the now empty bench and brought three more bowls, two fort he customers and one for himself, from a long sideboard next to the heart. He added spoons, carved from bone, with handles of antler, and began to ladle generous amounts of the excellent stew into their bowls.

“Eat and grow strong again,” he said, grinning broadly. “It might not be as good as the stew my wife Drift makes, but Bihar here,” he nodded towards the oldest Man whose beard was beginning to turn grey, “is a decent enough cook. Our prices may not be low, but what we offer is worth buying.”

Náli, digging into the delicious stew with relish and surprised by the throwaway remark that the Beornings clearly did have women, after all, had to admit that it was very true. He had not had such a good meal since Hallavor and Rei had invited him to their table in the Prancing Pony on his first evening in Bree.

They spent the night in the delightfully warm cave, with bellies full and content with their fate. In the morning, they politely refused the offer of breakfast (for two silver pennies each), preferring to use some of their own supplies. Then they paid for shelter, supper and the use of the Pass, took their leave from the Beornings and set off to begin their long descent on the eastern slopes of the Mountains.

Said descent was slow, as the path leading from the High Pass down the eastern slopes of the mountain range was an uneven one, meandering among the outthrusts of rock and densely wooded patches like a ribbon; and they had to be mindful of their ponies, so that those would not break a leg. But in the end, they left the rough feet of the Mountains again, and the path they were following widened enough to allow two carts or four horsemen to ride abreast, and was now running through a wood of oaks and elms.

Once again, thy camped on a small clearing under the stars, relieved by the fact that the night was less chilling now that they had come down from the Mountains, even though they were getting closer to the last crescent moon of the autumn with each passing day. If they wanted to reach Erebor for Durin’s Day, they had to press on relentlessly from now on.

Fortunately, later on that day they finally came out of the woods into wide green lands, with a great river gleaming right before their eyes on the East, in the middle of the grassy valley.

“Finally!” said Rei, and her eyes were gleaming as she looked at the river, which she saw for the first time in her life. “This is Anduin the Great; the river that has its sources in the far North, in the Grey Mountains, and reaches the Sea a thousand and five hundred miles further south, in the Bay of Belfalas, in the South-kingdom of Men.”

Náli, who had already crossed the greatest river of Middle-earth coming from Rhûn with the FireBeard caravan, nodded absently. He was searching for the familiar formations of the Old Ford but he could find none. Cropping out of the ground, though, right in the path of the stream that looped itself around it, was a huge, steep rock… almost a hill of stone, like a last outpost of the Mountains themselves. Or perchance a large boulder, cast miles into the plain by some enraged giants of the Elder Days.

“I fear we have come off our intended path,” he said to Rei. “We must have chosen the false path when we left the Pass. This is definitely not the Old Ford before us.”

“Likely not,” Rei agreed, giving their surroundings a critical look. “I’d say this is the Carrock: the look-out place of Beorn the chieftain of all Beornings. Do you see the well-worn path with its many steps as it leads down from that flat place on the top to the riverside and the ford of huge boulders? That must be the Ford of Carrock, I suppose, which leads to the grass lands beyond the Great River.”

“We are fortunate, then,” said Náli. “We can cross the river here just as easily, and then ride a few miles southwards on the other side to reach the Road again.”

But Rei shook her head. “I would rather not. The Beornings control the Ford of Carrock; it would cost us the rest of our silver coin to buy passage across it, and I for my part would prefer to keep my silver if we can cross the river for free further south.”

“You cannot see the small cave facing the boulder ford from here,” answered Rei, “but the tales about the Quest of Erebor tell us that it is there. And so is at least one of the Beorning, watching the Ford all the time; of that I am certain.”

And indeed, as Náli stared at the stone hill, he thought he caught a glimpse from a huge black shape, presumably a bear, appearing for a moment between it and the river, and then vanishing in the shadow of the rock again.

“You are right,” he sighed dejectedly; he would have preferred having dealt with crossing the river sooner rather than later, but clearly, they did not have that choice. Not without paying another outrageously high toll. “Let us fallow the River southwards. The Old Ford cannot be very far; and the Road goes on right on its other side anyway.”

And so they turned southwards and galloped along the river with the best speed their sturdy steeds were capable of. Which, considering the hardiness of Dwarf ponies – as opposed to regular ones – was quite impressive. They reached the Old Ford, which lay some twenty miles below the Carrock, in half a day.

There the Great River was fairly wide already, but at the Old Ford it became surprisingly shallow – as compared with the places above and below – so that even the ponies could cross it with relative ease, as long as they were mindful of the stony river bed. So they crossed it, and if a cold wave sometimes licked their boots, it was rare and fleeting, and it did not bother them overmuch.

When the ponies heaved themselves onto the grassy bank on the other side, the two young Dwarves decided to take a bath in the shallows. Refreshed and hungry, yet determined to find a suitable place for the night, they went on and rode through the thick green grass, ‘til they reached the seam of the woods: a long line of wide oaks and tall elms. There Rei looked around uncertainly.

“We should leave the Road for the night,” she said. “Do you know a good place where we could camp for the night?”

Náli shook his head. “With the FireBeards, we simply slept on the roadside, in the protection of the carts. But right over there, there is a narrow path leading to the North; mayhap we should follow it for a while.”

“Would that be safe?” asked Rei with a frown. “Who lives in these parts?”

“Very few people, as far as I know,” replied Náli. “Beornings and scattered clans of the Northmen – perchance even small bands of Wood-Elves, despite the danger coming from Dol Guldur. Neither of them would be a threat for us.”

“All right,” said Rei after some consideration. “Let’s se where the path take us.”

They turned the heads of their ponies northwards and rode through the entrance of the track; Rei first – she insisted, being a Ranger and better at woodcraft of the two of them – and Náli following close up. The entrance reminded them of some kind of arch, formed by two great trees that leant together, leading to a gloomy tunnel; trees that seemed too ancient and too hung on with ivy and shaggy with lichen to bear many laves on their own.

The path itself was narrow, winding on among the great trunks of trees, about as wide and clear as a rabbit-track. Soon the light at the entrance was like a fading little hole behind, and the silence was so deep that the hooves of the ponies seemed to thump aloud louder than the hammers in the great smithies under the Blue Mountains, while all the trees appeared to listen warily. It was an eerie journey.

Fortunately, the night-eyes of Dwarves got used to the dimness easily, so that they could see for a little distance to each side in some kind of darkened green light. For a race that had taken shape deep under the earth and usually spent its whole life there, it was inevitable to have better night vision than most other people.

They could hear the small animals of the forest above their heads. As their eyes got used to the lack of light, they could see a few black squirrels, whisking off the path and scuttering behind the tree trunks. There were other quiet noises: grunts, scuffles and hurrying in the undergrowth and among the leaves piled thickly on the forest floor. But what made the noises they could not see.

Rei suddenly held on her pony and gestured to Náli to do the same. There was something before them on the path, something much larger than the squirrels, hobbling away from them slowly and with obvious effort.

“That,” she warned Náli, signing with her hands in iglishmek, “is not a Beorning or one of the Woodmen!”

“I can see that,” replied Náli, also in the Dwarven sign language. “But what else can it be? ‘Tis small like a Goblin but moves as quiet as one of us.”

“Neither have I,” answered Náli. “Must be a Goblin then. Mayhap they did not all perish in the Battle of the Five Armies… and it hobbles, too. Mayhap it suffers from an old injury.”

“Only one way to find out,” Rei switched to spoken language and called out to the dark little figure before them. “Hullo! Who goes there?”

The unknown creature whirled around with surprising speed. Its eyes were gleaming in the fading night like the night-eyes of Dwarves usually do in the dark. And indeed, they could see that it was a Dwarf; and a female one at that. An ancient, wizened Dwarf-dam, clad in coarse dark wool, with a round face so wrinkled that it reminded of a dried apple, a great tangle of thick grey hair – once perhaps tied back in a few simple braids but now mostly undone and filthy – and beetle-black eyes that seemed… well, almost dead and yet appeared to look straight through them.

“I am Tengol,” she said in a high, scratchy voice. “I live here – but who are you?”

“Tengol?” echoed Rei doubtfully. “A strange name it is; and not one used among our kind.”

“’Tis not a name,” corrected Náli. “’Tis an old, old word in the tongue of the Woodmen and means a seer or soothsayer. She must be a wise-woman they go to for advice.”

“Men, coming to a Dwarf-dam for advice?” Rei had a hard time to believe that.

Náli shrugged. “Why not? Our dams live long and see much. Why should they not be respected by other races as well?” he slid from his pony and bowed deeply. “Forgive us, Grandmother, for disturbing you. We are but two weary travellers, looking for a place to sleep.”

The old crone – she was tiny, even for a Dwarf – tilted her head to the side, bird-like, and gave them a piercing look.

“My place is my own,” she cawed, “and I value my peace and quiet. But if you are in need of a bed, I shall take you to Brownhay to see the wizard. He does not mind if noisy young folk appear on his doorstep without an invitation. Come and follow me!”

She turned around again and hobbled away, without bothering to look back and see whether they were truly following her or not. Rei and Náli exchanged doubtful looks; then they shrugged and did as she had told them to do.

The old crone led them swiftly into the deepening darkness; more swiftly than one would have expected, seeing her apparent age and her laboured gait. Even with their night-eyes, they could barely see the trees on both sides of the path, but they dared not to light a torch for fear that its light would lock on more evil creatures than just the black squirrels they had seen earlier. They more felt than actually saw the dark, dense cobwebs, with their thick threads hanging from the lower branches, and disturbing tales about the Great Spiders of Mirkwood came to their minds.

“I wonder if this part of the forest is as infested with Spiders as the woods around the Elvenking’s realm used to be,” murmured Rei, her voice low. Yet the old crone must have heard it, for she glanced back over one hunched shoulder shrewdly.

“What do you think, young one?” she cackled. “The Spiders came from the South; from the dark tower of sorcery upon the Naked Hill. Should there, so much closer to their birthplace, be none of them?”

“But if they are any, is it not dangerous tot ravel on these paths at nighttime?” asked Rei.

“For most people, it is,” replied the old crone. “But this part of the forest is under the protection of the wizard, and thus the path leading to Brownhay is safe. For it has been his home of old since the beginning of this Age, and no-one has ever dared to disturb it. Hurry up! Night will be falling, soon, and you would want to reach his hall before supper, wouldn’t you?”

More she was not willing to tell, and thus they hurried on, she hobbling in front of them and the two younger Dwarves leading their ponies on the reins. They went perhaps two or three miles that way; it was hard to tell. It had become pitch black in the meantime; so dark that not even the night-eyes of Dwarves could see anything, but their guide followed the path unerringly, more by ear and instinct, most likely, like somebody who had walked this track countless times.

Finally, when hey had half-convinced themselves that she was leading them into some kind of trap, there was a twinkle of light before them; still a long way off, but comforting by its very presence. The old crone held on for a moment and laughed, a high cackle that seemed to awaken strange echoes among the dark, ancient trees.

“There it is,” she said. “That is Brownhay, where the wizard’s hall stands. Have faith, me ducklings; we are almost there.

Despite her promise, they had to make another mile or two, but the twinkle before them grew gradually, ‘til it became a warm, welcoming spot of light, and they could see their surroundings a little better now.

They were surrounded by broad-headed, wide-branched ancient oaks, remnants of the once mighty forests most of which had been burnt to the ground during the War of the Elves and Sauron in the Second Age. The old trees flung their gnarled arms high over their heads, forming an arched ceiling of some sort that they could more guess than see. In some places they were intermingled with beeches, hollies and copsewood of various sorts, so closely that they completely intercepted the level beams of the waning Moon.

With renewed hope in their hearts they set off again; up slope and down slope they went, and at the end of their path they come to a belt of tall and even more ancient oaks and beyond them a high thorn hedge, through which they could not see. They went along the hedge and soon came to a high and broad wooden gate; twice as high as Náli was tall.

The old crone pushed open the heavy, creaking gate, seemingly without effort, and they entered the wizard’s home. A wide track led from the gate to a courtyard, three walls of which were formed by a wide, wooden hall and its two long wings. Further away they could see the vague outline of some other low wooden buildings, made of unshaped logs and thatched – most likely barns, stables or sheds.

There was a huge, ancient oak in the middle of the courtyard, its wide branches canopying half the place; and under the tree an old Man stood, clad in a heavy robe of rough, earth-brown wool, the true colour of which could barely been guessed by the firelight that came through the open door of the hall. He had no covering upon his head, which was only defended by his long, thick hair, matted and twisted together, and scorched by the long exposure to Sun and wind into a rusty dark-red colour, liberally streaked, just like his long beard, with iron-grey strains. His deep-set eyes were dark and wise under his bushy brows.

He clearly recognized the old crone, if only by her shape and her hobbling, for he smiled at them in a welcoming manner.

“Mother Aase,” he said by way of greeting; his voice was deep and serene. “It has been too long; I was beginning to worry about you. And now not only do you show up again, you even bring guests with you? Who are these two? Family perchance?”

“You know me, Medwed,” she replied. “I am a lone wolf among my kind and have not had any family left for a very long time. Nay, these are just two young vagabonds I picked up in the woods near the Ford. They were looking for a place to sleep, and I could not let them camp outside where the Spiders area broad. I knew you would not mind if I brought them here.”

The Man laughed; ‘twas a surprisingly light and carefree laughter, coming from the mouth of such a bearded old man, and it sounded as if all happiness of the world would have been mirrored in it.

“You are right,” he said. “I do not. I like visitors; the more so young ones.” He turned to the two young Dwarves, and, to their surprise, bowed in impeccable Dwarven fashion, so that his beard swept the grass. “Radagast the Brown, at your and your families’ service,” he said politely.

“Rei Hreinnsdóttir, at yours,” answered Rei, while Náli followed suit. Then something occurred to her, and she frowned. “Wait a moment! The old one called you by a different name, did she not?”

The Brown Wizard nodded. “She did, and rightly so. You see, among many different people, I was given many names. Radagast is the one I use most in these days; but the Northmen call me Medwed, and the Dwarves picked up that name from them. For the Elves, I am Aiwendil, the Bird-friend; and the Horse-lords of the Riddermark call me Éothain, for they found that I can talk to their horses as no other stranger ever could.”

“None of them… all of them,” replied the wizard, and they all could hear the smile in his voice. “All these names mean me, but none of them can fully describe all that is me. As for the name I once used to wear, long ago, in my forgotten youth in the Far West that is now gone, it would say you nothing. In truth,” he added thoughtfully, “I can no longer be certain that it still says aught to me. I have changed too much since I left my home of old.”

For a moment, a strange melancholy descended upon them all like a heavy rain-cloud. But then the wizard clapped his large hands, as if wanting to show it away, and spoke again brightly.

“But I am forgetting my manners as well as my duties as your host! Come on in, my good Dwarves, come into my Hall. Let the fire warm your limbs and the supper warm your bellies!”

“No harm can come near them within my hedge, and they will find plenty of grass in the courtyard. Bring your saddlebags and leave them to look after themselves.”

The young Dwarves were all too happy to follow him in; spending the night in the warm, well-protected Hall of a friendly wizard was more than they could have hoped for when they had left the Road. Náli noticed that the old crone, whom the wizard had called Mother Aase, was following them, but that did not bother him overmuch. She was clearly a friend of the wizard – or, at the very least, somebody Radagast trusted enough to give shelter to any strangers she would bring into his home – therefore she must have been trustworthy.

Stepping through the big front door, they found themselves in a wide hall, built of heavy wooden beams, blackened by age and by the smoke of the fireplace that stood in the middle of it. For there was a wood fire burning, keeping the hall pleasantly warm against the chill of the night that had fallen in the meantime. The smoke was going up to the blackened rafters in search of a way out through a great opening in the roof.

The hall appeared to be longer than it was wide; perhaps about twenty feet by twenty-five, its high roof was held by slender wooden pillars resembling of live trees. A second look revealed that they were, in fact, actual tree-trunks, places cunningly so that their thick branches would support the ceiling. Running along both side walls were raised wooden platforms; wide enough for a Dwarf – or even for a grown Man – to make his bed on them.

Radagast encouraged them to store their saddlebags there and lay out their bedrolls for the night ere they would sit down to have supper.

“As there are only four of us, there is no need to set up the trestle table,” he said. “We can just sit at the fire and eat comfortably.”

That was fine with Rei and Náli, and soon they were sitting with their host and the old crone in the middle of the Hall, near the fireplace. That, too, was fairly huge, about six feet by eight, and a large iron pot or cauldron hung over it from an iron chain. Mouth-watering smells came from the direction of the cauldron, although they could not tell by the smell alone what the wizard might be cooking in it.

“Nothing fancy,” said Radagast, as if he had read their thoughts; and perhaps he had, who could tell what a wizard was capable of doing? “Just some pottage, to put the haunch of lamb one of the Woodmen brought me as a present to good use. A pottage of lamb, turnips, onions and herbs; I hope you will like it.”

No worry on his part was necessary, for hungry Dwarves – especially young ones – liked almost everything that was edible, and even more so if it had good meat in it. So Rei and Náli thanked the wizard and assured him that lamb pottage would be more than fine indeed, and Radagast seemed relieved. He gave everyone a sizeable earthenware bowl and a wooden spoon and lowered the cauldron on its chain ‘til it sat firmly on the stone frame of the fireplace. Then he thrust a wooden ladle into the pottage and looked at the old crone with a grin.

Which showed that he was well aware of the Dwarven custom of the eldest female present dishing out the food for everyone else. Old Aase grinned back at him wickedly.

“I see I have finally taught you some manners, lad,” she cawed in amusement. “It took me the better half of the last hundred years, mind you, but now I see that you were worth my pains.”

She hobbled closer to the fireplace, clambered onto the frame with surprising limberness, and began to ladle some soup into the wizard’s bowl; all that while keeping her precarious balance so close to the fire.

“Well, what are you waiting for, ducklings?” she then demanded from Rei and Náli. “Are you hungry or not?” Come then, for I shan’t be standing up here all night ‘til I become smoked bacon. Ever since I broke both my ankles some thirty years ago, I am not as nimble as I used to be.”

The young Dwarves hurried to obey; making such an ancient Dwarf-dam wait would have been a serious breach of etiquette. They received their portion from the delicious soup and sat down to eat, while Mother Aase did the same on the other side of the fireplace, as if she wanted to protect her privacy, even for her own kind and from an old friend.

Now, in the light of the fire, they could finally see how strange she truly was. Very small, even for a Dwarf indeed; even for one from the lesser Clans. She was a head shorter than Rei, who did not count as tall herself, but broadly built, like all Dwarves, and probably much stronger than she looked. Her tangled hair, as it hung over her shoulders, filthy and unkempt, made her look more like a wild beast than a Dwarf.

No self-respecting Dwarf-dam would have worn clothes like hers, either. For she was clad in the fashion of the Beornings, in coarse, homespun wool and black fur. The tunic she wore barely covered her knobbly knees; her short, thick legs were wrapped in wolfskin, and she wore heavy boots that only reached to her ankles.

Her head seemed too large for her short body, making Náli wonder if she was truly a Dwarf, after all, or just some Mannish woman, born into a stunted body. He had seen such unfortunate wenches in Rhûn; they were kept as pets in the halls of the Khimmer tribal chiefs, to entertain them and their guests.

Yet between filthy hair and coarse clothing Náli spotted the glint of gold; the old crone wore thick golden earrings, studded with rubies; and heavy bracelets on her swollen wrists, of the same fine Dwarven craftsmanship. Both earrings and bracelets seemed old, very old; blackened with time, crafted in a fashion that had gone out of use for many hundreds of years. Náli could not even guess where she could have had them from.

She also had strange blue and green runes and patterns tattooed on her hands and even her face, although those were not easy to figure out due to her wrinkles that were many, mostly around her mouth and in the corners of her spooky, beetle-black eyes. Náli recognized some of the tattoos; her mother and grand-dam had been both wise-women and bore similar marks on their faces. Tattoos were quite common with Dwarves, after all, especially among the BlackLocks and the IronFists. With the old crone, though, it seemed as if the marks would continue down her entire body, even if one could not see them, of course, with her rough garb in the way.

So she probably was a Dwarf, even if a very odd one. Mannish women were unlikely to bear such marks.

“Master Wizard,” murmured Náli, “who is Mother Aase? For she seems strangely familiar yet utterly foreign to me; on all my journeys, I have never seen a Dwarf-dam more ancient… or more strange. She is a Dwarf, is she not?”

“I do not know myself, even though I have known her for more than a hundred years,” answered the wizard in an equally low voice. “She never speaks of herself, and not even I know where her home is or how long she has dwelt in this dark forest.”

“Longer than you may deem, Master Wizard,” the old crone had clearly overheard them, despite the lowering of their voices; she must have had the keen ears of a wild beast. “I have come here after the Elvenking had moved his realm further north again and this part of the forest became deserted. I wished not to live close to Elves; and even less did I want to have anything to do with Men,”

There was a red glint in her eyes, like in that of a dragon, according to old tales. A glint that spoke of ancient hatred – a deeply personal one.

Náli briefly wondered just how ancient her hatred for Men could be. The Elvenking had moved his realm northwards for the last time after the fall of Khazad-dûm, ‘twas said, and that had been more than a thousand years ago. Not even dwarves could live that long… or could they?”

“Which Clan are you from, Mother Aase?” he asked. “Why do you live here all on your lonesome, without your people?”

“I have no people; not anymore,” she replied darkly. “And even when there were more of our kind, we were clanless and masterless and had learned the hard way to take care of ourselves.”

“How is that possible?” asked Rei with a frown. “We all belong to the one or the other Clan, even those of mixed origins, like Náli and me.”

“We have no Clan,” replied the old crone. “Our… cousins banished us from the great Dwarf cities of the East in ancient days. Long before the return of the Dark one to Middle-earth our longfathers had wandered westward. There, in the lands that the Elves called Beleriand, they found a new home and began to make dwellings in the heart of the mountains – until the Elves came over the Sea and drove them out of their homes.”

“Is that why you hate the Elves?” asked Náli, who had no particular misgivings about that, although he supposed that Rei would see it differently.

“Why should I feel aught but hatred towards them?” Mother Aase asked back. “First the Grey-Elves hunted us like beasts, not even realizing what we were: a race older than even theirs, though Mahal had been forced to put us to sleep, so that they could become the Firstborn. Then their war-like cousins crossed the Sea and took our homes; our last refuges from a world that never wanted us to be here in the first place. It was the Elves that made us a hunted race.”

“Surely they were not all that bad!” protested Rei who, due to her growing up in a family of Northern Dúnedain, was more friendly towards Elves than the average Dwarf.

“The only Elf I know of who had ever been kind to our people was Felakkundu,” said Mother Aase dryly. “He befriended Gwystyl – long after he had made Nulukkizdîn his fortress, mind you. Gwystyl forgave him for that, as the loss of our great dwelling place at the River Nogrod had happened long before Felakkundu’s arrival. But that is the only friendship between an Elf and one of us ever made.”

“Gwystyl?” Rei furrowed her smooth brow, trying to remember. “I have heard the tale about Felagund and the Noegyth Nibin long ago, as a child, in my foster father’s house. Was Gwystyl not the Petty-dwarf who gifted upon the King of Nargothrond a pair of wondrous throwing knives, made by his own hand? The knives still being carried by Gildor Inglorion, the heir of Felagund?”

Mother Aase grinned smugly. “As I said: Gwystyl was the only one of us who ever befriended an Elf.”

“But you cannot be a Petty-dwarf!” argued Rei. “They dwindled and died out from Middle-earth back in the First Age. All save Mîm and his two sons. And Mîm was already old by then, even in the reckoning of Dwarves; old and forgotten.”

“Not entirely forgotten, it seems,” said the old crone; the fact seemed to give her some satisfaction. “Nor was he truly the last of his kind… of our kind. There were others; there still are. We just were more careful not to get caught by Men.”

Náli nodded. “I have heard that a few families are still dwelling under the Mountains of Nimwarkinh, in Rhûn, instructing selected sons of the Easterlings in the art of smithcraft, in exchange for food and protection.”

“The fools!” snorted Mother Aase in dismay. “They shall end badly. Men cannot be trusted. They are greedy, treacherous and ignorant. They shall use them and then slay them for no cause, just as the Rakhâs would.”

“That is not true!” protested Rei. “I was raised by Men, as if I were theirs by blood, after my entire family had been slain. My foster parents were – are – good and honourable people, and I shall owe them gratitude for as long as I am alive.”

“Then you were fortunate, which is rare and surprising whenever a Dwarf has something to do with the race of Men,” replied the old crone grimly. “I had two beautiful sons, back in the days of old, and a mate who, while querulous and perhaps a little cowardly, did his best to feed the family and protect his house. Yet what happened to them? One of my sons got slain by an arrow casually, like a beast, just because he tried to flee from a band of outlaws. The captain of the same band forced my mate to open our house for them, by the pain of his life; and the murderer of my son was not even punished. In his grief, my mate foolishly turned to the filthy Rakhâs to get rid of the intruders, and so everything was lost – including his honour.”

Mother Aase shrugged. “My mate escaped after our home had been sacked by the Rakhâs but was later found and slain by the outlaw captain’s father. What has become of my other son I never learned.”

“And where were you when all this was happening?” asked the Brown Wizard, astonished by the tale he was clearly hearing for the first time.”

“Nay, child,” answered the old crone patiently. “I’m not speaking of a mere rest. I’m speaking of the Long Sleep the wise-women of our kind are capable of. We can lie down, surrounded by rock and stone and Sleep of hundreds of years, without getting any older. Earth magic has remained much stronger in us, as we had not had the means of making tools and trinkets at our pleasure to do our work for us. We had to develop other skills; skills no enemy could take from us.”

Radagast nodded. “I have heard of this while visiting the scattered Dwarf settlements in the Grey Mountains,” he said, “but believed it to be a myth.”

“It is a myth now,” Mother Aase agreed. “I have not met another wise-woman of my people since I returned to the East. We have been a dwindling race for two whole Ages, and now there are only a few of us left.”

“You should still not live here, alone in the woods,” said Náli respectfully. “There are enough Dwarf settlements still, even cities, where you would surely be welcome.”

The old crone gave him a withering glare. “I shan’t turn to my fat and lazy cousins for shelter; not even if my life depended on it,” she declared hotly. “Do you want to know why they banished our longfathers from their midst?”

“I was told that it happened for some ill deed your ancestors had done,” answered Náli in confusion.

Mother Aase chuckled bitterly. It was a deep, throaty sound, like the growl of an angry she-wolf.

“Their only crime was that they had been born into stunted bodies,” she said. “The others found that their misshapen form was an insult for the perfection of Mahal’s work, and therefore they must have been tainted by darkness. No-one wanted that taint among them, and thus our longfathers had to leave. As they could only ever find mates among their fellow exiles, their distinctive traits have become even stronger and more defined over the generations – and so has our magic.”

“'Tis still not safe for you to live alone in the wilderness," insisted Náli.

Mother Aase gave him a fond look. "Child, this is the safest place in Middle-earth you could imagine. Wood and stone shall not betray you; the beasts of the forests are good company, and if there is dire need, I can always count on a wizard. Is it not so?" she asked, flashing Radagast a mischievous grin.

The Brown Wizard nodded. "Of course, my dear, of course. Now, if everyone has eaten their full, we should retire for the night. Our young adventurers have a long way before them still, and they will have to set off early in the morrow.”

And so Rei and Náli slept in the hall of Radagast in Brownhay that night, safe and sound on their bedrolls, warmed pleasantly by the dying fire in the middle- When they woke up in the next morning, dawn was just breaking, but Mother Aase was already gone.

“That is how she comes and goes as she pleases,” said the wizard. “Honestly, I was surprised that she stayed as long as she did. She rarely spends the night under my roof, albeit I invite her often enough. She is a stubborn one, for certain. Now, go and wash yourselves while I prepare breakfast on the porch.”

The two young Dwarves were in complete agreement with the idea – food was always a good idea in their eyes – and soon they were walking along the hall, after having performed the usual morning cleansing. They came through the smaller door opposite the main entrance, in the back wall of the hall, which ked to a small porch, with wooden pillars made of tree trunks.

It faced south, thus it was still a bit chilly, as the slanted rays of the rising Sun had not fallen into it yet. That was not too bad, tough, as the low wooden benches standing on both sides of the table were covered with fur and so offered a comfortable seat.

There the Brown Wizard had prepared a generous breakfast that would even pacify the bellies of hungry Dwarves – he clearly knew that Mahal’s children needed to eat well. They could endure hunger longer than any other races if they had to, but if they had not, they preferred to have a full belly. So Rei and Náli ate with healthy appetites, and when they had finally had their fill, Radagast offered them supplies for the journey: nuts and dried fruits in canvas bags and a good load of cram, the waybread of the Lake-men. It was somewhat hard to chew and not as tasty as the honey-cakes made by the Beornings, but it took up very little space in a traveller’s bag and lasted indefinitely.

The wizard also provided his guests with good advice concerning the next part of their journey.

“I know you have just recently travelled the same way in the opposite direction,” he said to Náli, “but that was in a company of an entire caravan of merchants, with armed guards for safety. Now there are only the two of you, so be careful. The Old Forest Road, which is, in fact, the continuation of the Great East Road, has been cleaned somewhat in the recent years, and the Great Spiders rarely dare to cross it…”

“No,” the wizard agreed. “For that reason, warriors from the Elvenking’s realm regularly patrol the Road to keep those monsters at bay; and the Wargs and whatever else may find its way from the Necromancer’s Tower to the north of the forest.”

“But the Road itself is not dangerous,” said Náli. “It has become overgrown, that is true, and it has deteriorated into an impassable marsh in the eastern part of Mirkwood, but there are paths to go around that part. And as for the rest, our longfathers have built it well. Even after and Age or possibly more, it still can be easily travelled.”

“That is true,” said Radagast; “and yet you must be watchful, for it runs close to the part of the forest that has been under the Necromancer’s spell for a long time, and the wild things are dark and queer and savage in there. You would do well not to stray far from the Road, not even to find a place for your night camp. There are many caves near the northern side of the Road that can be reached by short, direct paths; you will see the usual signs cut in the bark of the trees standing at the entrance of such paths. Those caves you can use safely, but be careful. They are often used by the Wood-Elves or the Woodmen, who are not a very hospitable lot. Approach them politely yet warily, if you cross paths with them.”

“Are the Elves of the forest still hostile towards our people?” asked Rei in surprise.

“I did not say hostile,” corrected the wizard. “They are not a particularly wicked people – indeed, they are not wicked at all. But most of them descended from the ancient Elves who never went to Elvenhome and the Blessed Realm in the far West. They lingered in the world of twilight before the raising of the Sun and the Moon, and in the great woods that grew here and once covered all of Eriador and Rhovanion. They consider the Wilderland as their home of old and do not like it when strangers are trespassing in the forest. But they will not harm you, unless you give them a reason to do so.”

“Yea, but who can tell what they might see as a reason?” muttered Náli unhappily.

“’Twould be better if you left the talking to me, should we run into any Elves,” said Rei. “I have dealt with Elves often enough; not with the Avari, true, but I do have an inkling of how their minds work.”

“You might have dealings with Lord Elrond’s people from Rivendell,” he said, “mayhap even with the Wandering Company of Gildor Inglorion, but that would be of little help with the Wood-Elves. They are a different lot: suspicious towards strangers and deeply mistrustful of Dwarves, for the grim tale of Elu Thingol and his death by the hands of the Dwarves of Nogrod is still very much alive among them.”

Rei rolled her eyes. “That was two Ages ago! They cannot possibly still hold a grudge because of it – or blame us all for the greed of some long-dead FireBeard smiths!”

“They can and they do,” replied the wizard seriously. “Elves have long memories; and you must not forget that some of them were present during those events. The Elvenking himself is one of those; he was but an elfling back then, the great-nephew of Thingol, and his memories are particularly vivid due to the stark terror of a young child.”

“Nay, he is not,” agreed Radagast, “and he has learned to live with his memories. He even had fairly good contacts to King Dáin, not to mention the StoneFoot Dwarves of the Grey Mountains who helped to build his halls, after all. But you must not forget that what is but a half-forgotten tale from the Elder Days for you is something very personal for him and for many of his people. They have lived through it, they have lost loved ones, and while their grief has faded in all those years gone by, it is still not entirely forgotten.”

“So what?” bristled Rei. “Am I supposed to grovel at their feet for something that is not our fault?”

“No,” answered the wizard. “But you should be careful when you run into one of their patrols. Even if you have done nothing wrong, it pays off to be respectful.”

The young Dwarves promised to head the wizard’s advice, and then they took their leave from the Brownhay, reading out a little gate from its high hedges on the east side. It was a cool yet glorious morning, the Sun bright but not yet warm, and the small clearing before the wizard’s home bathed in pale gold. ‘Twas hard to think of possible dangers on the dark paths of the nearby forest.

Making good use of the sunny weather as long as it lasted, they pressed on, and they reached the Old Forest Road while the Sun was still just climbing the eastern sky. The black and frowning walls of the forest closed around them as they were riding under the great, overhanging trees. The trunks of those trees were huge and gnarled, their branches twisted and their leaves dark and long. Ivy grew about them and trailed upon the ground, and they could see trails of the thick, dark cobwebs interwoven with the ivy and the moss.

They were back in the dark gloom they had experienced before, and while Dwarves are generally not bothered by darkness, the further they rode, the more oppressing they found the emptiness of the Road and the bleak silence that was only interrupted now and then by the grunting and scuffling noises the unseen creatures were making in the undergrowth or deeper within the trees.

Náli found that it was a very different journey for two young Dwarves on their own than I had been with an entire caravan of well-armed, boisterous FireBeards indeed, and he began to throw worried looks behind himself as they rode on.

At first they tried to talk, just to chase away the oppressing silence all around them. They discussed the Brown Wizard and his friend, the strange little Mother Aase, comparing what little they knew about Petty-dwarves. Rei even launched into a travelling song she had learned from her foster father’s people, but her voice died away among the dark, silent trees without echoes, and it made the silence all the more deafening; so she gave up.

They rode all day, with very short rests, as they wanted to cross the forest as quickly as possible. The semi-darkness under the trees never changed; they could not even follow the movements of the Sun above the high forest roof. Fortunately, as a race spending their lives largely under the earth, Dwarves had a near infallible sense of time, and so Rei slowed down the canter of her pony at roughly an hour before sunset.

“We should start looking for a place to sleep,” she said. “Let us see if we can find those signs the Brow Wizard spoke of.”

They began to look closely at the tree trunks on the northern side of the Road, and indeed, after another mile or so, they found a small track leading to the northeast, deeper into the woods. The symbols carved into the trunk of the two trees guarding the entrance of the path promised shelter and even water, which was a relief, as their waterskins were half-empty already, for the walking in the dark gloom had made them unusually thirsty.

“This must be it,” said Rei, relieved. “Let us follow the path; yet carefully, in case the shelter is already taken.”

She rode forth, straight into the even deeper gloom under the trees, and – after a moment of hesitation – Náli followed her in. They could not turn back now if they wanted to reach the Lonely Mountain before Durin’s Day.

Flói is – surprisingly, but truly – a canon character. He went to Khazad-dûm with Balin, but was slain in a battle outside the Great Gates in TA 2989. He was buried near Mirrormere. His personal background, though, is entirely my creation. His looks are based on the excellent Dwarf mercenary drawing of Ro aka Sabra R. Hart, which you can view in her Elfwood gallery.

The chant, of which is quoted here is, of course, the same one Gimli chanted to the Fellowship in Moria (FOTR, Book II, Ch. 4 – A Journey in the Dark). I assumed that it was an integral part of Dwarven culture.

This is a heavily edited chapter, big chunks of which have been cut to make it match the site requirements. The unedited version can be found in the Tolkien FanFiction archive, on FF.Net or posted to the edhellondawards LJ community.

Flói had been on his way back from the Blue Mountains to Erebor for several weeks by now. He had been visiting some old friends and was now returning to the court of King Dáin Ironfoot, who had been, at least nominally, his Lord since the Battle of Five Armies. It had been a long and arduous journey, even for a Dwarf of many journeys like himself, and he had more than half of the way already beyond him, including the crossing of the Misty Mountains and the fording of the Great River, and was now facing the perilous journey across Mirkwood. Only a Dwarf would have taken upon himself to make such a long journey alone, and, truth be told, Flói had already had enough from the lonely travel. He was looking forward to be reunited with his mate, and the lack of company made the way still before him seem even longer.

If someone had asked any of the older Dwarves of Erebor who was the strangest Dwarf they had ever met in their long lives, their first choice certainly would have been Flói. The large, heavily muscled BlackLock had come with Dáin’s army to the aid of Thorin Oakenshield in 2941, but he had been no regular warrior of the King of the Iron Hills. He had been, and was still, a mercenary – something not entirely unheard of among Dwarves without close kin, but not a frequent thing, either.

In truth, Flói had no living kin at all. His entire family perished in the Battle of Azanulbizar, and he proudly wore the red, flame-shaped tattoos in their memory; tattoos that covered, his forehead, the upper halves of his cheeks and both his arms. Only the relatives of a Burned Dwarf were allowed to wear red tattoos, thus his pride was both well-founded and understandable. Even if some other Dwarves did find his custom to walk around with bare arms all the time to make his tattoos more visible a bit overdone.

Like BlackLocks in general, he was handsome, with wide indigo eyes and hair of such a deep, glossy black that it shimmered blue in both daylight and lamplight. He wore his hair in a single braid as thick as the average Dwarf’s arm; it began on top of his head and ended down at the small of his back, held together with broad golden clasps on both ends. Two short, thin braids hung above his ears – in which he wore golden rings – also tipped with gold. His beard, though, he wore in mercenary fashion: just a short, pointed goatee, while his tick moustache was adorned with golden rings, too. Such custom was heavily frowned upon among Dwarves, but mercenaries are practical people. One could always cut off a braid easily when packed by it, but a beard was a different business.

Flói had been roaming Eriador and the Wilderland all his life, seeking out employment and adventure and living well enough off it. He was a “lonely wolf”, as people liked to say, unlike other mercenaries – particularly from the race of Men – who preferred the safety in numbers. In that, too, Flói was different. He did not bear company for too long, not even that of his own kind.

After the re-claiming of Erebor – at which time he had barely been more than a stripling in Dwarven terms – he had soon grown restless in the comfort of the Kingdom under the Mountain. After a few years, he left, with the blessing of his mate who did not want to keep him trapped under the Mountain, taking up his wanderings again. He worked for other Dwarven colonies as well as for the Beornings and the Woodmen, always out in the wild, always on the road.

His wanderlust had brought him as far as the land of the Halflings in the West and the Sea of Rhûn in the East. He also tracked along the Misty Mountains, following the movements of Orc troops, carrying important messages between Erebor, Dale, Esgaroth and the some Iron Hills – sometimes as far as the Blue Mountains, where some from Thorin Oakenshield’s former colony still dwelt.

Among them was Regin, Thorin’s nephew (the son of his late brother, Frerin, who had also fallen in the Battle of Azanulbizar), who, despite his relative youth, counted as the greatest jewel-smith of the LongBeards. And he was the person whom Flói wanted to see – to get some help with the betrothal collar he had finally decided to make for his mate.

Finding the right matron for the celebration was a task for later, though. Right now, he was on his way home, with joyous anticipation in his heart, more so as he already had the greater part of his journey beyond him. He had crossed the Great River at the Old Ford several days earlier and was now following the old Dwarf-road, which had been cleaned and repaired in the recent years, through Mirkwood, intending to turn northwards along the Enchanted River and then come out of the forest near the Elvenking’s caves.

Few Dwarves would dare to follow that path, let alone on their own, as even after the Battle of Five Armies, Mirkwood remained a dangerous place for the lonely traveller, and the Elvenking still not happy to see any Dwarves near his home. But Flói had been something of a loner all his life, could live in the great outdoors like any Woodman, and he was on friendly terms with the Elvenking’s Avari trackers – the mysterious Dark Elves who called themselves the Faithful, as they had never left the place of their birth. This was not the first time that the would dare the forest without company, and while it was true that the Wargs and the Giant Spiders had slowly begun to grow in numbers again, he was reasonably certain that he would reach his destination without too much trouble.

He reached the small, dry cave, where he had intended to stay for the night, about an hour before sunset… which was a relief. Mirkwood was so dark at nighttime that even the night eyes of a Dwarf would be of little use, although Dwarves could usually see better in almost-complete darkness than even most Elves, save perhaps the Avari who had strange skills. He hid his backpack in a small niche near the entrance – this was not the first time he rested in this particular cave for the night, either – and went to gather some firewood. As always, the Woodmen (or the Elves), who also used the cave frequently, had left a neat stack for the next visitor, but courtesy demanded that he did the same.

Not that it would be such a hard task. More than enough dead branches lay on the forest floor, perchance broken off the trees during some recent storm, so he had his stack together in a very short time. He fetched his axe and was about to begin splitting the wood when he heard the soft thud of hooves from far away. He froze and knelt down, pressing an ear to the ground. Aye, definitely a horse… or, based on the short distance of its steps, more likely a pony… a heavy hill pony as Dwarves bred and rode them, as the hooves hit the ground forcefully. Although, by the rhythm of its gait, the animal was trotting at best. Listening some more, Flói could hear the lighter steps of another beast, a smaller one most likely.

Dwarves in Mirkwood? At this time of the year? Intrigued, Flói picked up his axe and melded with the shadows under the trees with an ease grown from his many years spent in the wilderness, usually on his own, so that he could watch out for the new arrivals without being spotted himself. They seemed to be following the same path as he had, thus they could come out from under the trees any moment.

Indeed, he needed not to wait for long. Soon enough, he could see that he had guessed rightly: the thud of hooves did come from a strong hill pony – from a powerful, handsome beast, with a reddish-brown coat, its gear simple but well-made. And although it was carrying two large (and presumably heavy) saddlebags, and even additional baggage fastened to the bedroll behind the saddle, its gait revealed to the trained eye that it was primarily meant as a riding steed, not as a pack animal. The other pony following its steps was a smaller, much shaggier, dun-coloured one, its gear not half as fine, and it seemed of a more common bred itself.

The two young Dwarves riding them were both about the age of Glóin’s firstborn, or perchance a decade or two younger. Which meant adults, but of an age where they were still not considered fully matured. Their small size revealed them as StiffBeards, although the lad had golden hair and the young female sported the thick copper mane and bright almond eyes of the IronFists. Also, she did not wear a fake beard, which was unusual – just as unusual as it was for a young female to travel through the wilderness with only a youth as her company – and her hooded cloak was made in Mannish fashion, rather than in that of Dwarves.

Flói could feel strongly the element of earth in both, though, so very typical for their kindred, thus the intermarriage with other clans must have been an isolated episode in their family history. Nonetheless, their mixed heritage seemed to serve to their advantage: they were both surprisingly good-looking for members of such a lesser tribe. Especially the girl; she was positively beautiful. Flói suspected that even Men would find her more than comely; for the Dwarven eye, she was absolutely stunning. Had he not given his heart a long time ago, he would have been sorely tempted. By Mahal’s hammer, how he would have been tempted!

Not that he would stand a chance, though, despite being a much more impressive (and desirable) male specimen than the near-beardless youth. These two were utterly devoted to each other; their body language clearly spoke not only of a mutual love-longing but also of a bond already consummated. The lad might have been the more enchanted of the two – in truth, he clearly was – but the exchange of brief glances, the intimate little gestures between them unmistakably revealed that they had indeed found the one in each other.

Flói was glad for them. Finding one’s true mate was a rare gift for Dwarves; if a male and a female found together in that way, it meant a fertile bond that would ensure the continuation of their race. Due to the low numbers of Dwarf-dams, it had been an eternal struggle during their entire history to keep up their numbers… or to repopulate the race after all those vicious battles they had been forced to fight in order to survive. And these two would doubtlessly bring forth healthy and handsome children to strengthen their people.

It seemed, however, that the two young ones were – or, at the very least, had been – in some sort of trouble, as they kept peering backwards, as if expecting to be followed… and not necessarily by friends. Could the girl – for she was barely above the age of being a girl-child by Dwarven measures indeed – could she have had other suitors, stubborn and jealous ones, who had not taken kindly being pushed aside from such an almost beardless youth? She was certainly desirable enough for wealthy and powerful males to battle each other for her affections. And while no-one could willingly steer the love-longing, some males had a hard time to accept that they were not a certain female’s Chose One.

Or… Flói gave the lucky fellow a good, hard look. For someone who spent so much time on the Road, there were subtle signs that told a different story. The girl was cautious the way those who lived in the great outdoors tended to be cautious: the Rangers and scouts and messengers. The same way Flói himself was cautious. But the youth had a different sort of wariness about him: that of a hunted animal. Unlike the girl, he also seemed to have very few possessions – not even saddlebags did he have, just a backpack on his back and a waterskin hanging from his shoulder. Add the loosely knotted cloth around his neck to hide his face if necessary, and every Dwarf would recognize him as a thief. Not a very skilled or lucky one, at least not lately, Flói thought, if his meagre belongings were any indication.

But what was he doing out here, in the wilderness, where the only things to steal were a few eggs from some bird’s nest? That the girl would follow him was no surprise; if they were, indeed, bound for life, she had no other choice. But why would they leave whatever place she had lived in to begin with? Her fine pony, her well-made horse gear, her full saddlebags and copious supplies, her excellent weapons – among them a crossbow, the like of which Flói had not seen since his visit in Near-Harad – all spoke of a well-to-do, if not necessarily wealthy person. Her clothes, too, were finely made and of good cloth, if in a somewhat Mannish style.

Why would such a young Dwarf-dam leave the convenience of a well-founded home to go out into the wilderness with her mate? It made no sense. ‘Twas not something a Dwarf woman would usually do.

Unless… Flói glanced at the nervous youth again. Unless the lad had stolen from the wrong people and was now in serious trouble. Men tended to hang thieves, and hanging was a particularly slow and painful death for a Dwarf, whose thick, muscular neck was not so easily broken. If the youth had tried to pilfer the wrong people’s bags and had to run for his life, then aye, it was understandable what these two were doing out here. They were trying to get as far away from the enraged crowd as possible.

As they were practically following his own footsteps, Flói calculated that they would come across his chosen resting place in a short time. The girl looked like someone who knew her way around the woods; even if she had not known of the cave already, she would recognize it at once as a passable refuge where to spend the night.

And indeed, just a little later the two reached the entrance of the cave. The girl, clearly used to giving orders (and being obeyed), gestured to her mate to fall back. Then she slid from the saddle and approached the mouth of the cave from the side, the crossbow readied in her hand. The youth, keeping a steadying hand on her pony’s neck, looked after her anxiously. ‘Twas apparent that he hated to let her scout out the cave alone but would not dare to protest.

Flói could not help but admire the scouting skills of the girl who had already vanished in the cave. She must have had a very good teacher. A few moments later she emerged again, frowning.

“’Tis strange,” she said, her voice low-pitched and pleasant. “The cave is empty now, but there was someone, not so long ago. The footprints speak of a lonely Dwarf, wearing light travelling boots. But who in their right mind would travel alone in such wild places?”

“Someone who has no other choice,” slowly, as not to startle her (which would have earned him a crossbow bolt through the chest), Flói came forth from under the trees. “I could ask you the same thing, though. What are two young people, barely beyond their final growth spurt, doing out here?”

The girl whirled around like the striking cobra Flói had seen on his journey across the South of Gondor, crossbow at the ready. Flói raised both his empty hands to show his friendly intentions.

“Slowly, slowly,” he said. “I mean no harm. If I had any ill will towards you, I could have killed you already.”

“And I would have succeeded,” said Flói, though with all the respect any male Dwarf owed a female. “I am older, stronger and more experienced than the two of you together.” He bowed deeply. “Flói son of Flóki and Heidhr, of the BlackLock Clans, at your service. I am one of Kind Dáin’s messengers.”

The girl gave him a suspicious look but returned the proper greeting graciously enough. “Rei daughter of Hreinn and Audhr, at yours and your family’s,” she said in that low, pleasant voice of hers. “And this is Náli, son of Máni and Becra,” she added, gesturing towards her companion. “We are both of the StiffBeard clans, as you might already have guessed.”

Flói nodded. “Aye, that would be hard to overlook,” he said, which was the truth. The girl was almost a head shorter than he – admittedly, he was fairly large for a Dwarf – and he judged that the youngling would be of about the same height. “What are you doing here, on your own? These woods are still dangerous for young people without an experienced guide.”

“I need no guide,” said the girl, Rei. “I was raised by the Rangers of Eriador: Men who know the woods nearly as well as any Wood-Elf. Few people could best me when it comes to woodcraft, and certainly no Dwarf, no matter how experienced he might be. As for Náli, he has spent his entire life in the great outdoors. We manage well enough. But I thank you for your concern.”

That was not something a Dwarf-dam would say to a male who had dared to meddle with her affairs and to give unasked-for advice. Having grown up among the Men of Eriador – who, as Flói knew from personal experience, were an honourable and well-mannered race – had apparently rubbed off on her own manners, though.

“But why are you out here in the first place?” he asked. “This is not a usual neighbourhood where Dwarves would travel, not even after the Road was cleaned… unless they are on the shortest way home to the Lonely Mountain.”

“Which is exactly where we are going,” she answered. “Since I chose to bond with this one in an unexpected moment of sheer madness,” she glanced at her companion, and – despite her harsh words – there was genuine warmth and fondness in her amber eyes, “and since he had managed to raise the entire village of Bree in rage against himself, we decided to leave the western lands and to join our own people again. I am a very good scout, and Náli, too, is used to live on the surface. We might prove useful for King Dáin.”

“You might,” said Flói in agreement. “but your mate here will have to choose a different trade. Thieves are not welcome in Erebor, as much as we all might esteem Bilbo Baggins and his unforgettable service.”

“Oh, worry not,” she said grimly. “He will find himself a different trade all right. I shall see that he goes after some honest work, as soon as we have settled down. I do not intend to spend the rest of my life on the run.”

“In that case,” said Flói, “you can join me for the rest of our journey. I have been as far as the Blue Mountains on King Dáin’s behalf, and I am eager to return to home on the shortest possible way. I would welcome the company, if you do not mind me slowing you down a little, as I have no steed on which to ride. There is always safety in numbers, and you both seem more than able to defend yourselves.”

Rei accepted his offer, without bothering to consult her mate first. Men, or any other race for that matter, would have found such behaviour strange, but for Dwarves, it was the natural way to do things. Not only was Rei female, which already put her above the average male Dwarf, but she also came from a respected home and seemed to do well enough. Without the love-longing, she would probably never have given a penniless and clanless male like Náli a second thought… or a first one, to begin with.

Thus they all returned to the cave – including the ponies, which Náli relieved from their saddles and burdens – and while Flói began to chop firewood to replace the stack they were about to use, the two young ones built the fire, downwind the cave entrance so that the smoke would not get in, on which to cook a warm supper. As hardy a race Dwarves were when needs must be, they valued their creature comforts when they could.

The practiced ease with which the two worked together revealed that they must have done this many times during their journey. Náli went down to his knees, holding a ball of dry moss and grass in his cupped hands and blew into it after Rei had struck a flint over it so that the spark could flow into it. As it began to smoke, Rei hurriedly built a small nest of twigs. Only moment later, a small flame appeared in the middle of Náli’s hands. Grinning contentedly, he pressed the whole thing under the mound of twigs, while Rei added more dry grass and moss to the heap. Finally, they built up a small pyramid of dry firewood over the blaze, and all that was needed to do for the rest of the evening was feeding the fire.

Flói brought in the split firewood and stapled it neatly in the driest corner of the cave, for the next visitors to use. What have been left by the previous ones would serve them for this one night. He then fetched his backpack – a moderate-sized one for a Dwarf, although a grown Man would probably stagger under its weight – and pulled out a small iron cooking pot and a wooden ladle.

“I have snared a few coneys on my way,” he said, producing the already gutted rabbits, “and I have a little salt and some herbs with me. ‘Twould make a somewhat thin rabbit stew, but it will have to do, I fear.”

“We have not left completely unprepared,” answered Rei. “We have some dried mushrooms and a few of those roots the Halflings call taters. We would gladly supply them to the evening meal if you think they would do.”

“Oh, most certainly so!” Flói grinned in delight. His encounters with the Halflings had been rare and few in-between – in truth, he never got any closer to their lands than Bree – but even so, he knew that they were the best cooks in the whole of Middle-earth. He had tasted some of their mushroom-based dishes during a fair in the Breelands, and still had the fondest possible memories of them.

And thus the rabbits were expertly skinned, rubbed with salt and cut to pieces, the taters were peeled and sliced up, together with a couple of onions Rei had found in one of her bags, the herbs were crushed between two flat stones and water was fetched from a nearly stream. Soon enough, an excellent rabbit stew was blubbering merrily over the small fire before the cave entrance, the ponies were grazing in a short distance, where the smoke would not bother them, and the three Dwarves, waiting eagerly for the evening meal, were sitting around the fire and sharing the tales of their most recent adventures.

Flói was properly impressed by young Náli’s desperate effort to go dowry-hunting in a haunted barrow, although he found it a fool’s attempt, and he told so in no uncertain terms. Náli shrugged.

“How else was I supposed to woo my Lady?” he said. “I only regret that it was all for nothing. In the end, I had to leave the whole sack of treasure behind and run for my life – again! All I could take with me was the sword I am wearing now, a double-axe and the few jewels I had stuffed into my pockets right at the beginning.”

Flói glanced at the girl. “And you accepted his courtship nonetheless? That was not a very rich booty, after all.”

She, too, shrugged and grinned. “Mayhap not, but the little fool risked everything for them,” she replied, looking at her embarrassed mate with the same fondness as before. “Even though Father – my Mannish father, mind you – had to cast a strong, ancient spell to keep the headless Barrow-wight from slaying him. And the jewels are pretty. They will look great on our engagement collars, once we get around to actually making them.”

“Those are intricately made,” she said with approval; the IronFist in her could not help but admire beautiful body art. “And red, too… are you descended from a Burned Dwarf?”

Flói nodded. “From more than one, in fact. Both my parents hailed from warrior clans and were among the bodyguards of King Náin; not exactly Forge Guards, but seasoned and highly respected warriors nonetheless. I was barely more than a babe on arms when they left to follow the King to Azanulbizar, thus they left me in the care of an elderly female relative who lived in the Iron Hills.”

He remained silent for a moment then flashed them as rueful grin. “’Twas quite the scandal when I chose to become a mercenary, let me tell you. After all, I was barely considered an adult. The Clan Elders said I would besmirch the memory of my parents with such an occupation that is not much more honourable than that of the thieves,” he added, winking at Náli. “But, to tell the truth, I never regretted it, not for a moment. My journeys have taken me to places no other Dwarf has ever seen, and I would not miss that for the world. Also, I have made friends – well, admittedly, I have made enemies as well – among many strange and amazing races. Besides, I have earned good coin in the process.”

“That was after the fall of the Dragon,” replied Flói. “When word came that the Dragon was dead and the Mountain besieged by Elves and Men who wanted their share from the treasure, and that a large army of Goblins and Wargs were on their way there, King Dáin decided to hurry to the aid of our kin. I happened to be in the Iron Hills at that time, visiting my distant kinfolk… and I just could not let such an adventure pass.”

“Adventure?” asked Rei with a frown. “I am told it was a bloody and terrible battle, and many of our people died alongside Thorin Oakenshield and his young nephews.”

“And a great many Elves and Men, too, who also fought the Goblins on our side,” said Flói. “Aye, it was bloody and terrible… all battles are. But at least we have re-gained that which had once been ours, and the Kingdom under the Mountain is shining in its old glamour once again… the last truly great Dwarven city in Middle-earth.”

“What about the Iron Hills?” asked Náli. “Is that not a kingdom of its own?”

“It is,” said Flói in agreement, “and King Vestri, who has taken over kingship from Dáin Ironfoot, leads those who live there well. But the Iron Hills could never reach the greatness – or the riches – of Erebor. Never.”

“They never had the means,” explained Flói. “What they have there, as the name already reveals, is mostly iron. Which is useful and necessary and profitable, especially for the blacksmiths and the ironsmiths, and it gives them a decent living. But it cannot make a realm truly wealthy. Not alone. And while ‘tis true that King Dáin sent rich weregild to the families of those who had fallen in the Battle of Five Armies, the riches of Erebor are still unparalleled by any other Dwarven settlement. With the exception of Khazad-dûm, of course, but that place has long fallen into darkness.”

“Can you tell us more about Khazad-dûm?” asked Rei. “We know so little about the history of our own people. We were taught the basics, of course, but I was orphaned at a young age and came to Men who could only tell me about the main events, little else.”

“And my family was too busy to survive to be bothered with history lessons,” Náli added bitterly. “Besides, we were travelling across Rhûn all my life and had little to no contact with our own kind.”

“Across Rhûn, you say?” asked Flói with interest. “Thus you had dealings with the Easterlings? What could they have possibly wanted from Dwarves?”

Náli shrugged. “Most of them wish nothing to do with us. But some of us live in the underground caves of Nimvarkinh, which is the main dwelling of the Tribe of the Bear, the strongest, most feared Khimmer tribe, and the seat of their chieftain, Beloberch the One-Handed. He welcomes Dwarven smiths to teach their art to his people, for well-made weapons give them an advantage on other tribes.”

“Dwarves living under the Mountains of Nimvarkinh?” he asked. “Which Clans are they from?”

“’Tis hard to tell, for they speak not of their origins,” answered Náli. “But they are fairly short, even for StiffBeards; and our people do not breed great artisans or craftsmen, as a rule. They say that there had once been a great Dwarven city, an Age or so ago, and that they are the last of the people who used to live there.”

“I never heard of any Dwarf settlements under the Mountains of Nimvarkinh, leave alone of a great city,” said Flói with a frown.

“Neither have I, and my clan had been to some strange places,” replied Náli. “In truth, I never heard of any of our Clans to have had any large settlements at all. StiffBeards usually live in small hamlets surrounding their caves or on the Road as we did. We are a people of pony-breeders and small traders… as the other Clans never fail to remind us.”

There was a clear hint of bitterness in his voice, and Flói briefly wondered what his family must have suffered from other Dwarves that it had driven them all into professional thievery. For while it was true that master artisans and craftsmen were the most respected people among Dwarves, and warriors came second, one should not forget the importance of the lesser tribes and their work.

StiffBeards, while generally looked down at for their smaller sizes and more mundane skills, nonetheless kept the trade network between Dwarven settlements alive and working (admittedly, a bit driven back by the BroadBeams in these days). And they provided the other tribes with the best-bred hill ponies. Some of them had even gone as far as to tilling the earth and growing crop, which was a decidedly un-Dwarflike thing to do, and other Dwarves shook their heads in mild dismay over them. But it kept them alive and fed their children, so the StiffBeards did not really care about the dismay of their cousins. As a rule – unlike the nobler Clans – they were not wealthy enough to buy their food all the time, thus they had either to grow it themselves… or to steal it.

For a moment, Flói son of Flóki – born and bred a BlackLock warrior and the scion of legendary heroes – felt a little ashamed for the way his brethren usually treated their less fortunate cousins… then he shrugged it off. Even if he had the calling of a great renewer of Dwarven ways, which he had not, he would not be able to change any time-honoured customs within his lifetime… or that of those young StiffBeards with him. Things were what they were, and Mahal’s Children were a stubborn lot, very settled in their ways.

“Well, I doubt that we can figure out their origins without any further questioning,” he said, meaning the Dwarves who apparently lived under the protection of the most dangerous Khimmer jarl, “and I doubt that the Easterlings would welcome a bunch of nosy Dwarven scholars in their deep halls. But you wanted to learn more about Khazad-dûm, right?”

The two younglings nodded eagerly, their eyes bright with curiosity and as big as the iron pot in which the meal was cooking. By Mahal’s hammer, they were barely more than children! Flói shook his head to keep his attention on the task at hand.

“All right, then,” he said. “I shall share with you an ancient chant about Durin’s Awakening and the founding of Khazad-dûm. ‘Tis a chant all Dwarf-children are supposed to learn by heart; alas that few of them truly do so in these lesser days. Now, listen carefully, for ‘tis a sacred chant, and I expect you to learn it while we are travelling together. Do we have an agreement?”

The two youths nodded again, trembling with anticipation. Custom and traditions were eminently important for Dwarves, even for those of a lesser tribe. Teaching them to others was considered a sacred duty as well as a privilege. And thus, while their supper was still cooking, Flói began to chant for them the chant of Durin’s Awakening, in a deep voice that seemed to fill the small cave with its echoes.

And as the impenetrable darkness of Mirkwood fell all around them, the two young Dwarves were listening to deep-throated singing of Flói, to the chant about the deep places of their ancient homes, and a strange longing was awakened in their young hearts, a longing they could not yet give a name.

Lóni, just like Náli and Flói, is an original character, mentioned in the Book of Mazarbul. His looks were inspired by Ro’s Dwarven Archer drawing, which can be viewed here:

This is a seriously edited version – in fact, a complete storyline had to be cut. If you want to read the unbutchered chapter, it will be posted to FF.Net, the TFF archive and to the edhellondawards LJ community.

On the second day of their shared journey, Rei and Náli realized that Flói had been exaggerating when he told them he would slow them down. Like most hardened Dwarves, the mercenary could keep up easily with a trotting pony, while carrying his heavy backpack as if it were but a small leather pouch. His well-made, knee-height boots had apparently known many roads; his well-worn, soft leather leggings and sleeveless leather shirt were eminently suitable for long journeys. That he only wore a short, high-collared hauberk made of hard leather was unusual for a Dwarven warrior, but he had most likely given up the better protection of steel armour for speed.

As a mercenary, he probably often had to relay on speed and dexterity, thought Rei, who had met enough warriors among Dwarves and Men – or even Elves, for that matter, having visited Rivendell in her foster father’s company – to recognize the differences between Flói and the regular soldiers.

Flói was clearly used to travel alone, at his own leisure. To hunt as he was going on his way; to cook his own meals on the open campfire, using the absolute minimum of cooking utensils – namely a small iron cauldron that would fit into his backpack, a knife and a wooden ladle – and to generally face whatever he was about to encounter without help. Rei and Náli could certainly do the same; they were both used to live outdoors, unlike the majority of Dwarves. But Flói was considerably older and more experienced, and besides, he had made this particular journey several times and knew these woods fairly well, while the two young Dwarves had never crossed Mirkwood before.

Whenever they stopped for the night, he would sit with them at the campfire and tell them tales about the Wilderland, and especially about the forest and about the Dwarven settlements around it.

“Mirkwood is now the largest forest in Middle-earth, since all the other great woods had been burned during the War of the Elves and Sauron in the Second Age,” he explained them. “At that time, ere the shadow of the Necromancer would fall upon it, the forest was called Greenwood the Great… and with right. For green and fair it was in those happier times; but great it still is. I have never took its measures myself, but the Elves say it covers some four hundred and twenty-five miles from north to south, and some two hundred miles from east to west at its widest. Further south, where the East Bight curves into the woods, ‘tis only seventy-five miles, but no-one in their right minds would try to cross it there.”

“Why not?” asked Náli, looking up at the thick tangle of branches that closed above their heads into a canopy, letting in very little light. While Dwarves generally were not bothered by darkness very much – they had better night vision than any other good creature, save perhaps the Wood-Elves – he found the tall, dark, ancient trees threatening and unsettling. “I would be happy to get out of these woods as soon as I can.”

“Aye, but you would be very unhappy to have to cross them down south, where the hearts of the dark fire-trees has become so black that even the Wood-Elves hesitate to go there, strange lot though they are. The Narrows of the Forest are perilously close to the Necromancer’s Tower, and no-one who got within eyesight of that evil place has ever returned. Thráin, Thorin Oakenshield’s father was the last Dwarf mad enough to go there. We never saw him again.”

Flói nodded. “Aye, we have. Tharkûn, whom Men know as Gandalf the Grey, entered the Necromancer’s Tower on some wizardly business and found old Thráin there, in one of the deepest dungeons. He was maddened already, not even remembering his own name; the last of the Seven Rings taken from him. But somehow he still managed to give Tharkûn the map of Erebor and the key to its secret door; and with the help of those have Thorin and his company found a way to take back our ancient Kingdom from the Dragon.”

Rei nodded. “’Tis a tale often told among the Rangers of Eriador,” she said. “They held Tharkûn in the highest esteem; and they found the involvement of Bilbo Baggins, the esteemed burglar, an amusing tale.”

“I can imagine that they do,” grinned Flói, who had his own run-ins with the Rangers and quite liked them; they were kindred spirits, after all, at least where travelling along in the wilderness was considered. “In any case, after the Battle of Five Armies, King Dáin Ironfoot had the Kingdom under the Mountain rebuilt. We also helped the Men of Dale and the Lakemen of Esgaroth to rebuild their towns, which, too, had been destroyed by the Dragon. We even trade with the Wood-Elves of King Thranduil’s realm now, although friendships between Dwarves and Elves are not as common as they used to be in the glorious days of Khazad-dûm. The Wood-Elves are a strange lot, unlike the people of Khelebrimbur Dwarf-friend, who shared our love for things made by skill and artistry. Still, some of them are friendly enough; and life in Erebor is good. We live in place with our neighbours, and neither Orcs, nor Wargs have bothered us in the recent years.”

“For ‘tis still dark and dangerous, above all the southern half of it,” explained Flói. “Tharkûn and his allies – whoever they may be – have managed to chase the Necromancer away from Dol Dúgol, his dark tower upon the Naked Hill, and the forest has cleared up a little since then, at least in the North. But the southern woods are still thick and shadowy, and no-one can tell what evil things might still hide there. That has always been the region where the Wargs and Great Spiders came from; they might have retreated there for the time being, but we cannot be certain that they shall not return one day. That is why the Elvenking still sends out patrols to keep an eye on the southern border of his realm; for he, too, fears that we have not seen the last of those evil beasts yet.”

“But what about Erebor?” Náli asked. “Erebor is safe for raising a family, is it not?”

“Why, certainly!” answered Flói proudly. “The Kingdom under the Mountain shines in its old glory once again. Its fortifications could break armies like the waves of the sea. I am proud to call myself a warrior of that great realm, and with joy and relief do I look forward to my return.”

The return of Flói to Erebor was a rather unremarkable event in the life of the Kingdom under the Mountain, though. While he was well-respected for his parents’ sake, not to mention valued for his own achievements as a warrior, he was neither old, nor wealthy enough for his return to make any true impact. Neither did he have any rank worth mentioning at the court; in fact, he was not even considered a member of the court. He was still but a scout and a messenger, fairly unimportant in the eyes of anyone of relevance.

Even his young charges drew more attention, especially Rei, who not only was a female warrior (something that had become increasingly rare in these years) but also a stunning beauty. Thus, while Flói was succinctly dismissed by the King’s seneschal, the two young ones were brought before King Dáin’s presence swiftly, who questioned them about heir families, their lives so far and their plans for the future. Rei and Náli, who had never before met truly powerful males of their own race, where thoroughly intimidated by the King, who was a striking figure indeed.

Dáin Ironfoot, the King under the Mountain, was also the chieftain of the IronFist Dwarves – and it showed. He was remarkably large for a Dwarf, as tall as five foot, with a powerful build and thick, corded muscles that revealed him to be a warrior born. His once coppery hair and beard were now iron grey, both intricately woven with mithril beads. He was clad according to his high rank, in deep burgundy red and gold, yet by no means overdoing appearances. His sleeveless tunic left free his mighty arms that were adorned with intricate tattoos: red runes and figures, outlined with black.

The Great Hall of Erebor also impressed them greatly. Built countless centuries earlier for feasting or for more serious gatherings, it was a cavernous room, covered with the most amazing artwork they had ever seen in their lives… not that they would have seen much, to tell the truth.. Huge statues of long gone Dwarven kings, heroes and great artisans lined the walls, only half freed from the living stone of which they had been carved, inlaid with precious metal and gemstones to emphasize their rich attire. The expanse of the walls in-between was covered with murals that depicted ancient Dwarven legends in expressive colours. Above them, the walls grew into great height, touching each other in wide arches so high above that even the eyes of a Dwarf, used to see where other people would not, could not make out the details easily.

The King listened to the two younglings, seemingly unmoved by their stories. When they were finished, he sighed and turned to Rei.

“Females of the child-bearing age are always welcome; more so those with warrior skills,” he said. “I have no doubt that your Ranger training will prove most useful among our scouts and messengers. If you want to learn a trade, though, that will be also possible. Many master artisans live under the Mountain who would gladly share the secrets of their art with a willing and eager pupil.”

Rei bowed deeply. “Please, accept my heartfelt gratitude, my Lord King, but I would choose to run with the scouts and the messengers if I am allowed. That is what I know best, and as I have lived on the surface all my life, it would be hard on me to spend my days under the Mountain. What about my bondmate, though? I can only stay here when he, too, is accepted.”

The King gave Náli a piercing look. “About him, I do have my doubts,” he admitted. “We do not welcome thieves in our midst, as a rule. Do you have any other skills that can be useful for us, young one?”

Náli was fighting his anger very hard. It was not his fault that StiffBeards were treated so badly that many of them had no other choice than become thieves by trade, after all. But he knew that he had to win the King’s goodwill. He might be used to live on the Road, with little to no protection against the weather or other footpads; Rei needed a home. Even with Ranger training, she needed a place where she could rest safely when the need arose. More so if they wanted children – which they both did, very much so.

Thus it was better to swallow his pride and gravel a little at the King’s feet – for his mate. For his future children.

“I can fight with the whip and the knife,” he said, “and I am passable with the sword or the axe, too. I can drive a team, and I can take care of ponies – I spent the greeter part of my life on a cart, after all. We had not permanent dwellings, my clan and me.”

“Excellent,” said the King. “I shall send you to my hostlers, then, ‘til you have proved yourself. We do not have many of the StiffBeards here, so they will be glad to have a kinsman to work with. You will also train with the weapons masters who will report back to me about how good you truly are with the blade. Have you proved yourself reliable, you might join the scouts and the messengers, eventually.”

The King’s hostlers, Thórfi and Dralfi, were glad indeed to greet a young kinsman and all too willing to show them what had to be done around the royal stables. They were twin brothers – which was considered an extremely rare thing among Dwarves – a little beyond hundred, and they had already served Dáin in the Iron Hills, together with their father Ormr, with whom they followed the King to Erebor.

They had fought in the Battle of Five Armies, in which Ormr had been slain, Dralfi lost an eye, and Thórfi received a near-crippling injury, as a consequence of which his left leg (broken in several places by a mace) never healed completely. It remained a little stiff and became somewhat shorter due to the badly-fused bones, and it still pained him whenever the weather was about to change, especially in winter and before rain. But Thórfi borne it well enough, and both he and his twin brother seemed to genuinely like working with the ponies.

As the King had told Rei and Náli, StiffBeard presence was rather low-scale under the Mountain. Most of them were servants: cooks, hostlers, butlers, valets and so on. Thórfi and Dralfi lived in small home in a modest dwelling area on the second level of the Mountain, near a clear underground lake. This section of the Mountain was where most of the regular workers, miners and those of lesser trades lived, and many luminescent plants and mosses could be seen in the small gardens or here and there on the very walls, left to grow on their own.

The twin brothers lived there with their mother, a small, wrinkled and apparently very ancient matron who took in Rei and Náli with open arms, being the wise-woman of the entire Clan here, and with various uncles and cousins who had followed them from the Iron Hills. Both were unwed, as they had managed to fall for the same Dwarf-dam quite a few years before, who – not being able to choose between them – refused to marry either of them and had never come to Erebor at all. Still, they seemed happy enough with their relatives – and, unlike most members of their Clan, they were actually respected. Simple servants they might be, yet they had exceeded in battle and were thus considered warriors – if not by proper training, then certainly by heart.

Their mother, the Lady Kaylee as she was called – she might not be of good breeding, yet she was their matriarch nonetheless – was soon busily looking for a proper home for the newcomers, and it took her but a mere few hours to find an empty dwelling in the neighbourhood. It was a small one, and it lacked just about everything, but it could be taken right away, and, after a moment of consideration, Rei decided to take it. They could always move into a larger home, on a higher level, should they outgrow these modest rooms.

In the next morning Rei was called to the leader of King Dáin’s scouts, a LongBeard Dwarf by the name of Lóni Tjórvisson, to introduce herself properly and to get assigned to one of the scout patrols. The Lady Kaylee explained her that Lóni was the oldest Dwarf in Erebor – over three hundred years old, and thus considered ancient, even by their long-lived race. The two of them had known each other for a very long time, and thus the tiny StiffBeard matron could tell Rei a great deal about her new commander. Which was always a good thing, as this way she would know what to expect from the old warrior.

“Lóni’s family hails from Erebor,” said the Lady Kaylee. “He was born here, himself, as well as his much younger brother, Lofar. They were both still beardless lads – well, at least Lofar was – when we had to flee from the Dragon. They went to exile in Dunland with Thorin Oakenshield’s family, and later followed him to the Blue Mountains.”

“Dunland?” Rei pulled a face. “It must have been terrible, living among those swarthy barbarians. Men are not the cleanliest race as a whole, but the Dunlendings are among the worst; or so I am told. I never met one myself.”

“That might be so,” allowed the elderly matron. “Yet Lóni actually liked the life in Dunland – unlike most of our people. They say he got along surprisingly well with that swarthy race and made many friends among them. His best friend is said to have been a famous bow-maker; just take a look at his bow when you get the chance. It is one of its kind, made specifically for Lóni.”

“An archer!” Rei cried out in delight. Archery was not a common skill among Dwarves although those who learned it were not half bad at it. Thus she was glad to have a kindred spirit among her new comrades. One who might know to value her finely made crossbow and what she could do with it.

“And an excellent one at that,” said the Lady Kaylee. “Some even say he is the best one our people have ever had. So good, in fact, that Thorin wanted him to take part in the Quest of Erebor. But he refused to go, as his daughter had just come down with her fourth child, and he did not want to leave his family alone at such a time. Less so as his wife had just deceased a year or so before. ‘Twas bad enough they had no matron; losing the family Elder, too, would have been too much for the young ones.”

“Four children!” said Rei in amazement. “I always thought the LongBeards did not breed large families, unlike our own people.”

“As a rule, they do not,” agreed the little matron. “But there are notable exceptions. Why, the Lord Glóin, one of Thorin’s companions, has five; and one of them a girl-child, at that. Although,” she added thoughtfully, “his wife, the Lady Nais, is of the FireBeards, and those are a fertile lot,” she gave Rei a shrewd look. “Just like our people. You should start planning that handfasting ceremony, soon – we need more of our kind here.”

“’Tis not so urgent,” she replied evasively. “We need to settle down first, find our place in Erebor… have our betrothal collars made… We are both still very young.”

“True; yet if you live under the same roof without being properly bound, people will start talking,” warned the matron. “’Tis not the same as with two males. Your bond bears the hope of children, thus it must be forged according to tradition.”

“I know,” sighed Rei. “’Tis just…. It all happened so suddenly, you see? I have spent most of my life among Men, was never bothered by Dwarven expectations. Did not even plan courting for at least ten more years. It just… it just happened, and I was unprepared… I still am! I have faced Orcs and Wargs and outlaw Men in my time with the Rangers of Eriador, and was never afraid. But this… this frightens me, for I do not know what I ought to do.”

“But I do,” said the little matron gently. “Fear not, my child, for I shall guide you on your way. For a long time, I had grieved as Mahal had not blessed me with a girl-child, even though I love my lads, I always have. But now he sent me you, and I shall see that you never lack the support of a mother for the rest of your life.”

“’Tis nothing, little one; ‘tis all my pleasure, truly. You have to hurry up now, though. It would not do to make Lóni wait.”

The gathering room of the King’s scouts was on the west side of the Mountain, between two ranges, right above the secret side door of the Kingdom, though which they could easily slip in and out. A hidden path led from there along the southwestern mountain range – the very same that Thorin Oakenshield and his Company had followed, approaching Erebor all those years ago, to fulfil their curses on the Dragon. It was the shortest path to the guard post upon Ravenhill, thus both guards and scouts used it when going after their daily business. In these days, the Hidden Door was not magically sealed (although it could have been, if the need arose), just locked from the inside with its large, intricate key, and armed warriors guarded it all the time.

The scouts’ chamber on the level above was large and airy, lit by cleverly cut shafts under the ceiling that allowed the sunlight in but remained invisible from the outside. It had a long, low stone table in the middle and a stone bench running along all four walls; room enough for three dozen or so Dwarves to gather here at the same time.

When Rei entered, though, only two persons were present: a young, almost beardless warrior of the IronFist Clans, wearing the mail of the King’s Guards, and a venerable-looking, thick-set LongBeard, who, by the looks of him, could only be Lóni. He wore the leather breeches of a woodman, with a light mail shirt, and the wrist-guards of an archer. His thick mane of snow-white hair was tightly braided, the braid – as thick as Rei’s arm – doubled up twice and fastened with plain bronze clasps, so that it would fit under his green hood, it necessary. His snowy beard, too, was immensely long, forked and braided, with bronze rings at the end of each braid, and tucked into his weapons belt. Next to his wide-bladed dagger that had a beautifully-crafted sheet, made of black leather and bronze wire. He wore no other weapons – not that he needed any in the safety of the Mountain.

Upon seeing Rei enter, the old Dwarf released the young warrior – who left in a great hurry and obvious relief – and tuned his whole attention to her. It was a bit… unnerving, to tell the truth, to bear the look of those dark, ancient eyes, full of sadness and wisdom, but Rei did not back off. She was here to serve with him – under his command – after all.

“Rei Hreinnsdóttir, at your service,” she said politely, bowing very low, as it was the due of such a venerable Elder.

“Lóni Tjórvisson, at yours,” replied the old Dwarf in a voice that was deep and just a little hollow through high age. “Tis a rare honour for us mere scouts that a Dwarrow-dam would choose to walk the forest with us. Most female warriors prefer to join better-respected troops.”

“I have been raised by Rangers from a tender age on,” said Rei, “and have been a scout for most of my life. I am used to live outdoors, and know my way around wood and stone. I may not come from a respected bloodline, but I hope my woodman’s skills will prove useful. For I was taught by the best Eriador can offer.”

“I feel certain that you shall be able to teach us a few tricks; just as we shall teach you a few of our own,” said Lóni with a fond smile; he liked young people, even though he sometimes pushed them hard, for their own good. “Now, let me see your weapons and how you can wield them.”

Rei handed him her battle-hammer and crossbow, and the old warrior examined them with great interest.

“The hammer bears the marks of the weaponsmiths from the Blue Mountains,” he said. “’Tis excellent handiwork… and ancient, too. Where did you get it from?”

“My foster father tells me it has lain in their weapons chamber for many generations,” Rei explained. “It was useless for them, as no-one could wield it properly, but too well-made and valuable to throw it away.”

“The hammer is no Mannish weapon,” agreed Lóni. “Too small for a grown Man yet way too heavy for a still-growing youth.”

“Aye, it is,” Rei smiled. “Father said it has been waiting for the right Dwarf to come along all the time – and that was apparently me.”

“The Men of Westernesse are known to have brief glimpses into the future from time to time,” said Lóni. “And they are said to be skilled with the blade; nonetheless, we shall have to train you properly with the hammer – there are tricks only a Dwarf can show you, and we have a few warriors here who know a lot about those. Now, tell me about your crossbow. ‘Tis something we rarely see here, in the far North.”

“Nor has it been made in the North,” laughed Rei. “It was made somewhere in Harad, I suppose, where weapons like this are called an arbalest.”

“How did it find its way to your hand, then?” asked Lóni, his deep eyes twinkling with interest. He liked weapons, and even more the stories that came with them; and he still was not too old for appreciating new things and new tales.

“Dúnedain of the North sometimes go to Gondor and sere among their southern brethren for years,” explained Rei. “So did my father in his youth, serving with the Rangers of a province they call South-Ithilien. ‘Tis an abandoned land now, often raided by troops from Near-Harad. Father found this crossbow, left behind from by fleeing Haradrim, after one of the frequent skirmishes, and brought it home. He hoped his sons would like it, but they did not. So the crossbow has waited for me in the weapons chamber, just like the hammer.”

“An interesting weapon,” Lóni turned the crossbow back and forth in his large hands. “More so if it was truly made for a youth among Men. I wonder how a Mannish youth could manage to pull the string back properly – or are the Haradrim so much stronger than other Men?”

Rei shook her head. “Nay, for they pulled the string back by winding a crank on a ratchet. That is why the Haradrim prefer this to a proper longbow. It takes much less upper body strength, and yet has a range of three hundred and fifty years; the larger arbalests even carry as far as four hundred yards.”

“I see nought akin a drawing mechanism here, though,” said Lóni with a frown.

“I do not use one,” answered Rei, “for it would slow down the firing rate considerably. Unlike Men, I have enough strength to pull the string back by hand.”

Rei nodded. “Aye, it has. But it can kill a knight in full armour and it can be carried ready loaded with a bolt. I have slain trolls with it, while patrolling the Trollshaws with my brothers… my Mannish brothers.”

“So there are still some trolls in Eriador?” asked Lóni in surprise. “I thought the three Thorin Oakenshield and his company met were the last ones.”

“Fortunately, they have become rare,” said Rei, ”but from time to time, they still reappear like some hidden stream in an underground cave. How about here?”

“We have not seen any for a very long time, and good riddance,” replied Lóni. “Not even among the Iron Hills, where they once had been numerous. All right then, let us go to the shooting range. I want to see what this fancy bow of yours can do against mine.”

Lóni’s own weapon, the one Lady Kaylee had sung such high praise of, turned out to be a longbow, longer than he was tall, with blades on both ends of it, enabling him to defend himself, should any enemy manage to get close enough to him. It was as thick as a Man’s arm and required the strength of the Dwarf – a particularly strong one – to pull the string; thus it would have been useless for anyone else, even for most Dwarves. The arrows coming with it were specifically made, too: short, thick ones, with heavy, razor-sharp steel points. They could fly considerable distances and easily punched through bone, shield or thickened armour. Rei was impressed by the handiwork of the supposedly barbarian Dunlending weaponsmith who had created this marvellous weapon out of friendship to a Dwarf. ‘Twas a rare thing in these times.

The shooting range was outside the Mountain itself, down between the two western ranges. There was only one other Dwarf practicing when they arrived: a large, copper-haired and amber-eyed IronFist warrior, strong even by the measures of his powerful Clan. He was also very handsome, his great arms, left free by his sleeveless leather vest, adorned by elaborate tattoos, depicting the Sun and the stars. He was fairly young in Dwarven terms, mayhap a decade or two older than Rei herself. His bow was less special than Lóni’s, but he used it well, his very movement revealing long-time experience with the weapon.

“Greetings, Skafid,” said Lóni in a friendly manner. “I hope you do not mind our intrusion. I wanted to see what young Rei here is capable of with this outlandish weapon of hers.”

Skafid came closer to take a look at Rei’s crossbow. “’Tis one of those Southron bows, I see,” he commented in his deep, surprisingly mellow voice. “I am curious myself what it can do, compared with a proper longbow.”

They set up new targets and all three of them shot several series of arrows, comparing the results. Said results showed hat while a longbow still had a longer range (at least when pulled by a Dwarf, that is) and could launch arrows ten times faster (even though Rei’s strength enabled her to span her weapon half the time than a Man would have been able to do it with the help of a hook and a hand crank), the crossbow had almost the same impact and precision at hitting a target. Of course, the steady hand and the sharp eyes of a Dwarf were undeniable advantages there. All in all, Lóni was satisfied with Rei’s shooting skills and called a halt to the practice.

“Tomorrow, you shall try your skills with the battle hammer against one who is good with that weapon,” he decided. Then he looked at Skafid shrewdly. “What say you, Skafid? Would you like to test her? As a stone-mason, you have sufficient practice with hammers of every kind.”

Skafid shrugged his huge shoulders. “Sure, why not? ‘Twould be an interesting duel: speed and dexterity against greater strength. I am willing to give it a try.”

“Good,” said Lóni, “then it is settled. For today, I have seen enough. I shall put Rei on the scouts’ duty roster in two days’ time.”

“We shall test you tomorrow thoroughly, never fear. But even if you hit your own feet with the hammer, which I doubt, your crossbow and your woodman’s skill will be mightily welcome.”

With that promise Rei was released to return home. She found her small house empty; Náli as at the stables with Thórfi and Dralfi and she could not even guess when he would come home. Thus Rei decided to pay a visit to the Lady Kaylee again, more so as she had things to discuss with the tiny Clan matriarch.

The ancient Dwarf-dam invited her in happily, showing her a few things heir Clan brethren had brought as welcome gifts for the young couple. Small things those were: a few well-prepared furs that could be used both as blankets or rugs; some household items; a few pieces of clothing. Even here, the Clan was far from wealthy, but they all knew that building a new household was not an easy thing.

“You can eat with us if you want to,” offered the Lady Kaylee. “I cook for my two lads as well as for my brother and his lad already, so adding two more would be no great hardship. And as you will go out on patrol with the other scouts all the time, you will have very little left for household duties. Unless your bondmate is a good cook, that is.”

“He is good enough, at least when cooking on an open fire in the wilderness,” laughed Rei. “Nonetheless, I will gladly accept your generous offer, Elder. I have always lived in a large family; having just the two of us would be strange indeed.”

For a while, they discussed how the young couple could be installed into the network of Clan business and shared duties – that they would pay for their food and for the matron’s work properly needed no mentioning. It was the way how things worked in a Dwarven Clan; and besides, both would be paid by the King himself for their work, so they had no reason to worry about their future any longer. Dáin Ironfoot was well-known for his wisdom and generosity.

“Have you thought about your handfasting ritual as I told you?” asked the tiny matron, offering Rei good, dark bread, made of rye with ground nuts and honey, and a thick slice of cheese with it.

As they were sitting in Lady Kaylee’s spacious kitchen anyway, she decided to have an early lunch with the younger woman. The main meal in a proper Dwarven family was supper, for the males – and many of the females, too – often worked long hours, thus the family could not meet in the full numbers before evening. Therefore the other meals were usually taken individually, whenever one had the time and the chance to eat.

Rei accepted the simple yet tasty fare with a nod of gratitude, as well as the ale that came with it. Shooting was not only a thirsty business; it awakened one’s appetite, too. Then she considered her answer.

“I believe we can afford the regular year of betrothal,” she said, “We are both young… and we are not wealthy enough to raise a family just yet. Besides, we need to have those betrothal collars made first – and I know not how. The work of a true artisan is not cheap, and we are short on coin.”

“We have the stones,” answered Rei, “but naught else. And to have something made of brass would do the stones no justice.”

“I see,” the Lady Kaylee considered their opinions for a while, for ‘twas true that every Dwarf would see it as an insult for a precious stone to be set in a collar of inferior metal. That was simply not done among the children of Mahal who respected both gemstones and their own art highly.

Rei waited patiently. Due respect towards her elder forbade her to speak ere the matron would do so.

“I believe I know someone who can help you,” said Lady Kaylee finally. “You ought to visit Ingunn Thorkellsdóttir in her workshop. She is a skilled silversmith, but a young one who does not get many commissions yet. She might find the challenge worth her time; and she would make you a fair price.”

“Which Clan is she from?” asked Rei. One of the renowned LongBeard of FireBeard artisans would likely not even let her into their workshop; on the other side, she did not want to give her moonstones in the hand of just anyone.

“She’s a StoneFoot,” replied Lady Kaylee. “She might be an artisan, and the daughter of an artisan, yet she will not look down at you for being from one of the lesser Clans.”

“I should wait for Náli, then,” said Rei. “He, too, has some StoneFoot blood in his veins; he might be better able to deal with his own people.”

“That may be so,” agreed the matron, “yet I do not believe that he would come back any time soon. King Dáin’s horse-master, the old Heri, likes his stable hands to work long and hard. More so when they are new and still learning the ropes.”

The matron smiled. “Nah, they are but the hostlers. They take care of the King’s ponies and those ridden by the messengers and scouts, if they do not have steeds of their own. But Master Heri is the one who breeds the good beasts. He, too, is of our Clan, but he makes the lads under his hand work hard. ‘Tis better if you visit Ingunn now, as long as she is still in her workshop. Tell her I have sent you.”

As their clan consisted mostly of artisans, the StoneFoots were well-respected among their fellow Dwarves, even though they, too, belonged to the lesser Clans. Thus the golden-haired smiths and sculptors and their families dwelt in the quarter of the artisans – a level higher than the StiffBeards, yet not quite as high as the respected warriors of the BlackLock and IronFist Clans, not to mention the members of the court. Dwarven society was an intricate network of kinship and alliances and rank based on both birth and personal deeds; a system that would give any other race a headache.

Due to their low numbers, females were highly valued and generally outranked males of their own standing; but that was only the basics of divisions. There were the Clan divisions next. The three ranking Clans had originally been the LongBeards, the FireBeards and the BroadBeams – the ones that had once had their own realms, back in the First Age.

Yet after the fall of Tumunzahar and Gabilgathol, the FireBeards and BroadBeams had lost much of their previous rank, while the BlackLocks and IronFists, due to the bravery and skills of their warriors, had been steadily rising in esteem and had taken over the leading positions next to the still prominent LongBeards. With very few exceptions – for they could still raise great warriors – the LongBeards had become artisans and merchants in these days, while the BroadBeams were mostly merchants.

Aside from Clan divisions, occupation also played an important role when defining one’s rank and place in society. Master artisans outranked everyone else, save the King himself, his family and the Forge Guards. Scholars were small in number but also much respected. Warriors came right after them; then came the merchants, and on the lowest place stood the miners, the servants and those who did other menial tasks, like growing crop or breeding livestock.

Therefore, while Rei came from the lowest-ranking Clan, as a scout she would count as a warrior and thus be consequently more respected than Náli, who not only was a mere StiffBeard – and a male one at that, not to mention an almost beardless youth – but also worked in the stables. So it was perchance a good idea for her to pay a visit to the StoneFoot silversmiths alone.

After having asked a few people for directions, Rei finally arrived to a two-storey house in the quarter of the whitesmiths, which consisted of two separate workshops on the ground level and the personal quarters of the family upstairs. Both workshops had large, open front windows, so that people could admire the smiths’ work through them as they walked by. Rei went to the workshop on the left side and rapped her knuckles on the heavy oak door. It stood open, too, but she did not want to blunder in unannounced. That would have been rude.

“Enter!” called out a cheerful voice, and she followed the invitation, looking around in the small workshop with interest. She had never seen Dwarf-smiths at work before.

Two Dwarf-dams were sitting at their workbenches, their plain working clothes covered by long leather aprons. One of them was just about to fasten a gossamer-fine golden grid, netted with small, fiery gems (mayhap rubies) over the leather covering of a large book – or, to be more accurate, over the leather-covered wooden plates that would eventually become the front and back covers of a book. Her flaming red hair, bright greenish-brown eyes and round, freckled face revealed her as a FireBeard, and Rei wondered what she was doing here. Was it custom in Erebor to share business, even beyond Clan boundaries?

The other female smith could only be the owner of the workshop. Slender for a Dwarf, she had eyes so deep blue as the summer sky, and a great sheaf of blonde hair that gleamed like molten gold. She was a rare beauty indeed; that and the fact that she had learned a respected trade of her own would make her much sought-after among young males… or even among not-so-young but wealthy and respected ones. She was probably a little older than Rei herself, but few Dwarves Rei had met so far were younger than her.

The golden-haired one looked up from her work – she was making a silver chain out of delicately-twisted, oval links – and smiled.

“I am looking for Ingunn Thorkellsdóttir,” answered Rei. “The Lady Kaylee sent me.”

The female silversmith rose from her workbench and set her delicate tools aside to greet her with the proper bow.

“The Lady Kaylee has my trust and my utmost respect,” she said, wiping her hands on the cloth tucked into the waistband of her apron. “If she sent you, then you are twice welcome. I am Ingunn the silversmith, at your service, and I ask you again: how can I help you?”

Rei bowed politely. “Rei Hreinnsdóttir of the StiffBeard Clans, at yours,” she introduced herself. “I am in the need of a whitesmith who would be willing to make our betrothal collars.”

“StiffBeard?” a deep, amused voice said, and Skafid, whom she had just met at the shooting range, came forth from the back of the workshop. “I thought you were one of us; small though you are. I believed you were just very young.”

“I am quite young,” answered Rei, “and I do have some IronFist blood in me indeed.”

“I wonder if that will make you as good with the hammer as you are with the bow,” said Skafid. “Well, we shall see tomorrow. But do you truly intend to be bound to that little thief of yours? That would be a waste, if there has ever been one.”

Rei lifted her chin defiantly, the fact that Skafid was a head taller than her not intimidating her the least. She had lived under Men; she was used to be smaller than everyone else – and to make that an advantage.

“Náli is no longer a thief,” she replied. “And if you object my choice, we can deal with that tomorrow on the practice ground. I so love to put insolent males to their proper places. We shall see whether your grater size is truly such an advantage against my greater speed.”

“Are you trying to woo her off her choice, Skafid?” asked Ingunn, only half-teasingly. “For if you are, I cannot fathom what you are doing in my workshop.”

Skafid managed to look properly contrite, despite the smouldering fire in his amber eyes; there could be no doubt that he, too, had a serious case of the love-longing. “My lady, there is only one Dwarf-dam that I wish to woo, and that is you. There is and will never be any-one else.”

“I hope so, for the sake of your family jewels,” returned Ingunn snidely, but she allowed him to kiss her. “Be not all too certain of your place on my side, for we are not properly bound yet, I can always change my mind if you misbehave.”

“You can – but will you?” teased Skafid. They looked at each other for a long moment, and Rei was fairly sure that she would not. These two longed for each other as much as Náli and herself did. They would make a stunningly beautiful couple one day.

“I might,” replied Ingunn, now a little more playfully. “Now, get out of here, you great loot. Eydís and I have work to do. How am I supposed to make a living if you annoy away my potential customers? Go and hew some more stone – this here is delicate work, not for your huge paws. Go!”

Skafid laughed, not the least insulted, and left obediently. Ingunn slapped his broad back on his way out, in the manner of petting a big, good-natured dog. Then she turned back to Rei.

“All right,” she said. “Show me what you have fort he collars, and then we can discuss the design and haggle about the price.”

“Just the gemstones, naught else,” Rei poured out the handful of stones onto the silversmith’s workbench.

There were a few sapphires and rubies among them, even a diamond; also a couple of opals, and emeralds and some topazes. But it was the moonstones that caught Ingunn’s eyes at once, as it could be expected.

“Where do you have these from?” she asked in awe. “Even King Dáin has only one such gem in his treasure chamber.”

Rei smiled thinly. “That little thief of mine has raided a haunted Barrow in Eriador for them, to give me them as tokens of his love.”

“He went into the Barrow-downs?” Ingunn’s eyes widened in shock. “And he came back alive? How had he done that?”

“He is resilient,” answered Rei simply, “although he did have some help.”

“You?” Ingunn whistled. “Your bond was truly forged among unique circumstances.”

“My foster father, mostly,” corrected Rei. “He is one of the Northern Rangers, and he knows his ways along strange paths no-one else would dare to tread. Well, what do you say? Would you, like to try your hand on true moonstones?”

“’Tis tempting,” admitted Ingunn. “More so as I shall not likely get another chance like this. But can you pay for my work?”

With that, a long and delightful haggling began. The fiery-haired Eydís joined in too, and they spent almost an hour to forge the bargain that would satisfy both sides. Rei was not willing to give away any of the moonstones, and she wanted to keep the diamond, too. So they haggled and argued and bantered, enjoying every moment of it, and finally, they came to an agreement. Ingunn accepted the opals and emeralds as payment, and she and Eydís – who would take one topaz – agreed to make the collars of stargold – a special alloy of silver and gold, originally created by the whitesmiths of Khazad-dûm, one of which had been an ancestor of Eydís. The moonstones would be set in the collars. As for the proper design, the whitesmiths asked for a few more days, and that was that.

When Rei got home for the second time, Náli had already been there. He was tired and filthy from the work in the stables, but content.

“’Tis tiring work, and a bit dull,” he admitted, “yet one I can do, at least for a while. I think I can learn to like a more settled life, even though I will miss the outdoors.”

“Mayhap when they see that you are reliable, they will allow you to join the scouts, too,” said Rei.

Rei nodded. “Just this morning, aye. We both have honest, paid work now; which means we can start thinking about our handfasting ceremony.”

“Whenever you want it; whoever you want it,” replied Náli, blushing like a beardless lad.

“’Twould take some time yet,” said Rei. “I have just ordered the collars.”

“You have?” Náli’s eyes widened in delight. “But can we afford them to be made? We shall not see any payment for a while yet.”

“I have traded some of the gemstones for the work of the whitesmiths who know the secret of forging stargold,” explained Rei. “They promised to show us the drawings within the week. I asked that they set the moonstones and the sapphires into the collars… the two sets of blue would match nicely. I gave away the opals, the emeralds and one topaz.”

“That still leaves us the rubies, the rest of the topazes and that diamond,” said Náli. “You must have hammered out a hard bargain.”

“’Twas a fair challenge,” admitted Rei. “But now I am well content. Go and have a bath, mine; we shall have supper with the lady Kaylee’s family. She offered us to cook for us for the time being.”

“Has she?” Náli grinned in delight. “Well, that was ever so nice of her; they say she is a wondrous cook. I have not sat at the table with a large family for years!”

“Neither have I… not with a Dwarven one, that is,” Rei kissed him. “Go bathe. You stink of horseshit. Then we shall go to Lady Kaylee; and then we can try to do something for a large family of our own.”

“As my lady orders,” Náli laughed and left in the direction of the common baths.

“The Book of Mazarbul” begins as a collection of different storylines, all of which will eventually converge to bring together Balin’s company – that which set off to re-tale Moria. This particular storyline describes Óin’s adventures, previously to that ill-fated expedition, to explain why he chose to join Balin, while his brother Glóin did not. According to canon, he was born in 2774 and considered a mature and respected member of Dáin Ironfoot’s court.

Once again, the looks of Eikinskialdi and Miödvitnir are based on the excellent Dwarf pictures of Ro aka Sabra R. Hart, which you can view in her Elfwood gallery.

"I don't see that this will help us much," said Thorin disappointedly after a glance. "I remember the Mountain well enough and the lands about it. And I know where Mirkwood is, and the Withered Heath where the great dragons bred."

Of the twelve Dwarves accompanying Thorin Oakenshield on his quest to re-take the Lonely Mountain from the Dragon in the year 2961 of the Third Age, Óin son of Gróin was without doubt the most adventurous one. Unlike his brother Glóin, who was happy enough to settle down in a nice mansion under the Mountain with his family, Óin was not one to sit around in the same place for long if he could help it.

Thus when the rebuilding of the great Dwarven city had been finished and all the Dragon’s filth cleaned away, and there was no more intense labour to be done, Óin began to grow restless again. As an excellent smith of weapons and jewellery, just like his brother, he had risen quickly to a most respected status in King Dáin’s court, but it was no longer enough for him. He was “a Dwarf of many journeys”, as they said, and it began to itch in his boots to go off into the wilderness again – to see new things and meet new people and hear all the tidings that were there to be heard.

At first, he began to visit the scattered settlements of the StoneFoot Dwarves along the lower range of the Ered Mithrin, making a great number of friends among them, due to his skills and the wonderful tales he had collected in his many journeys and which he told most excellently. They even guided him to the abandoned Dwarf-kingdom under the Grey Mountains during one of his visits; the one that had been bothered by Scatha the Worm, the greatest Cold-drake of the North. Although Scatha had been slain by Fram son of Frumgar of the Éothéod, others of its kind had followed its path, ‘til the Dwarves finally gave up the city and never returned. For the terrible memory of King Dáin I, killed by a Cold-drake, still lingered over the ruins, and despite its still existing riches, no Dwarf wished to move to such a desolate place.

Mayhap that visit was what got Óin interested in dragons so much. Or mayhap the visits to the FireBeard dwellings that were even further in the North, under the upper range of the Grey Mountains, beyond which only the frosty tundra of Forodwaith stretched towards the Sea. Family history, too, could have played a certain role, as well as his own experiences with Smaug the Golden. In any case, his curiosity was piqued, and from that time on, he repeatedly accompanied Balin, Dwalin and Ori, when the BlackLock scholars travelled to Rivendell to discuss lore with Elrond himself and his chief scholar and advisor, Erestor.

As Erestor’s parents had once belonged to the great smith Celebrimbor’s people, who – alone among Elves save Finrod Felagund to date – was called Dwarf-friends, and he himself had spent his early childhood in Ost-in-Edhil and had known Master Narvi himself, the scholarly Elf was much friendlier to Dwarves than Elves generally were, and he shared with them his rich knowledge most willingly.

There had been discussions among the LongBeard Dwarves whether or not Master Erestor, too, should be declared a Dwarf-friend. After all, he had been one of the handful of Elves to come to the Dwarves’ aid in the Battle of Azanulbizar. And while no such declaration had been made so far, King Dáin and many other Dwarves considered him a Dwarf-friend anyway. Balin, Dwalin and Ori were among those, and Óin, too, had come to agree with them.

But even the vast libraries of Rivendell could not satisfy his hunger for knowledge completely, and thus he made several journeys to the Blue Mountains, where the elders of his own people dwelled, and even visited the Grey Havens to speak with Círdan the Shipwright, who was arguably the oldest Elf still in Middle-earth… or, at the very least, the one who had spent the longest time there without an interruption. There was always the Lord Glorfindel of Rivendell, of course, but Óin had a certain… reluctance to talk to people who had apparently come back from the dead.

What he learned on these journeys he told no-one, not even his brother, but his newly-won knowledge had apparently given him a great deal to think about. Often could he be found in the archives of the Kingdom, pondering over great, dusky leather-bound tomes that had been brought from the Blue Mountains after the re-taking of Erebor, and often did he question Balin, Dwalin, Ori and the other scholars about the nature and the history of the dragons. Those tried to answer his questions as well as they could, but soon it became obvious that their answers were far from being satisfying for him.

When, on a bright spring day in the year 2980 of the Third Age, he announced that he wanted to make a journey to the Withered Heath and search the abode of old where once the Great Dragons had bred, everyone thought that he had lost his mind. He was well over two hundred years old by then – too mature for such juvenile follies, at least in theory, and no-one could understand what gain might he hope from such a perilous journey.

“Are you tired of your life?” his brother Glóin cried in dismay. “Who knows what kind of vile creatures might still linger there? You could meet any sorts of monsters in those caves – no Dwarf has ever dared to enter them.”

“Which is the very reason why I wish to do so,” replied Óin. “No-one had known that Smaug was dwelling there, unnoticed, for who knows how many hundreds of years. What if he was not the only one? That place has been the nest of the Great Worms from the dawn of time, and we know that dragons do not die, unless they are slain. If there are any more Worms, we need to know. We must not be surprised again like we were at the coming of Smaug.”

“Your words do have some merit,” admitted Balin, who was the chief of Erebor’s scholars, reluctantly, for he did not want to lose another one of his friends of old. Taking their kingdom back had cost them enough as it was. “’Tis said, however, that one should better let sleeping dragons lie; for they would leave one alone as long as they are not bothered.”

“Unless they hear of our wealth and greed overcomes them again,” pointed out Óin mercilessly. “Nay, we need to know. I have already travelled to the Grey Mountains several times… and I have friends among the StoneFoot and FireBeard clans that dwell there. I can do this. I want to do this.”

Glóin, who was loath to let his brother go but had no authority to forbid him doing so, looked helplessly at Balin, who was the eldest male of their family. As Balin’s wife was no longer alive, they had no matriarch, thus laying down the law was Balin’s duty and privilege. At least according to custom – in truth, however, no-one could truly hinder a grown Dwarf in going wherever he wanted to go.

“Your brother is right, Glóin,” he said. “We cannot be certain that there are no other Worms in the Withered Heath; and if there are any, we need to know about that indeed.”

“But he cannot make such a long and perilous journey all on his own!” argued Glóin, who was concerned about the safety of his brother.

“On the contrary,” said Balin calmly. “Would we to send a strong army of warrior Dwarves to the North, it would raise unwanted attention – and those of our kind who dwell there still would believe that we wanted to subjugate them. No-one will suspect a lonely Wanderer, though; and Óin is resilient enough to take care of himself.”

“Besides,” added Óin, “they already know me. They would not easily trust any other Dwarf from the outside, though. ‘Tis better if I go alone.”

Glóin was still against the whole idea, but as Óin had received King Dáin’s permission for his intended journey as well, he could do naught to prevent it. Although it was not for the lack of trying, to tell the truth.

“Always have you been the most restless of our entire family,” he said in sorrow, “And I fear that I shall lose you before your time one day.”

“That might be so,” answered Óin. “but not on this journey; of that I am fairly certain. And whatever my fate might be in the end, at least I shall be able to say that I have led a life of my own liking… just as you have done. We are very different in this, brother mine – let me go my way and be glad for me, for I enjoy my life very much.”

To that Glóin had no answer, and thus he agreed to let his brother go, although his heart was heavy with concern and sorrow. His entire family came forth to speak their farewells to Óin on the day of his departure, and young Gimli, Glóin’s firstborn – a grown Dwarf himself albeit still a fairly young one – looked after him enviously as he rode away on a strong hill pony, his saddlebags full of supplies for the long journey.

“One day,” said Gimli with longing in his voice, “I, too, shall go on a great adventure of my own. I wish to become a Dwarf of many journeys like my uncle, and to see places no Dwarf has seen before.”

“Be careful what you wish for, my son,” he said. “Mahal might choose to fulfil your wish, and you might find that you got more than you have bargained for.”

And thus Óin son of Gróin began his long, lonely journey to the North once again. He travelled slowly, visiting the scattered StoneFoot and FireBeard settlements along the southern outskirts of the lower range of the Grey Mountains, speaking to their elders and seeking out other, even smaller and better hidden dwellings of which he had no even heard before. Sometimes he would spend a longer time on one settlement, helping the clan he was visiting with their chores and writing down during the night what he had learned during the day. When there were no more to learn, he would thank them and take his leave to continue his journey.

So did he move slowly, steadily to the North and the East, and thus Durin’s Day found him in one of the small FireBeard dwellings, under the farthest north-eastern outskirts of the Grey Mountains. ‘Twas a small and rather poor clan that he visited there, consisting mostly of older Dwarves, under the leadership of a venerable matriarch well beyond three hundred years. All the younger ones had moved on, to the Iron Hills or to Erebor itself, where there was more challenging work for them to do, and where they had better hopes to find a suitable mate. This ancient dwelling place, once that had housed the FireBeard clans since the fall of their great city Tumunzahar, would likely to be abandoned and empty within a generation.

Somehow Óin found that thought a sad one. The place, like all places where Dwarves had dwelt for a long time, had deep roots and long memories. It was a piece of history for Mahal’s Children; a small and insignificant piece perhaps, but without it the world of Dwarves would be bereft of some of its richness. The LongBeard Kings, to whom Óin himself was related from the side, might have been the most powerful and respected Dwarf-Lords now; but there had been a time, in the days of Tumunzahar’s might, when the FireBeards had been almost their equals. And with every piece of their lost history, they sank just a little deeper into insignificance.

The clan took Óin in with the customary hospitality shown to any clansmen. His long, forked beard might be of a much darker shade of red than theirs, and his eyes might be beetle-black instead of the bright brown or green that was most common among them, but he still clearly showed the typical FireBeard traits, even after generations of intermarriage with the LongBeards. Thus he was considered kin. Not close kin, for sure, but kin nonetheless; and as distant kin, he was offered a place at the bonfire and a mug of the home-brewed ale that they had saved to celebrate Durin’s Day in the proper manner.

The clan members all being well beyond their middle years, there was little dancing at the bonfire in the night of Durin’s day. Most of them could no longer take that kind of exertion upon themselves, as either the beating of the great drums all night or the dancing itself would have exhausted them completely. There was much singing, however, of songs so old that Óin barely recognized a couple of them; and there was a great deal of storytelling going on.

Óin, being in his best years himself, danced as long as the drummers could keep on beating their instruments. Afterwards, he wrapped himself into a bearskin blanket against the chill of the night and sat down at the bonfire to listen to the storytellers. One in particular intrigued him very much; one that seemed to know strange, ancient tales, the likes of which he had never heard before. They were mostly about dragons, which was the very thing that had caught Óin’s interest in the first place.

While listening to the tale, Óin was watching the storyteller with almost as much interest, for he, too, was every bit as intriguing as the tales he readily told. Small for a Dwarf, albeit not overly so, he was almost as board as he was tall, and he appeared incredibly strong. He was wearing a sleeveless mail shirt under his thick leather hauberk that left bare his great, tattooed arms, almost as big as tree trunks; only his forearms were protected by scaled steel vambrances. His cloak was tattered and his short, heavily booted legs wrapped; a clear sign that he was one of the Wanderers: those of unknown origins, without a family, a home or any close kin.

He had to be a skilled and seasoned warrior, though, for the short pole-axe he carried and the broadsword on his back – almost big enough for a grown Man – showed the workmanship of an excellent weaponsmith, even though his jewellery, mostly decorative buttons and rings worn on his leather hauberk, on his hood or on the bracelets emphasizing his huge upper arm muscles, were made of brass, as if he did not want to tempt thieves and robbers on the lonely roads. Even though there could be no doubt that he was more than capable of defending himself and his meagre belongings, should the need arise.

His fiery read beard was surprisingly short for a Dwarf of his apparent age, but again, Wanderers had different customs. It was held together by a simple brass clasp, while his long moustache hung down to his chest, unbraided. His eyes were small, round and beetle-black, like those of the BroadBeams; perhaps he had a few ancestors from those clans in his line, too.

But what drew Óin’s attention most strongly were his tattoos. They covered the right side on his face and his entire upper body… patterns of a strange design Óin had not seen on living flesh before, and yet they seemed eerily familiar to him. Somewhere, perchance in some arcane book of ancient lore, he had seen such patterns already. He just could not remember when and where.

The stranger’s voice, too, had a mysterious quality to it: it was a deep, rumbling voice, and he spoke in that special, singsong tone only the greatest storytellers could use to full effect – or those well-versed in the using of spells and magic. Such had not been seen among Dwarves for many generations; not that Óin had heard of it in any case, and he had spent his recent years with collecting the strangest stories and the most outrageous gossip one could imagine.

“Dragons,” the stranger was saying, “hail from the First Age of the Sun. The Dark Enemy, whom the Fading Ones call Morgoth, was hiding himself in the Pits of Angband, his great fortress in the North, and wrought them as his masterpieces of evil, from flame and sorcery. They were the dark jewels of his mastery – the Great Worms, the ones we call dragons...”

“Forgive me,” said Óin interrupting the storyteller with a properly apologetic gesture, “but I have been told that Morgoth was not capable of creating anything new. That is why he had to capture Elves to turn them into Orcs, through torture and dark sorcery, and why he made the Trolls to the mockery of the tree-shepherds… should those truly exist.”

The storyteller stared at him from under thick russet eyebrows. “Oh, but they do exist, my curious friends,” he said. “I have seen them with my very eyes, on my journeys across the lands of the Horse-lords. We cannot tell what kind of creature did The Dark Enemy twist and corrupt ‘til he came to the creation of the Worms. We only know that he made three kinds: great serpents that slithered on their bellies over the ground; those that walked on legs, and those that flew with wings like a bat.”

“I have heard tales of Glaurung, the Father of Dragons, and of Ancalagon the Black,” said Óin, “but never about the first two kinds. Can you tell me more?”

The storyteller shook his massive head. “I, too, know no more about them than that they had once existed. All the tales I have heard are about the winged dragons: the Cold-drakes, who fought with fang and claw, and the famed Urulóki, the Fire-drakes, who destroyed with breath of flame. But whatever kind they might have belonged to, in one thing they were all alike: all of them were the embodiment of the chief evils of Men, Elves and Dwarves, and thus were great in their destruction of all three races.”

“I have seen what they could do,” muttered Óin, his heart filling with painful memories.

“You have not seen half of it,” replied the storyteller. “Terrible though Smaug the Golden might have been and great the desolation that he had wrought, yet he was but a hatchling compared with the dragons of the Elder Days, which were in themselves vast armouries, working towards the Dark Enemy’s aim. Reptiles of massive size they were, protected by scales of impenetrable iron.”

“But the scales of Smaug were of gold,” pointed out Óin, “and yet neither sword nor arrow could penetrate his coat, save that one naked patch on his left breast. We have always been wondering how mere gold could have become so impenetrable to almost every weapon.”

“That comes from the heat of dragonfire, which could melt even the Rings of Power,” said the storyteller. “It can melt both gold and iron and fuse hem to an alloy that unites the best qualities of both metals. If a dragon lies down on a heap of gold, right after a vicious fight in which it had spent a lot of fire, its heated body melts the gold and fuses it with its iron scales.”

“That is something I never heard of before,” said Óin in surprise… even a little doubtfully.

The storyteller shrugged. “’Tis not widely known. Few of us have ever studied dragon lore – I am well pleased to meet someone like you with a true interest.”

“Well,” said Óin, “I have been there when we faced Smaug the last time. Even if it is true that he cannot be compared with the Great Worms of the First Age, he was still a mighty beast. His teeth and talons were like javelins and rapiers, and his tail could crush the shield-wall of any army. He swept the land below him like the storm of wind, and he breathed scarlet flames that scorched the earth and destroyed all in their path.”

The storyteller nodded. “That is the way of all Fire-drakes. But pure strength was not their only weapon. They possessed more subtle powers, too. Their eyesight was keener than that of the falcon or the hawk; and whatever they sighted, it could not escape them. Their hearing was most acute, too; they would catch the sound of the slightest breath of the most silent enemy; and their unique sense of smell allowed them to name any creature by the least odour of its flesh.”

“Oh, aye,” Óin laughed. “That was why our esteemed burglar, the Halfling, did confuse Smaug so much. The old Worm could not see him; and his smell was one that no dragon had encountered before.”

“Halflings are elusive creatures,” agreed the storyteller, “but your burglar did take a great risk to get involved in a riddle game with a dragon, as I was told. They say that dragons had once been ancient serpents, and thus kept their intense cleverness and knowledge, even after their transformation into Morgoth’s creatures.”

“Nay,” said the storyteller in agreement, “for their intelligence had the flaws of vanity, gluttony, greed, deceit and wrath – all the poisons of the soul that do the other races the most harm.”

“And those are exactly the flaws one could detect by Elves and Men… and even Dwarves, should they happen to catch the Dragon Sickness,” added Óin grimly.

“Is it true that they feared water and sunlight?” asked someone from the other Dwarves who had listened to the discussion with rapt interest.

“Nay,” said Óin promptly. “At least Smaug had no fear to show himself at daytime… or to attack Laketown directly, which, after all, did lie within the Long Lake.”

“That may be so,” said the storyteller. “’Tis true nonetheless that dragons shunned water, if they could, and preferred darkness to the light of the day. That comes from their nature, as they were created chiefly of fire and sorcery. ‘Tis the same with Orcs – they can bear the water, even cross it on rafts if they have to, but they avoid it whenever they can.”

“Can bathing in dragon-blood truly make you invulnerable to all weapons?” asked someone else.

The storyteller shook his head. “Nay, it cannot. Dragon-blood was not only black, it was also deadly poison, and the vapours of the worm-stench were of burning sulphur and slime.”

“Oh, aye,” said Óin with feeling. “I can remember. It took us years to get that stench out of the halls under the Mountain, with constant scrubbing and airing and burning incense, sometimes even removing entire layers of the stone walls. Our Halfling friend also said, though, that Smaug’s body glowed with a hard, gem-like light all the time.”

“All Fire-drakes did, from what I have heard,” replied the storyteller. “Also, all dragons had cruel, harsh, whisper-like reptilian voices, unless they were laughing; for their laugher was deeper than well-shafts and made the very mountains shake.”

Óin nodded. “I remember that our poor little burglar was nearly deafened by it. He also said that the eye of the Worm emitted rays of ruby light. or flashed red lightning when it was enraged.”

“The serpent-eyes of the dragons could do more than just that,” said the storyteller grimly. “Contained with their voices, they invoked the dragon-spell that bound unwary foes and made them wish to surrender to the Worm’s awesome will.”

“Not even the greatest heroes of the Elder could withstand the dragon-spell, or so the laments of the Elves say,” said Óin in agreement. The more were we surprised that Bilbo came away unscathed. But Halflings are a hardy little folk that can withstand forces of evil that many greater races would be defeated by… if the Grey Wizard is not mistaken.”

“Tharkûn?” asked the storyteller in surprise. “So he was the one behind your daring enterprise? I should have known.”

“We never met in person,” replied the storyteller. “But I have been hearing strange tales about him for a great many years. I have made it my agenda to learn as much about him as I might. His strength is fire; and so is mine.”

Óin frowned; he found that statement more than a little confusing. “Are you some sort of Dwarven wizard, then?”

“Nay,” said the storyteller, “although I do know one. But where are my manners?” he rose from the blanket he had been sitting on and bowed deeply. “Miödvitnir the Rune-smith, at your service,” he said.

Óin was thunderstruck by that declaration. A Rune-smith! Only those with a special interest for ancient lore – people like himself – had heard about this mysterious kind of magic users that had only ever emerged from the FireBeard clans. Now he knew why the storyteller’s tattoos seemed so familiar to him. They were no mere patterns – they were enchanted runes, from which the Rune-smith drew power to work his magic; and through the tattooed runes, he could draw power from the earth itself. Few Dwarves had ever been able to use earth magic the way Elves did, but the few that had learned how to do it were powerful and dangerous.

So Óin rose, too, and bowed so deeply that his red-brown braid, thicker than his own arm, swept the ground.

“Óin son of Gróin, at yours and your family’s,” he replied. “Forgive my bafflement; I have never met a Rune-smith before. Quite frankly, I thought your kind had vanished from Middle-earth with the fall of Tumunzahar. We all know how very few of that great city could escape.”

“Few indeed, and even those and their progeny have ever been shunned for that unfortunate… event with the King of Doriath and his cursed jewel,” said the Rune-smith grimly. Then he gave Óin a closer look. “The son of Gróin, eh? Of the blood of Dáin, last King under the Grey Mountains, right? The one who was killed by a Cold-drake, with his second son, Frór, was it not?”

Óin nodded and grinned. “That is true, although the danger that kingship might fall to our family is, fortunately, diminutive.”

The Rune-smith remained grave… and, for some reason, vaguely suspicious. “And you are the son of the Lady Frey, too?” he asked. “Her name has ever been a most respected one among the FireBeard clans.”

Óin nodded again. “I am indeed, and proud to carry her heritage. Sadly, she did not live to see the fall of the Dragon.”

“To carry her… heritage,” the Rune-smith repeated slowly. “Does this mean that you have inherited the fire-touch?”

Once more, Óin nodded. “Aye; and so have my brother and his firstborn. None of their other sons, though, albeit he, too, married a dam of our mother’s people, the Lady Nais.”

“Three in a single family are more than any Dwarf can hope for,” answered the Rune-smith solemnly. “You should value and nurture this ability of yours, as it has become increasingly rare among Mahal’s Children. So very few are nowadays with fire being their element, as it is yours and mine.”

“Not truly,” laughed Óin. “I could never dream of the kind of powers you most likely wield on a daily basis.”

“It matters little,” said the Rune-smith. “What truly matters is the gift you were born with: the affinity for fire, the skill to capture and master it. Aught else can be learned; ‘tis only a matter of time and determination.”

“I have no wish to become a magic user,” said Óin with a shrug. “My skills at the forge satisfy me.”

One thick, russet eyebrow calmed so high that it vanished under Miödvitnir’s tattered black hood. “Oh?” he said with obvious doubt. “Why are you here, then?”

“To learn more about the dragons,” replied Óin. “My ultimate goal is to enter the Withered Heat and see whether any of them are still hiding there.”

“An ambitious task,” said the Rune-smith. “You have not planned to go there on your own, though, I hope?”

“Why should I not?” retorted Óin. “I have a much better chance to slip in and out again unnoticed when I am alone than leading whole armies.”

“Mayhap so,” replied the Rune-smith. “But without a guide to show you the safe paths, you would get lost and die in that barren wasteland in no time. You cannot begin to imagine what the abode of the Worms is like.”

“I would not say so,” riposted Óin, a little insulted. “I have seen the desolation of the Dragon around the Mountain close enough.”

“You have seen the desolation of one dragon, and not even one of the mightiest, had caused,” pointed out the Rune-smith. “The Withered Heath used to be their abode; they had spent hundreds, mayhap thousands of years there. Nay; only one who has seen it with his own eyes can imagine what the lands that had to endure the constant presence of the Worms so long are like.”

“I have but skimmed the outskirts a few times; never dared to go in too deeply, though. Those lands there are deader than dead….l who knows what creatures might sleep there, under the thick blanket of centuries-old ash and soot. ‘Tis better not to disturb them.”

Óin thought about that for a while. There was wisdom in the words of the Rune-smith, wisdom won by experiences of a long life. Miödvitnir seemed in his middle years, too; but his deep eyes, cold and unfathomably dark, spoke of more; either of a higher age or of most… profound experiences.

“I still believe I ought to go there,” Óin finally said. “Could you guide me at least as far as you have gone in? Mayhap I shall find another guide for the rest of the way.”

‘Twas Miödvitnir’s turn to think about it now, and he took his time to weigh the pros and contras in his mind carefully.

“I shall take you to Eikinskialdi who dwells just within the borders of that place,” he said at last. “If he will be willing to guide you any further, I cannot tell. He is a Dwarf of strange opinions… but he is the only one who ever goes there.”

“Eikinskialdi,” repeated Óin thoughtfully. Although he heard the name for the first time in his life, it left a peculiar, resounding echo, more in his heart than in his ears. As if someone had called out to him from the shadowy depths of Time itself, from an Age long gone when magic and strange powers were more common than in these lesser days. “Who is he that he chose to live in such a dreary place?”

The Rune-smith shrugged, and for the first time Óin said uncertainty shadowing his broad, weather-beaten face.

“I cannot tell you who he is,” he answered, “as he never speaks of himself, not even in vague hints. But I can tell you what he is.”

“A Fire-mage,” replied the Rune-smith. At Óin’s blank look, he sighed and launched into a more detailed explanation. “A creature with the inherited power to wield fire as a weapon… or as a tool of magic. The ancient sagas tell us that in the Elder Days, the Fire-mages of the FireBeard clans used to be the last, strongest line of defence in the great city of Tumunzahar. They had been much feared and respected among our ancestors, long before our people encountered the Fading Ones for the first time. They could ignite anything, save water or stone, through a simple spell or by sheer willpower. And if endangered, they could call up fireballs and hurl them at their attackers.”

“Sounds way too much like dragons to me,” commented Óin, his discomfort plainly obvious. He was no longer sure he truly wanted such a person to guide him across dragon territory – not even in the hopefully fortunate case that there were no dragons left there.

The Rune-smith chuckled; it was a surprisingly pleasant sound, the first such as Óin had heard of him so far.

“Nay,” he said, “Eikinskialdi might have the tempers of a cornered dragon – well, to be perfectly honest, he is probably worse – but rest assured that he is very different from the Worms. To begin with, dragons have a natural armour of very hard iron scales, as you all know. Fire-mages on the other hand cannot even bear the touch of iron.”

“’Tis their nature,” answered the Rune-smith with a shrug, “the price they pay for their powers. Iron burns them, even if melted into an alloy with some other metal; which is the reason why they generally avoid keeping any things made of metal, save of gold, which seems to fuel their natural powers somehow.”

“That makes sense,” said Óin. “Gold is the metal of the Sun, and the Sun is the source of every clean fire. Only the dark flames of Udûn come from below.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Miödvitnir. “In any case, ‘tis true, strange as it might sound. I have had to dress Eikinskialdi’s fearsome burns quite a few times when he happened to touch things of iron by accident.”

“It must be complicated, for a Dwarf, not being able to even touch any decent tools or weapons,” said Óin.

“Oh, he manages well enough, as long as he is left alone,” replied the Rune-smith. “’Tis the visitors who get him in trouble from time to time. Few among us think of the danger our scattered items would mean for a Fire-mage… and how many of our tools and weapons are made of iron, at least partially.”

“Even so, is it truly necessary for this mage to live in such an evil place?” Óin shook his head, failing to understand the reasons for doing so.

“’Tis said that their kind has always been solitary,” answered the Rune-smith thoughtfully, “but nay, they are not forbidden to live among ordinary people. In fact, they were supposed to do so, to teach and protect the others – that is what their powers had been meant for, and many of them performed that task admirably as long as Tumunzahar stood. In Eikinskialdi’s case, though, there is a sound reason for him to live within the Withered Heath.”

“I am not truly certain what he is doing now,” admitted the Rune-smith. “But up “til the coming of Sauron to Erebor, he used to study Dragons.”

“Are you telling me that he has been out there since Smaug’s heyday?” asked Óin, completely flabbergasted.

“And long before,” said Miödvitnir. “I know not how old he truly is; I only know that several hundred years ago, when I first came across him, he looked exactly the same as he looks now – and he was already a very old Dwarf back then. Ancient even.”

Óin stared at him in disbelief. “Nay,” he said. You cannot be that old. Several hundred years, you say? I would have thought you to be of roughly my own age.”

“And you would have been mistaken,” replied the Rune-smith. “I am older than I look… much older. I have been already roaming these mountains when your ancestor, Dáin I, was King of the Dwarf city under the Ered Mithrin… and I was no longer young in those days, either.”

“But how is that possible?” whispered Óin. The oldest Dwarf he knew of had lived to see four hundred and some years; and in the middle of his fourth century, poor Bombur had begun to fatten up enormously, which was a sure sign, especially for BroadBeams, that they had entered the last phase of their lives. “Is it the magic that you wield?” he asked. “Or the runes you bear?”

“They do help a little,” admitted the Rune-smith. “But that which has slowed down my aging process is this.”

And raising his left hand, he showed Óin the ring he wore on his middle finger. It was a beautifully crafted one, despite of its simplicity: a thick, smooth band of some strange blue metal, set with a flat, square black stone and etched with powerful runes all around.

“Nay, ‘tis not one of the Seven, similar though it might look,” he said, seeing Óin’s shocked visage. “Those have all been destroyed, and ‘tis good so. Never had they brought our chieftains aught but trouble and sorrow. This one, however… this is one of the lesser Rings, made by Khelebrimbur himself, and untouched by the Dark Lord’s evil.”

The Rune-smith shook his head. “Nay, it does not. I am still aging – only at a much slower speed. Should I get tired of my life, all I shall have to do is to take the Ring off. Age would catch up with me again, and I would grow old and die and be gone in no time.”

“What else does the Ring do for you?” Óin was still suspicious. Tales about the Seven and how they had increased the greed and mistrust in the hearts of the Kings of old were well-known among his clan; he would think twice ere he would trust someone who was wearing one of the Rings, even a lesser one.

Miödvitnir shrugged. “Not much, to tell the truth. It merely enhances my natural abilities. I was a Rune-smith already, and a seasoned warrior, when I received it. As for my affinity for the fire… I was born with that, just like your.”

Óin shook his head vigorously. “Oh, not like me, nay. My modest little gift is nowhere near to that of a Rune-smith.”

“That might be true, yet you were born with it already, just like I was born with mine; or do you believe FireBeards are named just for their red beards?” said Miödvitnir. “We all have begun on a modest scale – I simply had more time to hone my skills, that is all.”

“Where did you get the Ring?” asked Óin. “Can you be truly certain that Sauron never touched it?”

The Rune-smith nodded. “That I can indeed. For the lesser Rings, the ones wrought before the Rings of Power, were gifted upon a few Dwarves of Khazad-dûm by Khelebrimbur himself. Since the days of Felakkundu, he was the first Elf who considered our people as friends and equals, seeing the fellow artisans in us rather than some ugly, stunned creatures like the rest of his race did. As they still do.”

“Not all of them are like that,” protested Óin. “Master Elrond, the Lord of Rivendell, has ever been friendly and generous to our people… which is not surprising, as Erestor of Ost-in-Edhil is his chief advisor.”

“Perhaps,” said Miödvitnir reluctantly. “But no-one can be compared with Khelebrimbur and his great friendship to Master Narvi. Never before was such closeness known before an Elf and a Dwarf… and never again, after they were both gone. Narvi himself was the first to accept one of the lesser Rings from Khelebrimbur’s hand, for he was old already, and his Elven friend, not being able to bear the loss of him just yet, begged him to do so. There were others who followed his lead; not many, but there were, and their Rings, after they had chosen to lay them down and go to their fathers in the Halls of Waiting, were handed down to their progeny. A distant ancestor of mine was one of those, and thus the Ring came to me by birthright, passing over two generations, for I was the only one born with the fire-touch.”

“Does Narvi’s Ring still exist, too?” asked Óin. “As far as we know, he had not sons; but, of course, I have never heard of him wearing such a Ring, either.”

“The Dragon Ring of Khazad-dûm went to Narvi’s best student after his parting,” replied the Rune-smith, “and remained in the possession of the best artisans of Khazad-dûm afterwards, ‘til Durin’s Bane was awakened and our people had to flee the great city. Refugees brought it to the Ered Mithrin, and it has been in Eikinskialdi’s keeping ever since.”

“But… but that was a very long time ago,” said Óin in awe. “Even with the help of a lesser Ring, even with Narvi’s own Ring, how could the Fire-mage have lived so long?”

“He does not need a magic Ring to lengthen his life,” answered Miödvitnir. “As you have noticed already, Fire-mages do have a few common traits with dragons, despite the profound differences. They age very, very slowly, and – unless they are slain – they do not die of natural causes. ‘Tis either the Fire that dwells in their very bones, or the magic they are born with.”

“A very long life can be as much a curse as it is a blessing sometimes,” said Miödvitnir slowly, no stranger to that particular burden himself. “I am told that the others had gradually become weary of life; of the horrors they had seen and the losses they had suffered. In the end, they laid down their lives willingly; for like some Men, they, too had been granted the gift to do so, should the longing to go to their fathers and rest become overwhelming.”

The other Dwarves around the bonfire nodded in understanding. Being a long-lived race, it happened sometimes that one of them grew weary of life, and as they were not granted the gift of simply laying it down, such Dwarves usually fell in a deep melancholy and slowly withered away ‘til death had mercy with them. That could take years upon years in some cases, and it was a cruel thing for the family to watch. Having the ability to part at will must have been a great gift indeed, they found.

“Now I understand how the Fire-mage could hold out on his dwelling place so long,” said the Matriarch. She, too, seemed starting to grow weary of her high age; her thick hair was iron grey, and her face like withered stone. “In my youth, he happened to visit our caves sometimes; but he has not come for a very long time. I wonder, though, why would he wish to study the way of the Worms; and why does he keep doing it now that they are gone.”

“To understand the power of dragons might help him to hone his own skills,” said Óin thoughtfully, “or to understand the origins of the Fire which lives within him.”

The Rune-smith shrugged. “That I cannot tell, for he is not very forthcoming when it is about his own person or his own agendas,” he repeated his former statement. “But he is willing to tolerate those who are born with the fire-touch, and even share some of his vast knowledge with them. I have learned much from him in the long years of our acquaintance, and I am certain that you, too, will greatly benefit from an encounter with him.”

That was certainly very true. And so it happened that – despite his suspicions and misgivings – Óin son of Gróin decided to accept the offer of Miödvitnir the Rune-smith to take him to the Fire-mage’s cave.

Karen Fonstad postulates in her Tolkien Atlas that the Ered Mithrin was once the southern border of the Iron Mountains of Angband, or at least part of it. Based on this, I thought that brambles like the ones that grew in Mordor would be the matching vegetation for the Withered Heath. Plants that could grow in Mordor itself might be able to deal with the aftermath of dragons having infested the place for millennia.

Once again, the looks of Eikinskialdi and Miödvitnir are based on the excellent Dwarf pictures of Ro aka Sabra R. Hart, which you can view in her Elfwood gallery.

The manfish is based on the really existing olm (proteus anguinus) or cave salamander that only lives in Postojna Cave, Slovenia. The characteristics are basically the same; I just made it much bigger and added the dorsal spines. Most of the rest is true for the real animal, even if sometimes a bit exaggerated. They are most amazing creatures indeed.

They went around the eastern edge of the Grey Mountains’ upper range, to enter the Withered Heath from the North: Óin riding his strong hill pony and the Rune-smith walking on his side. The way itself was not very long, but the path so rarely trod that even Miödvitnir, who had been there earlier, had a hard time to find it, so lost had it become among the great, rolling boulders and other sorts of broken stone. And when they finally came out of the shadows of the mountains the sight which was offered to them made Óin’s heart sink, for it was a barren landscape of utter desolation.

The rocky outskirts of the two mountain ranges gripped the flesh of Arda with long, crooked fingers of withered grey stone; as if they were petrified spider-legs or the skeletal hands of some enormous, long-gone creature, which, in its forgotten life, had been cruel and ever-hungry. The rock walls were, up to a certain level, bare and cracked with deep ravines, dug by the flowing water after thousands of years of frequent storms.

And yet not even those sheer rocks were as completely void of life as one would have thought at first sight. For further up on the mountainside, in sheltered places, dark and twisted tree-forms and stunted grey grasses haltingly grew, now that the ever-present dragonfire no longer threatened their existence. And even in lower places, where the ground was harsh and still breathing sulphurous vapours as a reminder of its former cruel masters, hideous brambles sprawled over the land like coils of steel wire. Their leaves were shrivelled with the poisonous vapours and maggot hatchlings, and yet they struggled to life and grew large and fierce, with foot-long thorns, as barbed as a dragon’s tail and as sharp as its claws.

A vile and hideous form of life that was, and yet it appeared like Spring itself in full bloom, compared with the long, triangular shape of land that began where the two ranges of the Ered Mithrin parted, many miles away in the West, and widened gradually to an open flatland that stretched – endlessly, it seemed – towards the Northern Waste. There Óin finally understood what desolation truly meant.

The land between the mountain chains was flat and shapeless, marred only here and there by the winding beds of dry rivers and the empty basins of long-gone lakes. There were no beasts to be seen, no plants at all, not even grass, and there was no water left anywhere. It was eerie and strange to see a landscape so utterly empty of life… as if they had been caught in an endless nightmare, aware of its unreality but unable to break free of it.

A second, more thorough look revealed the reason for it then. The entire landscape was dead, for the very earth had been burned, cooked hard by dragonfire, perchance several feet deep. All the water that had once filled the lake basins and the river beds had been evaporated by the incredible heat that had brewed in dragon bellies, and there were no plants left that might have drawn the rain from the clouds – if any rain clouds had ever managed to pass the sharp pinnacles of the Grey Mountains unscathed to bring their precious burden there. The very rocks of the mountainsides looked as if they had been burned and blackened – nay, melted! – up to the height of a hundred feet or more, and they were smooth and shiny like black, molten glass.

Being a Dwarf who knew his way around rock and stone – even though he primarily worked with iron and jewels himself – Óin could vividly imagined the heat of a fire that had been able to do that… and he shivered. In the Elder Days, a great many of the Worms must have dwelt here. They said that the Ered Mithrin had once been part of the Iron Mountains, the fence of the Great Enemy’s dark realm; and looking at that which they cradled between their long arms, Óin could well believe it.

“You were right,” he said to the Rune-smith. “This is a dread place, filled with memories of unspeakable evil.”

Miödvitnir watched him closely from under bushy eyebrows. “Perhaps,” he said. “But that does not mean that it cannot be healed. And, tortured though it might be, it is not entirely without life.”

“Such as it is,” replied Óin, glancing up at the hideous brambles meandering on the mountainside with disgust.

“Oh, I did not mean those!” laughed the Rune-smith. “They are but poor mockery of life. Nay, youngling, true life does not spread on the surface… not yet, not for a very long time to come. True life comes from within. Follow me and I shall show you.”

Óin found it ridiculous to be called a youngling; even by Dwarven measures, he was well beyond his youth, well into his middle years. But again, who could tell how old the Rune-smith was, with a magic Ring extending his life? He wisely refrained from correcting the older Dwarf, who was now stomping forward, heading right to the mountainside, without looking back. Óin patted the neck of his pony and followed.

They went along one of the dry riverbeds that led them deep within two outstretched, rocky fingers under the highest peaks of the upper mountain range. Soon enough, the rocky walls bent into some sort of arch well above their heads, and – after a while – closed completely, having them walk (well, in Óin’s case ride) through a shadowy tunnel. The pony became restless and threw its head; Óin had to dismount and lead the poor beast on the bridle, so frightened it was.

Soon thereafter the tunnel abruptly ended, and they were facing what seemed to be solid rock. Óin was getting restless himself.

The Rune-smith glanced back over one heavy shoulder disapprovingly. “Of course not!” he growled. “But you did not think one could walk into the caves of a Fire-mage just like that, without as much as by-your-leave? Stop fretting, youngling! Leave the pony in the small cave on your left and let me cast the opening spell in peace!”

He sounded truly irritated, and Óin found it wiser to remain silent. Raising the ire of a magic user was never a good idea. Thus he did as he had been done, finding the small cave dry and comfortable enough for his beast indeed, while Miödvitnir called up some light – it seemed like dancing baubles of silver-white mist – and murmured something in Khuzdul… something that Óin could not understand, either because the dialect was so very old or because ordinary Dwarves were never taught those words. Whatever the case might be, after he had finished, there was a faint crack coming from within the rock, and then the seemingly solid stone wall turned around itself, allowing them a narrow entranceway to whatever lay behind it.

The Rune-smith marched right through, and, after a moment of hesitation, Óin followed him. Barely were they through, the wall closed behind them, having them trapped in the caves… but not in darkness, as Miödvitnir’s magic light made it possible for them to at least guess their surroundings. The night eyes of their race needed very little light to go by in any case.

The caverns that lay behind the magic door were vast; great hallows in the bedrock that was the highest point of the Grey Mountains. They stretched on in a winding chain far beyond the limits of the magic light that was still dancing above Miödvitnir’s palm.

And the caves had a voice, too. There must have been a stream running somewhere along the caverns, through the high-ceilinged natural hall into which they were descending, for Óin could hear the splashing of water echoing back through the long, vaulted chambers. Now he understood what the Rune-smith had meant when he had said that life always came from within. Life could not exist without water; the underground streams made it possible for the Fire-mage to live in these caves.

Miödvitnir shrugged. “That I cannot tell… miles and miles eastward, I suppose. It has never occurred me to follow… and I doubt that Eikinskialdi has ever felt the need to do so, either. You can ask him, though; mayhap he did, after all. Time enough does he have, dwelling here all the time, all on his own. Now come along. We are almost there.”

He led Óin along the cavern wall, ‘til they came to a place where the wall doubled back a step before running on, and there in the shadow of that niche was a small stone door – invisible ‘til the Rune-smith held up the pale light floating above his palm and pushed it inward. It gave easily.

Behind the door, there was a narrow passage for a few steps, then it opened into a great chamber of untouched stone bare of anything but a small heap of dry firewood in the middle. The small fire burned low, barely casting any light into the cave that seemed dark and empty.

Miödvitnir closed his hand, extinguishing thus the magic light he had called up to illuminate their way inward. Then he spoke directly into the shadows.

“Greetings, Eikinskialdi. I have returned, after many seasons, and have brought a visitor. He, too, is born to the Fire and wants to learn about dragons.”

At that, something moved within the shadows, and – seemingly out of nowhere – a solitary flame flared up. Squinting his eyes to adapt to the sudden brightness, Óin saw that the flame sat in the broad, upturned palm of the strangest Dwarf he had ever seen on his many journeys.

Eikinskialdi the Fire-mage – for who else could he have been – was very short as Dwarves go: he barely reached the height of an average Halfling. Like the Rune-smith, he was almost as broad as he was tall, and his stocky frame spoke of great physical strength. Very thick, snow-white hair and beard framed his broad, weather-beaten face, both unembroidered but arranged in thick, lengthy knots with golden rings. His aquamarine eyes were deep-set and very dark, almost black in their shadowy sockets under bushy white eyebrows, and they spoke of the experiences of an age so high that it went way beyond Óin’s imagination. They had the same distant look as those of truly ancient Elves, and yet they also held the knowledge of mortal sorrows.

Of his clothing little could be seen, for he was wrapped in a heavy cloak of such deep red it seemed black in the light of the flame that seemed to float just above his large, upheld hand. And upon the middle finger of that hand gleamed the Dragon Ring of Ost-in-Edhil, the one that had been gifted upon Master Narvi, the greatest of all Dwarven artisans, by Khelebrimbur the Jewel-smith himself.

The Ring no-one had seen since the coming of Durin’s Bane. The Ring every Dwarf believed to have been lost, buried somewhere under the lower chambers of the greatest Dwarf-kingdom of the Second and Third Ages alike.

‘Twas breathtakingly beautiful ring, shaped like a curled-up golden dragon with diamond eyes, resting its head upon its jewelled tail. Small rubies framed its closed mouth, as if it were breathing flames through its teeth. As someone who earned a living by crafting jewellery – at least part of his living, that is – Óin could fully appreciate the mastery of handiwork that had gone into this extraordinary piece almost a full Age earlier. Saying that he was stunned beyond coherent speech would have been an understatement. Soon, however, his attention returned from the Ring to its bearer, who seemed every bit as extraordinary in his eyes – if not even more so.

The Rune-smith had theorized that Eikinskialdi was of FireBeard blood. But as he watched the small, powerful figure of the fire-mage, a strange suspicion began to grow in Óin’s heart. True, the Petty-Dwarves had not been seen anywhere in Middle-earth since the First Age, and thus it had been assumed that they had gone down with the Fall of Beleriand. But could one truly be certain that no-one of them had survived? They had not been that different from the regular Dwarves, save their size, and they were said to have had strange powers and even stranger alliances.

Could it be that Eikinskialdi avoided contact with his own kind because he was not exactly the same kind as other Dwarves? If it was true that Fire-mages did not die unless killed (just like dragons), he could have roamed Middle-earth for as long as some of the ancient Elves. It was a somewhat disturbing thought, even for a Dwarf who could expect a much longer lifespan than Men or Halflings did.

As the ancient Dwarf moved closer, his heavy cloak shifted, revealing a long robe of the same fabric that he wore underneath, girdled with a thick belt around his waist and a much narrower sash hanging diagonally from his left hip. The wide sleeve of the robe slid back, and now Óin could see the mage’s leather vambrances, covered with scales of gold and set with large, oval rubies. He was apparently fond of gold and jewels, for both his belts were similarly adorned, and over his cloak he wore a sickle-shaped pectoral of the same workmanship.

Óin caught himself counting the strange knots in which the mage wore his hair, knowing that numbers had meant much to the Petty-Dwarves. There were seven knots altogether, three on the back of his head, beginning on the top of it, and two on each side of his face. These hung down onto his chest, framing his beard and moustaches that were bundled into one thick knot and held together by several broad golden clasps, reaching down to his waistline. The high collar of the pectoral covered the lower part of his cheeks, but Óin could see the edge of some elaborate tattoos under that covering. His forehead was high but surprisingly narrow, and a deep, V-shaped furrow bent above his tightly knotted eyebrows.

He seemed to have the same interest for Óin that Óin had for him, for he gave the unknown visitor a piercing look, making the uncomfortable impression as if he could read the stranger’s heart like an open book.

“Dear me!” he said in a deep, darkly amused voice. “One of those puffy LongBeards, and he is supposed to be born to the Fire? Who are you, stripling, and who are your longfathers?”

Óin was so enraged by the ancient one’s condescending tone that he all but forgot about being polite.

“Who I am?” he spat. “I am Óin son of Gróin, who was the younger son of Farin, who was the son of Borin, younger brother of King Dáin the First. I can count back my line up to Durin VI, King of Khazad-dûm, on my father’s side, and to the Lords of Tumunzahar on the side of my mother, the Lady Frey! Is that good enough for you or do I need to have a dragon godfather, too?”

He was breathing heavily and could see that Miödvitnir was shocked by his outburst. The Fire-mage, however, took no offence. In fact, he seemed even more amused than he had been before.

“Of the get from the Lords of Tumunzahar, are you?” he asked. “At least something that I could credit you with: that your ancestors have slain the King of the Grey-Elves, whose warriors hunted our people as if we had been mere beasts.”

“Yea, and our Clans have been blamed for that since the fall of Doriath,” replied Óin sourly; then his eyes widened. “Your people?” he repeated. “’Tis true, then: you are one of the Petty-Dwarves, are you not? But how can that be? ‘Twas always thought that Mîm and his two sons had been the last ones of your kind.”

“And why should we have told anyone that we still existed?” he asked. “We had been the ones who discovered and delved the first caves of Nulukkhizdîn in the gorge of the swift river Narog – only to be driven out by the Elves who took our halls and made them their great fortress. Let me tell you, we did not shed any tears when it was devastated by the Father of Dragons… well, save mayhap Gwystyl’s progeny who had a strange fondness for Felakkundu. Why should we? Those were our halls, and if we could no longer own them, why should have the enemy? No-one has ever cared for us, a small and hunted people as we were, without allies, without riches, without even a home. Aye, Mîm and his sons were the last ones who dwelt in the caves of Sharbhund, the Bald Hill. But many of our people still lived in scattered family bounds, avoiding the light of the Sun, moving around only in the night, in great secrecy… hiding from the Elven hunters as much as from our own greedy cousins.”

“Are you saying that our own people also hunted your kind?” demanded Óin angrily. “I know not why your ancestors were driven out of the lands east from the Blue Mountains, but I cannot believe that they would have been hunted by other Khazâd!”

“What you can or cannot believe is of no relevance,” said the Fire-mage dryly. “But I tell you this much: our ancestors were driven out by the other Dwarves for being ‘too small, deformed, lazy and rowdy’, as it was said. The truth is, however, that the Khazâd lords of the Blue Mountains were jealous of or skills and the treasures we had mined from the very bone of the earth, and all too willingly did they believe in every false accusation brought up against our people. When they had finally found enough false reasons to drive us out, they took all that we had and declared us evil. We became a wandering, hunted folk that lived in the woods, in holes dug into the earth, and in small, miserable caves even the beasts of the forest would not find suitable for living in.”

“How did you come to Khazad-dûm, after all?” asked Óin. “’Tis hard to imagine that your kind would have been welcome.”

“We were not; not in Khazad-dûm,” agreed Eikinskialdi. “But in Tumunzahar of old, the FireBeard chieftains were more open-minded, and they wanted their own people to learn our skills. There some of our people found refuge, hiding in tunnels too narrow for regular Dwarves to enter. There Gamil Zirak, who later became the master of the famous Telchar, was the apprentice of my mother’s father, and he took a liking to my mother and married her, despite her being stunted, even in Dwarven measures. I was their third, late-born son. When they realized I had been born with the fire-touch, they sent me to Khazad-dûm, where the only known Fire-mage lived at that time, so that I could learn how to use my gift. That is how I escaped from the destruction of Tumunzahar. But I have never seen another one of my mother’s kind again.”

The Fire-mage shrugged. “That I cannot tell. We are a secretive lot, we Petty-Dwarves. That I have not seen others of my kind means not that there truly are none others left.” He glanced up into Óin’s face. “The Lady Frey’s line, you say? I heard about her clan; ‘twas a

proud and much-honoured one. And our friend, the Rune-smith says you are interested in dragons, of all creatures?”

“And why would a Dwarf of Durin’s House have such a strong interest in those malevolent beasts?” asked the Fire-mage. “Dwarves and dragons have been mortal enemies since the days of Glaurung, their Father – you should be grateful that they are gone now, all of them.”

“Oh, but are they truly gone?” asked Óin. “Can we truly know that there are none left? This place is the one where they have always come forth, or so the old lays tell us – who can say for certain that the Heath is truly empty now?”

“Not empty, nay,” said Eikinskialdi, shaking his head. “For while ‘tis true that in all the years I have spent here – and I had come before the fall of Khazad-dûm, I would like you to know – there have been no dragons in the Withered Heath, save Smaug himself, ‘tis also true that these caves are full of strange creatures. Some of them are even older than the dragons were.”

“I shall show you… after we have eaten something,” said the Fire-mage. “You may find the visit… enlightening. But first we must have supper.”

He stooped, and it seemed as if he would plant the naked flame that he had had in his upheld hand all the time under the prepared firewood. The small fire was lit at once, and the Fire-mage bought forth gutted and cleaned fish on spits, filled with mushrooms and other edible things that could be found in the caves. They roasted the fish and ate sparsely, even though Óin and Miödvitnir added their supplies to the fare. The Rune-smith had even brought a small leather flask of ale from the FireBeard clan with which he and Óin had celebrated Durin’s Day. They drank it after supper, and having eaten and rested, albeit not to their full satisfaction, the two visitors were now ready to face the mysteries of the Fire-mage’s caves.

“Come with me,” said Eikinskialdi, rising with an ease that belied his age and his wizened looks. I shall show you what no Dwarf has seen before… not a one, aside from me, that is.”

Calling up a flame in his palm again, he led them through long, winding tunnels into a different cave, deeper, much deeper into the underbelly of the Grey Mountains. They came out into an enormous cavern: a natural hall, formed by the long, patient labour of flowing and dripping water over thousands upon thousands of quiet, lightless years. As the reddish light of Eikinskialdi’s flame fell upon them, twisted pillars of almost translucent stone began to glitter here and there, richly folded curtains of red stone seemed to cover the naked walls, and the lower arches of the ceiling, as far as they could be seen at all, were fringed with glittering icicles of crystal-like stone – for Dwarven eyes, it was a beautiful sight, with the underlying music of tinkling water in the background.

Not far from the cavern’s entrance, there was a pool of still, dark water, framed by drooping dripstone formations hanging from the ceiling, and other ones jutting up from the cave’s floor. They seemed to Óin like teeth, and thus the pool itself as the cave’s maw, opening to deeper, more sinister parts hiding under the stone floor.

“See and learn,” said the Fire-mage; his deep, grave voice echoed ominously in the huge, empty cavern.

Leaning carefully over the black pool, Óin saw pale serpentine bodies winding and wriggling right under the surface of the murky water. Some of them were of the length and thickness of his arm, but the truly large ones were easily as long as a grown Man is tall – or longer still – and big around as fence posts. They were no serpents, though, for he could see four very short, weak legs, with webbed and taloned digits that the creatures used like oars, although they seemed to propel themselves mostly with the snake-like bending of their bodies. Their somewhat short-looking tails were laterally flattened and surrounded by a thin fin… and they had a row of vestigial dorsal spines along their backs, as pale as the rest of their bodies.

Their heads seemed unproportionally large, with long, flattened jaws that were lined with small, needle-sharp teeth… and a branched tuft of tendrils where their ears should have been. Their small, colourless eyes were covered with a thin, protective layer of translucent skin, and Óin had the suspicion that they were, in fact, blind.

All in all, they looked disturbingly like how one would imagine baby dragons to look… save the fact that they had no scales and not even rudimentary hints at any possible wings.

“An ancient race of reptiles that our ancestors called olm and the Men of the Elder Days menneke fisk,” answered the Fire-mage. “They are still called the manfish among Men, although they are no fish, of course.” Seeing the revulsion upon Óin’s face, he laughed quietly. “No need to worry,” he said. “They are quite harmless to anyone, save the blind fish living in the pool, which they never leave, unless forced out by some larger predator. But that seldom happens in these days. They eat, sleep and breed in the water, even though they can survive outside of it if they must, as they are capable of breathing air, too.”

“They look like dragons… well, like small ones anyway,” commented the Rune-smith. It was obvious that he, too, saw the creatures for the first time.

The Fire-mage nodded. “That they do indeed. I assume they were, or their ancestors had been, or perchance a bigger, stronger breed of them, the original form of which the Dark Enemy created the dragons.”

The Rune-smith shook his head. “These weak, soft things? That is hard to believe.”

“There are stronger and more resilient than they look,” answered the Fire-mage, “and they have long lives. Very long ones. Some of them were already here when I came to make these caves my home. I know them all, and they recognize me by now, as I recognize each and every one of them.”

“How can they do that?” asked Óin. “They do not seem to have good eyes.”

“Nay,” said Eikinskialdi, “they are blind like the fish they hunt. But they have adapted to a life in eternal darkness and developed senses no other beast can even dream of. Their eyes cannot see, true, and yet they are sensitive to the light; and so is their entire body, in fact. They can also recognize their prey by smell and can taste the minerals in the water, to seek out the environment that matches their needs best. While they rarely use their ears on the ground, they can hear underwater sounds perfectly, as well as the vibrations of the ground, and they feel the changes in the water flow. They can even locate flying insects or bats above the water – and they never fail to catch their prey. Watch this!”

Looking around for something the creatures might find tasty, he discovered a sleeping bat in one of the shadowy natural alcoves of the cave. He snapped the animal and threw it high over the pool ere it could have woken and bitten him. Still half-asleep, the bat managed to unfold its wings on instinct, but at the same moment, one of the larger manfish leapt free of the pool, hissing like a serpent, struck at the bat and bit it cleanly in two ere falling back into the water with a loud plop. Other manfish, smelling the blood in the water, shot forth from the farther corners of the pool, each trying to catch some scraps of the prey, and for a moment, the dark water seemed to seethe and boil with the wriggling of the serpentine bodies.

“You call that harmless?” asked Óin incredulously. The carnal display of hunger and greed nearly made him sick to the stomach. “These are dangerous beasts!”

“Nay,” corrected Eikinskialdi, “they are just hungry. They are always hungry, so strangers do well to be careful around them.”

“And what if there is not enough prey?” asked Óin. “Do they eat each other as well?”

“They might eat the eggs, so that there would not be another generation as long as food is spares,” answered the Fire-mage, “but nay, they do not eat each other. They can go on without food longer than any other creature in Middle-earth had ever been able to… save perhaps the dragons themselves. I have seen them hibernate for several decades, in fact.”

“And they never tried to eat you?” asked the Rune-smith with a crooked grin.

Eikinskialdi shook his head. “Nay, fort hey can sense the Fire in me, and they fear it as much as they are drawn to it… the younger ones even more than the others. Watch!”

He crouched down at the edge of the pool and held out his empty hand, the one without the flame in it, over the water. For a moment or two nothing happened. But then the long, fattened snout of one of the creatures slowly emerged from the pool, tendrils wide-spread and trembling, the sightless eyes seeking out the heat of the Fire-mage’s hand blindly. Eikinskialdi allowed the manfish – apparently a youngling, as it was barely a foot long yet – to shimmy its way up his arm and rest its head upon his shoulder, basking in his body heat contentedly.

Óin saw that the skin of the creature was all but translucent, yellowish-white or a very pale pink, ‘twas hard to tell in the dim light. But its inner organs could clearly be seen, shining and pulsating, through the abdominal part of its body. Just like armoured dragons and that vulnerable patch on their bellies, he thought and shuddered involuntarily. The tufted tendrils, though, were coral red from the blood that showed through the pale skin, as pale as that of any Man Óin had ever seen. Now he understood where the manfish got its peculiar name from.

“’Tis the lack of light that leaves them so void of any true colour,” said the Fire-mage in a low voice, mindful of the creature’s sensitive ears. “When forced to the surface, their skin gradually becomes darker, turning brown or dark red in a rather short time. After a while, they even develop eyes that can see. Some of them, those that live in the upper, better lit caves permanently, are black-skinned and can see quite well, in fact.”

Óin found all this unsettling – to put it mildly. “’Tis easy to see why the Dark Enemy chose them for his evil purposes if they adapt so easily,” he said. “And a black art, too… it seems that Ancalagon did not come to his colour by mere accident.”

“Tis hard to tell, truly,” replied the Fire-mage, releasing his unusual pet back into the water again. “We cannot be certain that some ancient manfish in truth served as the original form for the dragons. ‘Tis all but theory – my theory – and only the Dark Enemy could answer these questions… not that he ever would, even if he had not been cast out into the void. As for true dragons, though, you can breathe again, son of Gróin, you and your lot under the Lonely Mountain. Would there still be any, I would have found them many, many years ago. Of that I am as certain as one can be: Smaug was the last of his kind. And there is no power left in Middle-earth strong enough to create new Worms.”

“Are you sure?” asked Óin. “The Lord of Nargûn has proven more… inventive than his dark master had ever been.”

“He might have the invention but he lacks the power required for such enormous task,” said the Fire-mage. “He’s but a servant of Udûn’s Flame; he might bend it to his will to serve his purposes to an extent, but he is not the source of it. Nay, there will be no more dragons; not the way they had been made in the Elder Days, and in no other ways, I deem. Unless Mahal himself decides to create new ones, which I honestly doubt. For truly, what other purpose than evil would such beasts serve?”

“Then my quest has been fulfilled,” said Óin. “My King and my brethren will be relieved to hear that there is no threat from other Worms and would not likely be for a long time yet. I can go home now and put their minds to ease.”

Eikinskialdi nodded. “You can certainly do that. Now let us return to my halls. We have disturbed the peace of these creatures long enough, and they do not take such disturbances kindly. You can rest in my halls tonight. In the morn, I shall send you on your way, then.”

And thus they went back to Eikinskialdi’s great hall, and the Fire-mage now lit the magic lamps – similar to those which had once illuminated the wonders of Khazad-dûm – to that they could admire the beauty of the cavern fully. It had a high, arched ceiling, made by a river that had once built its underground bed there, but was now dry and silent, save from the occasional drop of water that was still working on the marvellous dripstone pillars – and on curtains that looked like frozen rain, sometimes rough on the surface and sometimes smooth as if they had been molten or polishes. Some of them were almost translucent, others had thin veins of precious metal or sparkling minerals in them. Most were white or pale grey, but some were red or green or even black – a rich cavalcade of shape and colour that only the eyes of a Dwarf could truly appreciate.

“Your halls are of great beauty indeed,” said Óin to the Fire-mage, “but what made you come here in the first place? Certainly you know that it was – had, in fact, always been – Dragon domain?”

Eikinskialdi nodded. “Of course I knew. But I had no-where else to go. My people are all gone, have been for a long time as far as I know. Khazad-dûm was the closest thing to a home I could have – King Durin gave me shelter graciously, in exchange for my service – but when the fire-demon of the Dark Enemy awoke deep under the mines, my master was slain by it instantly, and I… I was not strong enough to face it for more than a few moments.”

The Fire-mage shrugged. “For all the wink of an eye that I lasted… aye, I did. Who else should have given it a try? With my master slain, I was the only one who could at least hope to a face it. Fire is as much my weapon as it was the demon’s… alas that I proved too weak.”

“But that was many hundreds of years ago,” said the Rune-smith. “You are older and much stronger now; and you have the Dragon Ring in your possession. Would you return to Khazad-dûm to face the demon again if there were a chance?”

“You cannot be serious!” exclaimed Óin, now certain that Miödvitnir had lost his mind.

“Why not?” retorted the Rune-smith. “We are Mahal’s children; we were made to be strong… to face the Dark Enemy’s creations and to defeat them. You and your companions bested the Dragon and took your kingdom back! Why should we not aim for winning back Khazad-dûm as well?”

“For we do not truly have the strength to do so, perhaps?” replied Óin sarcastically. “We only bested the Dragon with very great luck and the help of Bard the Bowman and one Halfling thief. Even so, the Rakhâs of the Misty Mountains would have massacred us to the last Dwarf, had the Wood-Elves, the Lakemen and our cousins from the Iron Hills not hurried to our aid. Even so, it required the help of the Great Eagles and Beorn himself – not to mention the power and the wisdom of Tharkûn – to emerge from the Battle of Five armies victorious… and the losses were great. And that was just one, minor army of the Rakhâs – who knows what forces they have occupying Khazad-dûm?

“The Rakhâs of Khazad-dûm were nearly wiped out in the Battle of Azanulbizar,” pointed out the Rune-smith. “I was there. I saw it.”

“Nearly – but not completely,” said Óin, “and unlike us, they breed like rabbits. Even if their females rarely survive birth, they can bring forth as much as six to eight little maggots at a time, and they grow very quickly. Besides, if the fire-demon still dwells in Khazad-dûm, it would be unwise to rouse it again.”

“That is true,” said the Fire-mage. “Should your people ever decide to return to Khazad-dûm, though, send me a message by way of the Ravens. That would be one campaign I would very much intend to be part of.”

“So would I,” said the Rune-smith. “I was born in Khazad-dûm during the last years of its glory. It burns my heart that it is now defiled by Rakhâs and other foul creatures. Call me, too, if your fat and lazy kind ever gathers the courage to take back that which his rightfully ours. You will find that I can be useful in such an undertaking.”

Óin promised them to do so, in the unlikely case that someone would be mad enough to risk such a campaign. To tell the truth, he could barely wait to leave behind this drear place – and the two apparently insane Dwarves who seemed to have grave difficulties to tell reality from their fevered dreams. For his part, Óin was happy enough to have Edoras back… and was looking forward to returning home.

This time, his journeys had taken him further than he had asked for. ‘Twould be good to leave all this madness behind and be with his own, sane people again. The knowledge he had gathered would interest Balin and the other scholars greatly, and that was good so; that was their work. But Óin himself would be glad to just be a simple Dwarf of Erebor again. To spend time with his brother’s family and to do the simple tasks life under the Mountain brought with it from day to day.

Nulukkhizdîn = Nargothrond (and yes, Christopher Tolkien admits himself that it was misspelled in the Silmarillion)

Felakkundu = Dwarvish version of Felagund, the byname of Finrod’s. Gwystyl, Finrod’s Petty-Dwarf friend is my invention from “Felagund and the Noegyth Nibin”.

Sharbhund, the Bald Hill = Dwarvish name of the Amon Rhûdh, Mîm’s dwelling.

Author’s notes: Once again, the looks of Frár and Yngvildr are based on the excellent Dwarf pictures of Ro aka Sabra R. Hart, which you can view in her Elfwood gallery.

The final version of LOTR says nothing about Balin’s family, but former versions (as published in HoME VI) mention his son, Burin, which allows at least the theory that he was married at one point in his life (and in the Professor’s mind). Nár, Annar and Hannar, as well as Lofar, were originally the Dwarves who helped Bilbo packing before he left Bag End for good; their names were omitted from the final version.

Óin returned from his long northern journey with a troubled mind. He reported to King Dáin that – apparently – there were no dragons left in the Withered Heath, but he did not speak about the strange companions he had visited there: the Fire-mage and the Rune-smith. There were things he wanted to think about first, long and hard, and there were people whom he needed to speak first – people who had fought in the Battle of Azanulbizar and thus could tell him more about Durin’s Bane.

One of those people would have been the King himself, of course, but Óin did not want to burden him with such half-baked theories just yet. Consulting his scholarly cousins, Balin and Dwalin, would have been another possibility, but Balin was still mourning his recently deceased wife, and good Dwarven manners demanded that one did not disturb the grief of the closest family.

Thus Óin chose to visit the greatest heroes of the War of the Dwarves and Orcs still alive: Frár and his wife, Yngvildr.

Like all noble and powerful families, these, too, lived near the King’s own mansion on the fourth level of the Mountain… which was not by accident. Frár son of Ginnar and Yrr was an IronFist and the commander of the Forge Guard – the Dwarven equivalent of knighthood. He was about the same age as Dáin, his cousin from his mother’s side, and the tutor and weapons master of the King’s only son. Also a skilled weaponsmith, he was probably the best-respected male warrior both in Erebor and the Iron Hills, seconded only by King Dáin himself.

Frár had fought in the Battle of Azanulbizar as a very young Dwarf. He saw the terrible massacre and the grievous losses of their people at a very impressionable age, and ever since then he had been burning with desire to take vengeance on the filthy Orcs… which was the reason why he had followed Dáin to the Battle of Five Armies, in which he exceeded, slaying several of Bolg’s huge bodyguards single-handedly. ‘Twas said that his name was feared and cursed among Orcs to this very day.

Entering the mansion, Óin was greeted by a StiffBeard servant and most courteously asked about the reason for his visit. Óin explained that he wished to discuss the experiences of his recent journey with the master and the lady of the house, and was taken into a large chamber that served as the living room of the entire family. There he found not only Frár himself, but also Frár’s brother, Hrár, Hrár’s wife Gudhrun, who hailed from the LongBeard Clans, their two sons, Annar and Hannar, their daughter Hrín, Frár’s sons Nár and Yngvi, and, of course, the lady and matriarch of the whole clan, Yngvildr the Raven Lady.

If Frár was considered a hero, the Lady Yngvildr was surely nothing short a living legend. Her bloodline was perchance the oldest and proudest of all Dwarves in Middle-earth in the Third Age – with the possible exception of Durin’s House. She hailed from the BroadBeam Clans and could count back her ancestors to King Azaghâl of Gabilgathol, the greatest hero of the First Age. The one who had wounded Glaurung, the father of all fire-breathing dragons in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, yet was slain afterwards, despite his desperate bravery. And while it was, sadly, true that the BroadBeams had fallen from their former greatness by the Third Age, those who descended from the survivors of Gabilgathol were still much respected; especially those of royal blood.

Like her bondmate, Yngvildr Aurvangsdóttir had been born in the Iron Hills and raised as a warrior from a very tender age, for such had been the custom of her clan since the ancient days of Gabilgathol. When she chose to march with her King to Azanulbizar, Náin was grieved, for he did not want to put Azaghâl’s last descendant at risk; even less so as Yngvildr had not yet mated back then, due to her youth. But no-one could deny the Raven Lady the battle, and thus she got her wish, very nearly paying with her young life for her eagerness to fulfil her curses on the much-hated Orcs. She wore the scars all her life like medals of honour.

It had been after the Battle of Azanulbizar that she came to know Frár Ginnarsson better; another young warrior and the King’s own kinsman. Yet the love-longing had not awakened in their hearts for many years yet to come. They had been friends and shield-mates at first, ere they finally understood that they were, indeed, the one for each other.

Now both she and Frár were in their middle years: fierce and powerful warriors and the most experienced Forge Guards under the mountain. Their sons, Nár and Yngvi, both blooded in the Battle of Five Armies, came after their father – big, copper-haired and lightning-fast – but had the beetle-black eyes of their mother. The Lady Yngvildr herself was still considered a great beauty, her thick mane of the rarest, dark blood-red hair not hit yet by frost.

Being off-duty now, she had shed her armour and was sitting in the circle of her family, wearing soft leather breeches and a beautifully embroidered leather tunic, adorned with small white jewels on the hem, the collar and the wide sleeves. Her betrothal collar was made of a wickerwork of mithril and also set with small, star-shaped diamonds. Even without a crown and a title, she was a true Queen among Dwarrow-dams, Óin decided, regretting the fact how unlikely it was for him to ever find a mate even remotely like her.

As it was her privilege and her duty as the matriarch of her clan, she rose politely to greet their guest. Óin bowed deeply enough for his forked and braided red beard to sweep the stone floor. Common courtesy was the least he could pay such an esteemed matron and her no less honourable kin.

“My Lady Yngvildr,” he said in the tone of utmost respect, “’tis very generous of you to see me at such short notice.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “I know you well, Óin son of Gróin; you would not waste my time with idle chatter. Therefore, if you came to see us, it has to be important. Sit and have some ale with us; then we can speak.”

“Indeed not, my lady,” answered Óin respectfully and sat down with the family for a tankard of sweet, dark ale that seemed deceitfully mild at first but could get anyone very drunk in no time.

Anyone but a Dwarf, that is. The endurance of Mahal’s children extended to every little detail of life.

Hrín Hrársdóttir, a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty, brought a heavy cake, baked with crushed nuts and dried berries and sweetened with honey, to go with the ale, and for a short while both family and guest enjoyed the refreshments in companionable silence. When they all had their fill, though, the Lady Yngvildr turned her piercing black eyes back to Óin, as if she wanted to examine his very heart.

“Speak now,” she ordered. “’Tis rare that one of the scholars would want to share their thoughts with us. As warriors, we are of little use for them – or they for us.

“As heroes of the most epic battle in our recent history, though, your insights are invaluable,” replied Óin. “’Tis the Battle of Azanulbizar that I am most desirous to learn more about, while some of those who fought it still walk among us.”

“Why would you want to call up the memory of those dark days again?” asked Frár, his amber eyes darkening with sorrow. “’Twas a long, bitter war that reached its peak in the bloodiest, most brutal battle of this Age; the numbers of our dead were almost beyond counting. Why would any-one want to remember it, save for honouring the fallen heroes and weeping over their loss?”

“’Tis not the battle I wish to hear about,” clarified Óin. “Those sad and proud tales are well-preserved in our family. What I want to understand is why did we leave the greatest city of our longfathers again, after we had won the battle and the war? Victory, however deadly bought, at the price of unnumbered Dwarf-deads, was ours. And yet King Dáin chose to leave our folk back to the Iron Hills.”

“Half of our folk, you mean,” Frár corrected. “Those who survived. Aye, that he did. And we are all alive and Erebor has risen again thank to his decision. Had we made an attempt to repopulate Khazad-dûm, we would have died, to the last Dwarf. Mayhap one day we shall return – I would wish for naught else. Oh, how my blood burns at the thought of our former greatness! But the time was not right back then, not yet.”

“Why not?” asked Óin. He was a stubborn one, even as Dwarves go – which is saying a lot.

“Khazad-dûm was not safe for us to enter,” replied Frár grimly. “In truth, it was a deadly trap; it most likely still is. King Dáin, young and fearless as he was in his youth, did enter Khazad-dûm in the aftermath of our hard-won victory. He looked into the darkness beyond the Great Gates – and fled, in spite of his bravery.”

“I know that,” said Óin, a little impatiently. “It is all in the tales. But what is Durin’s Bane? Why is it so frightening that even Dáin Ironfoot would flee from it in terror?”

“I know not,” admitted Frár. “Fire and darkness, Dáin said, and refused to speak about it, even to me, though we are close kin. But whatever it is, it must have walked the empty halls and dark tunnels of Khazad-dûm for a thousand years… or more. No-one of us could ever face it.”

“If it is, in truth, the same ancient terror that had slain our Kings of old, then I have just met someone who could face it… even if only for a short time,” said Óin slowly.

The heroes of Azanulbizar stared at him in shock, their strong faces deathly pale.

“That is not possible,” it was the Lady Yngvildr who found her voice first, flat though it might have sounded still. “No Dwarf can live that long; not even with the help of the Seven that have been destroyed.”

“Not with the help of the Seven, no,” Óin agreed. “Never have those brought aught but sorrow to our fathers. But with the help of the Dragon-ring of Khazad-dûm that had once graced the hand of Master Narvi himself, forged by Khelebrimbur, the greatest of all Elven-smiths, save one.”

“The Dragon-ring?” Frár repeated, still in deep shock. “You saw the Dragon-ring of Narvi? Where? How? We all thought it was buried with him.”

“And apparently, we were all wrong,” answered Óin. “It still exists, worn by Eikinskialdi, the Fire-mage, who dwells under the Grey Mountains, near the Withered Heath. He is truly ancient and possesses strange powers that kept him alive in his lonely abode for many hundred years. Only the scattered FireBeard clans get to see him on rare occasions; mostly just Miödvitnir, the Rune-smith.”

“And they accepted you?” asked Hrár doubtfully. “A LongBeard of Durin’s own blood?”

“My mother was a FireBeard from a most respected bloodline,” reminded him Óin. “Some legends even say she was a descendant of the great smith Gamil Zirak, who had been the tutor of Telchar himself. So aye, they accepted me as distant kin and because I have the fire-touch. The Rune-smith seemed to think that it would make me like him.”

“Would it?” asked Hrín Hrársdóttir quietly, her dark eyes resting on Óin’s face with intense interest.

Óin shook his head. “Nay, it would not. The fire-touch, though inherited among certain FireBeard bloodlines, is but a modest gift, however rare it has become in these lesser times. To become like him, I would have to learn magic and rune-craft for several hundred years. And even so, there is little chance that I would even come close to his powers. The blood of the Clan is mixed in my veins; I shall never be able to fully unfold my inheritance.”

Óin shrugged. “Not truly. I am a scholar, not a mage. I never wanted to be anything else.”

“And even if you could use your gift fully, what good would it do for us?” asked the Lady Yngvildr dismissively.

“Not much,” Óin agreed. “Although both Eikinskialdi and his friend the Rune-smith seem to think that all Dwarves born with fire in their blood would be needed, should we ever want to reclaim our birthright.”

Óin nodded. “They both declared themselves willing to join such a campaign, should it be summoned for within their lifetime.”

“They must be strong raving mad, both of them,” the Captain of the Forge Guards finally said.

“That was what our people in the Blue Mountain thought when they heard that we would take it on the Dragon, a mere thirteen of us,” replied Óin with a small smile. “And yet here we are, sitting in our halls of old again, and the Dragon is dead and our kingdom risen from under the ashes, right?”

“The thirteen of you had some help achieving that,” reminded him the Lady Yngvildr.

Óin nodded. “So we had. Who says we might not have again? We already have an ancient Fire-mage and a powerful Rune-smith offering their help. Others would come.”

Frár stared at him in disbelief. “You would take part in such a mad undertaking?”

Óin nodded again, without hesitation. "Aye, I would. I might have become a scholar in these days, but I have always been an adventurer at heart. Settling down comfortably like my brother would never satisfy me, not as long as there are new places to see, new things to learn. Beyond that, Khazad-dûm is our heritage, the last of our great cities left. We have no way back to Gabilgathol or Tumunzahar, which lie on the bottom of the Sea. They are lost for us, forever. But we still can return to Khazad-dûm.”

“Why should we?” replied Óin. “Most of the goblins of the Misty Mountain perished in the Battle of the Five Armies, including Bolg son of Azog, their chieftain, the usurper of our ancient halls. If we ever had a chance to reclaim that which is ours by birthright, it would be now, ere they had the time to grow strong in numbers again.”

Frár shook his head, still not quite trusting his ears. “You cannot be serious! Aye, the goblins have greatly diminished in numbers, but so have we! We have just begun to regain our strength again; there is more than enough work to do here, in Erebor, to make our kingdom as strong and prosperous as it was in the days of old.”

“Aye, there is much to do… for the smiths, the stone-workers, even for scholars,” said the Lady Yngvildr thoughtfully. “But what about us, warriors? We have not had a true challenge since the Mountain was re-taken. The scouts keep looking out for any possible threat well enough. What is still left for us to do?”

Frár looked at his life-mate in surprise. “You would consider joining such a Quest, lady mine?”

Yngvildr shrugged. “I am not certain. If there would be a summons to take back the greatest and most famed of all the mighty works of stone ever created by our people, though, who else should fight in the vanguard if not the Forge Guards? Has it not always been our duty – and our privilege – to walk in dark places where no others dread to go?”

“You speak the truth, Raven Lady,” said Hrár with the utmost respect, “but how could we be certain that such a quest would have the slightest chance to succeed?”

“We cannot,” agreed Yngvildr easily, “which is why our scholars should discuss it in great depth. Bring me proof that it can be done,” she added, turning to Óin, “and I shall consider supporting you when you take this to the King.”

“The word of at least two other respected scholars,” she answered without missing a beat. “Their word that a Fire-mage may have the power to face the ancient terror that still may haunt the endless passages and lightless deeps of the Dwarrow-delf. The word of the scouts that the Misty Mountains are still largely free of Orcs and Wargs.”

“I cannot bother Balin and Dwalin while they are still mourning,” said Óin, thinking furiously about his chances, “However, Ori is almost as knowledgeable as those two where the history of Durin’s Folk is concerned. And old Lóni would know all that is there to know about the safety of paths in the Mountains.”

“He would,” Gudhrun, Hrár’s wife, agreed. “Ori, though, may not have the time to discuss ancient history with you. Not on the eve of his betrothal.”

“Ori is getting mated?” asked Óin in surprise. “So he has managed to lure that capricious lover of his into commitment? Wonders never cease to happen, it seems.”

“You have missed the spectacular reunion by a month or so,” replied Gudhrun, grinning from ear to ear. “The official bonding ritual is due on Midwinter Day… which is only a few weeks away.”

“I imagine Dori and Nori being very happy about it,” commented Óin with a grin.

Gudhrun laughed. “As happy as it can be expected, I deem. Although Dori is too happy being reunited with his family to begrudge his brother the same. Nori, though… he does not hide his unhappiness the least.”

“Nori has always been a spoiled brat,” declared Óin angrily. “His brothers supported him all his life, so he could learn the art of crystal-cutting, and was he ever grateful for their support? Nay, he thought himself better, for having such a rare and respected trade, and for being more skilled with the sword. Still, it was Dori’s greater strength that had saved the esteemed burglar, Bilbo Baggins, during the Quest repeatedly, not Nori’s so-called skills.”

Yngvildr shook her head in tolerant amusement. “I feel pity for Dori’s wife, I truly do. Being the head of a family with so many belligerent, competitive males must be a nightmare.”

“Fortunately, she is a warrior, coming from a long line of warriors,” replied Óin, grinning. “She will know how to put them in their places if she has to.”

Both Yngvildr and Gudhrun laughed at that. The Lady Ai of the Lightning-hand might not have joined the Quest of Erebor – mostly because she refused to follow Thorin Oakenshield, whose self-important manners she deeply despised – but she had once been one of the most respected female warriors of the Blue Mountains. Even the Lady Dís, Thorin’s arrogant sister, thought about it twice before she would confront the BlackLock dam… and that was saying a lot. There were but a handful of Dwarves that Dís Thráinsdóttir would not swipe out of her way casually, without even thinking of any possible consequences.

“What about you, son of Gróin?” Yngvildr then asked. “Have you never found your chosen one? You are well in the age… and once you were said to have been close to the Lady Bifur.”

As the ranking female of the BroadBeams in Erebor, she would know all that was there to know about her fellow clansmen, of course. And as the only female taking part in the Quest, Bifur had become quite famous on her own anyway.

“I was,” admitted Óin,” and we still are, in a manner. But as much as I respect her and as fond as she is of me still, we had to realize that we are not the one for each other. A pity, though; it would have been a good match, seeing as we went through the Quest together, But you cannot command a Dwarf’s heart; clearly, it was not meant to be.”

“A pity indeed,” said Yngvildr. “As one who used to travel between the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills with her caravan, she might have been inclined to follow you on your mad adventure.”

But Óin shook his head. “I rather think not. She was already fed up with living on the Road when we set off for the Quest, and she only came with us because Bombur needed a keeper. He was not a young Dwarf already, and his health had suffered from the harsh life on the wain. Bifur is quite content with her life here; and she is very good at keeping the family’s books. She is needed.”

“Odd, though, that she would not wish to have a family,” said Gudhrun. “I know of several respectable males of my own Clan who wanted to court her, but she never accepted their suit, none of them. I always thought it was because of you.”

“Nay,” answered Óin slowly. “I know her reasons, but ‘tis not my right to speak about them; aside from the fact that she has taken Bombur into her care.”

Yngvildr nodded. “And we shan't ask what you are not allowed to tell us. Well, then, son of Gróin, we thank you for your visit. As I said, bring me proof that this mad quest of yours is not doomed to fail ere it would even begin, and I shall think of supporting you before the King’s presence.”

Óin recognized the dismissal and stood to leave, bowing to both lady and master of the house with the deepest respect. Nydi, the young StiffBeard servant appeared without being called to see him out, and the family looked after his retreating back in thoughtful silence.

“Do you think he will find the proof you demanded from him?” Hrín Hrársdóttir asked her aunt curiously.

Yngvildr gave her an amused smile. “What if he does? Would you go on such an adventure?”

After a moment of consideration the young Dwarf-dam shook her head decisively. “Nay, I would not. I am an artisan; a jewel-smith, not a warrior. But I would not mind waiting for his glorious return.”

“You would do that?” her mother looked at her in surprise. “But he is so much older than you!”

“That he might be,” answered Hrín, “but he has so much fire in him that ten younger males would not bring it, counted together. Besides, he is handsome, knowledgeable and brave; and the line of the Lady Frey is a respectable one. I would not mind a suitor like him, should he have an interest.”

While no-one could force a Dwarf, male or female, to bond with someone not of their own choice, matchmaking had been a time-honoured and widely accepted tradition among them since their forefathers had awakened from their long slumber.

“Please do,” said Hrín with a small smile, and her mother nodded in consent.

Óin’s next visit took him to the Chamber of Scouts, a level above the Hidden Door, to meet Lóni, of whom he hoped to learn something about the safety of the Misty Mountains’ travelling paths. He had not gone that way for years, himself; not since his brother and he returned to the Blue Mountains to fetch Glóin’s family. And while travellers – mostly merchant caravans – did bring tidings about those roads, he knew that scouts would know more and had more accurate knowledge about all possible dangers.

But there was another reason for him to see old Lóni, of all Dwarves of the Kingdom. Unlike most of the Dwarves in Erebor, the ancient warrior had a unique connection to Khazad-dûm, and a very specific, very personal hatred against the Orcs of the Misty Mountains. More so than the average Dwarf, even.

As a mere stripling, Lóni had stoved away after his aged grandsire, Nár – a faithful companion of King Thrór, who had accompanied his exiled lord on his last wanderings. When the two had spotted their small shadow, it had already been too late to send him back on his own, and thus they reluctantly allowed him to go with them all the way to Azanulbizar, which they finally reached in the fateful year of 2790.

Lóni had been there when – against Nár desperate entreaties – Thrór had proudly entered through the Great Gates… alone.

He had waited with his grandsire nearby, for several days. Then he had witnessed as the beheaded corpse of their King had been cast out onto the steps of the Gates. He had followed Nár to the very threshold, where a bag of worthless coin had been thrown at them as wergild for Thrór’s death by the mocking Orcs. Legends might have forgotten about this, but he had been the one who brought the terrible tidings back to Thráin and his people, supporting his grieving grandsire along the way.

Their tale had led to the War of Dwarves and Orcs, which had been long and deadly and fought, for the most part, in deep places beneath the earth. And while his familiar duties had hindered him in taking part of the Quest of Erebor – which was how Bombur had become part of it in the last moment – he had made up for it by fighting in the Battle of Five Armies like a demon… or so people liked to say.

He had settled in the life of the renewed Kingdom well enough, even bringing there his children and grandchildren. But ever since that fateful journey to Khazad-dûm, he would never forget the cradle of Durin’s Folk; he was the only one who still spoke about its faded greatness occasionally, wording his desire to return there while his life still lasted. Therefore, if Óin wanted a true supporter as well as someone who knew everything one could have learned about the mountain paths and about the possible state of Khazad-dûm itself, Lóni Thórvisson was the right Dwarf to go to.

If he had hoped to find the ancient warrior alone, though, he was disappointed. Not only was Skafid, the best archer of the IronFists, sitting at the long stone table, fletching his arrows and humming happily under his breath; there were also two very young Dwarves whom Óin had never seen before.

That in itself would not have been that surprising. He travelled a lot, sometimes a year or more in one go, with very short rests at home in-between. But these two seemed of mixed origins, which was a rare thing among StiffBeards, as the more respectable Clans rarely intermarried with them; if ever. They were clad in a fashion that matched more the customs of the Woodmen than that of Dwarves – and one of them was a female.

A stunningly beautiful young female at that, with a heavy mane of copper hair, armed with a war-hammer of masterful workmanship… and with a crossbow. The male on her side had straw-blond hair and grey eyes and wore a wicked-looking whip on his belt and a short sword on his back. A sword in a scabbard, designed in a manner Óin had only seen in Dale before. The ancient sword of the Kings of Dale had a sheet of similar pattern.

Their matching betrothal collars, wrought of stargold and wearing all the signs of Ingunn Thorkellsdóttir’s handiwork, made it clear that they were mated. Those were beautiful and precious collars for two young people of clearly simple origins – and were they adorned with moonstones? The scholar in Óin became excited by the sight of those rare and precious gems. He knew he would find no peace ere he found out how these two came to possess such marvels.

The old warrior listened to his request, nodded simply and asked Skafid to man the Chamber for him for a while, to which the archer agreed with a simple nod. Neither of them was a Dwarf of many words when gestures would suffice.

“Let us go out to the back porch,” Lóni then suggested. “We can speak there undisturbed.”

Óin had no problems with that plan, and so they descended a short fling of stairs to the next level below, passed through the Hidden Door and stepped out onto the clearing beyond. It had long been cleaned from the debris caused by Smaug’s rage and was now quiet and peaceful again – a little steep-walled bay, glassy-floored and open to the sky above. At its inner end, now that they had closed the Door behind them, the flat rock wall was as smooth and upright as a mason’s work in its lower part, close to the ground, without a joint or crevice to be seen.

“Memories of the Quest, I presume,” said Lóni thoughtfully, and Óin nodded.

“Oh, aye. We did not doubt for a moment that we had found the Door, even though there was no sign of port or lintel or threshold… nor any sing of bar or bolt or key-hole. It had been a long climb on the narrow track that wandered on to the top of the southern ridge and brought us at last to the even narrower ledge that led us right here. We were exhausted and hoped to reach our goal that way. Alas that it was not so!”

“For you could not open the door from outside, not ere the coming of Durin’s Day,” said Lóni, having heard the tale uncounted times, yet still more than willing to listen to it. Dwarves liked heroic tales if they were well-told, and Óin was renown for his story-telling gift.

“Nay, we could not,” agreed Óin, lost in his memories, his eyes almost vacant as he recalled the events of that long-gone day. “We nearly despaired, for back then, before the rediscovering of the old lore that we thought lost forever, it passed our skill to guess when the last moon of Autumn and the sun would be in the sky together, as you know. Only when I begun to visit the scattered clans in the Grey Mountains did I re-learn how to foretell the coming of Durin’s Day; for their wise-women and lore-masters had kept the old knowledge.”

“I presume Thorin Oakenshield would not accept failure easily,” said Lóni with twinkling eyes. “He had always been a very stiff-necked Dwarf, may he rest in peace in the Halls of Waiting, in the company of his longfathers.”

Óin smiled wistfully. He had liked and respected Thorin, despite his faults; whatever else he might have been, the last King of the Exiles had certainly been a doughty warrior.

“No-one of us was willing to give up so easily,” he replied. “We beat on the wall where we supposed the Door would be. We thrust and pushed at it. We implored it to move; Balin, Dwalin and myself spoke broken spells of opening that we remembered from the old legends… yet nothing stirred. At last we tired out and collapsed on the grass to rest for a moment – just as we are doing now – ere we would begin the long climb down again.”

“It must have been irksome to turn back when your were standing on the threshold already,” said Lóni.

“Aye, that it was,” he finally admitted. “I had to think of the Battle of Azanulbizar; how our fathers had to turn back from the very threshold of Khazad-dûm, after all the lives that had been sacrificed in that gruesome war. And for what? Had they taken revenge of the shameful death of King Thrór? Aye, perchance they had, but at what cost? Khazad-dûm is still in the filthy paws of the cursed Orcs; and our people were decimated.”

“And still we could not act differently,” pointed out Lóni. “’Tis who – what – we are: fiercely jealous of that which is our own. Or what, at least, used to be ours… and might become ours again.”

“True,” allowed Óin, “but that battle was a long time ago, and we still have not made a move to get Khazad-dûm back.”

“We very nearly failed to get Erebor back,” reminded him Lóni, “where all we had to deal with was a fire-drake – a creature that would seem like a firefly compared with Durin’s Bane.”

“But what is Durin’s Bane?” demanded Óin. “Neither Frár nor Lady Yngvildr could tell me, and King Dáin would not speak of it!”

“I cannot answer that question, either,” said Lóni, “for I have not seen the terror of Khazad-dûm myself. But I tell you this,” he added, his eyes burning like dying embers. “Whatever may haunt the dark depths of the Dwarrow-delf, I would give everything to return there for one last time, as long as I am still alive and strong enough to brave the long journey across the Wilderland to the Misty Mountains.”

“Most people would call such an undertaking reckless and foolish,” said Óin.

Lóni shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Most people are not approaching the end of their journeys. I am. And I would not hesitate heading back to Khazad-dûm on the last leg of my journey.”

“If you truly mean it, then there might be a way,” said Óin slowly. “A mad and dangerous one, for certain, but did people not say the same about the Quest of Erebor? And yet here we are, sitting on the back porch, the Kingdom Under the Mountain is flourishing again, and the Dragon is dead and rotting away under the Long Lake.”

Lóni gave him a long, searching look, as if he wanted to decide if the younger Dwarf was jesting with him – or gone mad.

“Tell me more about this,” he demanded when he saw that Óin was, indeed, deadly serious.

And so Óin told him about his most recent journey. About his fateful encounter with the Rune-smith and the Fire-mage – and what the powers of the latter one might mean when it came to re-take Khazad-dûm.

“And you truly believe that this Eikinskialdi may face down Durin’s Bane?” asked Lóni doubtfully.

“He has already tried it once, as a young apprentice; and failed,” he said. “He is centuries older now, though, and infinitely stronger. And he is willing to try it again. He is our best chance to take our home of old back; and to make our curses upon the Orcs and their evil master true. Not to mention the mithril that might still be available in the deepest shafts of the mines.”

“Remember, it was the hunger for mithril that made our ancestors dig ever deeper, until they finally woke up Durin’s Bane,” warned him Lóni.

“I know that,” answered Óin grimly. “And I also know that Durin’s Bane might not be the only danger hiding in the depths. Tharkûn, the wizard mentioned once the nameless creatures that are gnawing on the roots of the world; if the ancient beasts I saw in Eikinskialdi’s cave are anything to go by, not even we Dwarves know all the secrets of the earth and its very bones. Aye, ‘tis possible that we would delve too deeply, too, and wake up something that should better be left alone. But at least we would meet it… them… on our own terms. Everything that sleeps, no matter for how long, will wake up one day.”

“There is much truth in your words,” admitted Lóni. “However, I fear that you shall never be able to persuade King Dáin to even consider such a Quest. He has his own concerns, and they keep his watchful eye here, in Erebor.”

Óin sighed. “I know. Which is why I shall try to persuade Cousin Balin first. If he is on our side, we can leave it to him to get the King’s permission.”

“On our side?” repeated Lóni with a hint of amusement in his voice. Óin shrugged.

“We shall need somebody who knows the paths across the Misty Mountains like the back of his hand; and everybody who has faced the Orcs usurping Khazad-dûm already would be mightily welcome. You said you wanted to go back; would you join such a Quest if we got the King’s permission?”

“You know I would, or you would never have sought me out,” replied Lóni. “But you would need more than just an aged scout and archer. What did Frár and the Lady Yngvildr answer you?”

Óin shrugged again. “The Lady Yngvildr demanded proof that it could be done ere she would consider supporting my request before the King.”

“By arranging a meeting between them and Eikinskialdi,” explained Óin. “I cannot summon the Fire-mage here; he is ancient, and with all the iron we use, he would be in grave danger all the time. But we could meet him somewhere between Erebor and his own dwellings. I believe even the Lady Yngvildr would be impressed by him. He is one of his kind.”

Lóni nodded thoughtfully. “That is possible, I suppose. Well, if you do arrange such a meeting, I would like to be there, too.”

“I would not even dream of leaving you out,” promised Óin. “Now, do tell me about those younglings that seem to be serving under your hand nowadays. I cannot remember them, and they seem an interesting couple. Perhaps they would like to go on an adventure.”

“They have but recently arrived,” replied Lóni, “and they are fairly interesting indeed. The young dam was raised by Men – by the Dúnedain of the North, in fact – while her mate was a thief from a family of thieves, ere she would… persuade him to change his ways. Are you truly certain you would want somebody like him on your Quest?”

“Why not?” asked Óin with a shrug. “We took Erebor back with the help of a burglar. Mayhap we shall take Khazad-dûm back with the help of a thief, who knows?”

“I find that a bit far-fetched; more so as we cannot even be sure that we will get permission to go on this Quest,” said Lóni. “But if Mahal wills so, anything can happen. Go and speak with your cousin Balin first. If you have his support, you might start thinking about the details; but not any sooner. And even so, it will be a gargantuan task, one that would need to be planned out very carefully.”

Note: Once again, this chapter has been edited in respect towards the rules of this site. You can read the full version on FF.Net.

Author’s note: Dorin and Burin were inspired by the movie-version of Fíli and Kíli, although Burin was actually a canon character for a while before the Professor would exchange him for Gimli son of Glóin. See HoME VI: The Return of the Shadow. Also, as you can see, I’m warming up to the idea of a bald Dwalin.

Taking old Lóni’s advice to the heart, a few days later Óin sent a message to Balin, asking his cousin for a meeting. As a rule he did not have to do so – they were closely related, after all, and the ties of kinship were strong among Dwarves who shared the same blood – but as Balin was still grieving, courtesy demanded that he should be asked whether the widower was willing to accept visitors or not.

Fortunately for Óin, Balin was also a very curious Dwarf, eager to learn new things and hear all the tidings, despite his venerable age; and so the messenger returned with the answer that Óin may come over to his cousin’s house on the same day.

The time Balin had named him for the visit enabled Óin to think through one last time what exactly he wanted to say. He even made a few notices, writing down the most important facts on a slip of parchment. Then he changed his clothes and re-braided his hair and his beard a great deal more tidily as was his wont, preparing himself to present his case to the Elder of his family in a respectful yet convincing manner. Balin’s opinion could be a deciding factor, after all.

Like all wealthy and respected families of Durin’s House – moreso those that had a family member of Thorin’s Company – Balin’s family lived in a large, beautiful mansion on the fourth level, near the King’s own dwellings. They had earned this position not only because of Balin and Dwalin’s active part in the Quest, but also due to their previous friendship to both Thorin and his father Thráin, whom they had accompanied on his wanderings. Aside from being great warriors, they were also renowned scholars and had thus become King Dáin’s trusted counsellors.

Besides, they needed a big mansion to live, as theirs was a fairly large family, despite both Balin and Dwalin having only one son each. They might not have numerous blood relatives living under their roof, but they did have an extended family of fosterlings, students, servants and apprentices, some of them from different Clans, others from settlements as far as ones in the Blue Mountains, so they needed a lot of living space to host them all.

When Óin sounded the doorbell, the door was opened by Loki, who had served Balin and Dwalin like something between a manservant and a valet since their youth. The StiffBeard was truly ancient now, but still full of strength; his hair had barely begun to turn white. Óin remembered him from his childhood and found that he had not changed at all ever since. Mischievous, button-like brown eyes twinkled at him from a round, lined face, recognizing and welcoming him at once.

“The family has not gathered yet,” the old servant told Óin, “but the young masters are in the Hall, waiting for you.”

The young masters meant Balin and Dwalin, of course. For Loki, who had known and served Fundin in his youth, they still counted as mere striplings. Stifling a laughter, Óin – considerably younger than said masters himself – followed Loki to the Hall. It was the heart of the whole mansion: a large central chamber, with an arched ceiling, well-lit by the high-cut shafts above and the mysterious cold lamps, the making of which the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm had learned from the Eves of Hollin more than an Age ago, from within.

As Loki had said, Balin and Dwalin were already there, waiting for their visitor; Balin sitting in his high chair, clad in heavy, burgundy red brocade, looking like Durin the Deathless himself. Óin had to fight the urge to bow to him every bit as deeply as he would to a King. Venerable though Dáin Ironfoot was, with an appearance that commanded both respect and a healthy amount of fear, in Óin’s eyes it had always been his cousin Balin who seemed the most kingly of all the sons of Durin’s House.

More so than Thorin Oakenshield even, who – while a noble, powerful and most courageous Dwarf, and a famous warrior at that – had lacked the deeper wisdom and compassion a true King ought to have. Balin, on the other hand, had both of those in spades.

The fact that his hair was already white like freshly fallen snow added to his venerable looks, of course. With his two hundred-and-some years, he did not count as particularly old. As a rule, Dwarves did not show signs of aging until the last decade of their life’s journey; nor did their strength begin to ebb away until that time. However, it was not uncommon for them to go prematurely grey, even when relatively young, as a result of some terrible grief or tragedy in their life.

It had happened to King Dáin, after the Battle of Azanulbizar. And it had happened to Balin, too, as a result of the same battle, in which his father had been slain, among unnumbered others of their kind. And it happened to Glóin, Óin’s younger brother after the Battle of the Five Armies. Óin himself had a lot of iron streaking his once flame red hair and beard as well.

Strangely enough, Balin’s brother Dwalin, less than a decade his junior, had not been affected the same way: his beard was still the same glossy, bluish black that had given the BlackLock clans their distinctive name, although his hair never grew back after it had been burned off at Azanulbizar. Clad in dark green, in contrast of Balin’s deep red, he looked more like a son to him than like a younger brother.

Until one spotted the third male in the room, that is: the late, only – and thus quite spoiled – son of the master of the house.

If one considered Flói, Ori’s life-mate handsome, and rightly so, and Óin’s own nephew, Gimli, quite exotic-looking with his thick copper hair and dark eyes, there could only be one word to describe Burin son of Balin: beautiful.

He was fairly young, barely beyond his sixth decade (as Balin had married late), not particularly tall for a BlackLock and unusually slender for a Dwarf, although broad-shouldered and wide-chested, like all of his kind. He wore his ink-black hair, that seemed almost an iridescent blue in the brilliant light of the cold lamps, unbraided, so that it swapped and whirled around his shoulders at each movement. Also, in blatant disregard of LongBeard traditions – he considered himself a BlackLock and thought little of Durin’s House – he kept his beard short and neatly trimmed. He even shaved the upper part of his cheeks, which added more emphasis to his prominent cheekbones and large, slanted indigo eyes, drawing attention from male and female admirers alike.

His features, too, were unusually sharp, even a little hawkish, with full lips and a finely bent nose. With his slender build and elegant movements, he almost had an Elvish air about him, although few would have been foolish enough to mention that.

He moved with a predatory grace as if he had been dancing, even while performing such a simple task as greeting his father’s cousin; and not by accident. Burin was an excellent and dedicated swordsman, who made sword-fighting a true art form; in truth, he considered his skills with the blade – with any blade – true art. He easily wielded a broadsword made for big Men, could use the throwing knives better than many a Wood-Elf, but he was best with the Dwarven version of the longsword: the same kind as the Mannish ones, but with a shortened length.

With that, he was absolutely deadly. ‘Twas said that he could cut the wings off a fly in the air if he put his mind to it.

Accordingly, he was also an adventurer who could not bear the settled life in Erebor for too long. Time and again, he would leave, alone or with a few friends, to see far-away lands and meet strange people; but most importantly, to find other swordsmen against whose blade he could try his unparalleled skills.

Those mad adventures caused Balin much grief and had led to the untimely death of Dwalin’s younger son, Frerin, during a Troll hunt a decade or so earlier. For though both Frerin and his brother, Dorin, had been considerably older than Balin’s only son, Burin had always been the leader of their adventurous trio, and the three of them used to be thick as thieves.

After the unfortunate death of Frerin, Burin and Dorin grew even closer to each other, as if they had been brothers instead of cousins. Those old enough to remember Thorin Oakenshield’s ill-fated nephews often compared them with Fíli and Kíli because of the brotherly love between them. The only difference being that Burin was still taking the lead during their continuing adventures and Dorin was still following him faithfully.

And not just during their adventures, it seemed. For barely had Óin entered the Hall, another door opened in the back of it and in walked Dorin son of Dwalin, decked out in the resplendent glory of a young BlackLock warrior of a noble family. Like Burin, he wore a knee-length tunic of brocaded wool with wide sleeves that only reached to the elbows and beneath that a long-sleeved undertunic of fine line linen, with dark breeches and boots. But while Burin’s tunic was black, seemed with stitched silver ribbons on the sleeves, the hem and the neckline, Dorin’s was a deep midnight blue, seamed with squirrel fur.

Unlike Burin’s wild mane, Dorin’s dark honey-blond hair – his mother was a StoneFoot from a prominent Clan – was neatly combed back and artfully braided with small gemstones in multiple braids that would have made an Elf die from envy. His refined features and deep blue eyes gave him a faint resemblance to the Northmen of Mirkwood, which made him very popular among the women of Laketown – much to Dwalin’s dismay who did not condone his dalliances with the daughters of Men.

The folly of untamed youth, thought Óin fondly. He liked Dorin who – unlike his own far too serious nephew – was light-hearted and full of mischief, albeit just as fierce a warrior as Gimli. And a lot less spoiled than his younger cousin. The Lady Hilborg, coming from a family of strong principles, had seen into that.

Said lady apparently did not wish to join the meeting of male cousins, which was not the least surprising. Balin’s late wife, the Lady Yrsa had been the family matriarch and Hilborg, not being a BlackLock, had neither the right nor the intention to meddle with Clan matters. Therefore it fell to Balin, as the eldest among them, to greet their visitor, which he did as soon as old Loki led Óin into the Hall.

“Cousin!” he said cordially, rising from his chair with the easy grace of a Dwarf still short his hundredth year, despite being more than twice that age. “’Tis good to see you again. I heard you have returned from your journey some time ago – I assume you brought good news?”

“Indeed I have,” Óin tried not to wince when Balin embraced him in a bear hug that could have crushed the ribs of a weaker Dwarf; age did not seem to have lessened his cousin’s strength, nor his exuberance. Apparently, Balin was done grieving and ready to begin enjoying life again. “We can be reasonable sure that no dragons have remained in the Withered Heath.”

“Good, that is good,” Balin gestured him to sit down at the massive oakwood table and asked old Loki to bring them ale and some walnut bread. “What else did you find, though?” he asked when they were all seated and served, including the two youngsters who were burning with curiosity, never having ventured to the far North.

“Unexpected things,” replied Óin. “Tell me, Cousin, have you ever heard of Fire-mages?”

Balin and Dwalin exchanged surprised looks. Clearly, the term was not an unknown one for them; but again, they were the best scholars of the Clan. Or the entire kingdom, for that matter.

“’Tis said that they were born with the fire touch, but it was much stronger in them than even in the most powerful FireBeards,” Balin finally said. “So strong indeed that they could not bear the touch of iron. They only emerged among the Petty-dwarves, and as those vanished many hundred years ago, the Fire-mages perished with them. The last one went down during the fall of Khazad-dûm, according to legend.”

“Then the legend is mistaken,” said Óin, “for I meet Eikinskialdi the Fire-mage, the last of his kind, in the deep caves bordering the Withered Heath. He is ancient now but has gown in strength immensely… and he is wearing the Drakkon, the Dragon-ring of Narvi, wrought by the hands of Khelebrimbur himself, back in the Second Age.”

His cousins stared at him in muted shock for endless moments. Then Dwalin pulled himself together with visible effort.

“You saw him – and the Drakkon – with your own eyes?” he asked in stunned disbelief.

Óin nodded. “Aye, that I did. And I also saw another one of the Lesser Rings on the finger of Miödvitnir, the Rune-smith.”

“A Rune-smith!” exclaimed Dwalin in awe. “I heard that in ancient times earth magic was frequently used among the FireBeards; but I thought the practice has got lost with the fall of Tumunhazar.”

“It must have,” said Balin, “as Rune-smiths were only ever born in families that had intermarried with our stunted cousins at some point of their history.”

“True,” said Óin, “yet is it not also true that Petty-dwarves were not a kindred of their own in the beginning? That they were born in stunted bodies in all Seven Houses?”

“That is what some legends say,” answered Dwalin reluctantly. “But even more are the tales that tell us that they were an independent Clan, cast out for the hideous crimes they had committed. Black magic being only one of those”

“An entire Clan of evil magic users and cutthroats?” Óin shook his head. “I cannot believe it. ‘Tis more likely that their families were ashamed of them and cast them out, all but forcing them to turn to each other for support and thus creating a separate kindred of Khazad. That would at least explain why Miödvitnir, for one, shows the traits both of the FireBeard and the BroadBeam Clans while still being too small for even a StiffBeard.”

“Possibly but not very likely,” replied Balin. “Intermarriage between the Clans can lead to mixed results, as we all have seen; or it can happen that one side becomes predominant, like in our care,” he added, glancing at his brother, “’Tis amusing how everyone takes us for LongBeards, just because our forefathers belonged to Durin’s House, although no-one of us does actually look like a LongBeard.”

“Well, your beard is forked,” pointed out Burin, “and so is Uncle Dwalin’s.”

“While you, air-headed youngsters, trample on the tradition of your royal bloodline, wearing your beards obscenely short,” Dwalin, ever the more conservative, snapped at his nephew. “Not to mention other… unsavourable customs the two of you have picked up on your mad adventures.”

“Hey!” called Burin defensively. “I am not the one chasing after every barmaid’s apron in Laketown! And it is hardly my fault that my beard grows so slowly.”

“Can we continue the family squabble later, when we are among us?” Balin’s voice brooked no argument and made it very clear that that had not been a question. “Cousin Óin has not come to discuss your fashion sense with us.” He glanced at Óin askance. “I would hear the reason for your visit now, Cousin – though you are always welcome, of course.”

“You are right, Cousin,” he answered. “As much as I value your company and your wisdom – and I truly do – I have come to discuss Khazad-dûm with you.”

Long silence followed his declaration. The dreadful fate of Khazad-dûm – and the even more dreadful memories of the Battle of Azanulbizar – loomed constantly on the horizon of all Dwarven tales. Those were memories that still made Dwarves weep and therefore they did not like to call them up unless they absolutely had to.

“What is there to discuss about Khazad-dûm?” Balin finally asked. “The wonder of the Northern world is lost for us; you know that as well as I do. Too deep we delved there, and woke the Nameless Fear. The vast mansions of Dwarrowdelf have lain empty since the children of Durin fled.”

“Aye, but do they have to remain empty forever?” asked Óin. “Do we have to stay hemmed in this narrow place while greater wealth and splendour could be found in a wider world? Why should we leave the mighty works of our fathers in the filthy claws of Orc and Goblins?”

“Even asking such things is dangerous folly!” cried Dwalin in dismay. “We already tried it once and you know how that ended! We should be grateful to have Erebor back, against all hope, and be content with it.”

“I cannot be content, sitting in my comfortable home like a Hobbit in his hole while Khazad-dûm is still in the claws of the defilers,” returned Óin angrily. “Aye, our first attempt to re-claim our birthright has failed, and the loss was grievous. But now at last we have the power and numbers to return.”

“The numbers perhaps – but the power?” asked Balin thoughtfully. “What makes you think we could face the ancient terror that most likely still haunts the depths of the mines?”

“We certainly cannot,” replied Óin without hesitation, “but a Fire-mage might. Both Eikinskialdi and the Rune-smith declared themselves willing to join any effort to re-claim that which is ours by right.”

Dwalin shook his head in sorrow. “When did the shadow of disquiet fall upon your heart, Cousin? Have you not seen enough death yet? No dwarf has dared to pass the doors of Khazad-dûm for many lives of kings, save Thrór only, and he perished.”

“He perished indeed, for – crazed with age and misfortune and long brooding on the splendours of Khazad-dûm in his forefather’s days – he foolishly walked through the Gate alone,” returned Óin. “’Twas not the Nameless Fear that killed him but Azog, the cursed Orc-chieftain of Gundabad.”

“Aye,” said Balin gravely. “The same Azog who slew Náin of the Iron Hills. And when King Dáin, hardly more than a stripling in our reckoning back then, caught Azog before the doors and slew him and heaved off his head, he looked grey in the face when he came back down from the Gate, as one who had felt great fear.”

“And he refused to enter Khazad-dûm and warned Thráin, too, not do so,” added Dwalin. “And even though Thráin was still mad with bloodlust, coming straight from the battle, and twice Dáin’s age, he listened.”

“He was also blinded on one eye beyond cure and halt with a leg-wound,” said Óin dryly. “Hardly in the right shape to keep fighting. I know all the old tales, Dwalin. My mother fought in that terrible battle herself. Fought and perished, together with your father and Dori's father and with countless others. But some of the old heroes are still among us; and we, you and me, faced the Dragon together. This is the time when we should make our move, while most of us can still wield a weapon.”

For Bombur certainly no longer could; and Bifur most likely would not want to. And if his brother and cousin would not go, Bofur – albeit quite an adventurous soul himself, with his old strength still not diminished – would stay behind for their sake. Even by Dwarven measures, the ties of kinship were unusually strong among them. But again, BroadBeams needed to stick together, having become a people of travelling merchants since the fall of their great city in the Blue Mountains.

“Perhaps so,” said Balin. “You do realise, of course, that those old warriors would be the only ones you could count on in such a Quest. Khazad-dûm was the home of Durin’s Folk, the LongBeards; and for Durin’s Folk only is its loss a never-healing wound. Can you remember what the Dwarves of the Iron Hills answered to Thorin’s summons when we were gathering our strength to return to Erebor?”

Óin nodded grimly, for that was a memory that still burned the members of Thorin’s Company.

“Which is why Frár and the Lady Yngvildr could not join us, although at least Frár would have been inclined to do so, for what greater challenge could there be for a Forge Guard than to face a live dragon?” reminded him Balin. “Yet he could not disobey Dáin’s orders.”

“True,” said Óin. “But I also remember what Thorin said to you that one night, in the comfortable home of our esteemed burglar Bilbo Baggins: that he would take each and every one of our rag-tag band over an army from the Iron Hills. For when he called upon us, we answered.”

“Aye, and we would have run headfirst into our ruin if not for Tharkûn’s help,” commented Dwalin. “This time you shan’t have a wizard – or a Hobbit – to help you out of tight places.”

“I still believe the mere thought of this is dangerous folly,” declared Dwalin. “I for my part shan’t have any part of it. ‘Twas a miracle that we could get back our home of old; ‘twould be immodest to expect another miracle to happen. Whom do you hope to talk into this mad Quest of yours? Have you won anyone from the old Company over yet? For I doubt that many would be willing to risk that which we have gained at such a high price.”

“I have not spoken to anyone of the Company yet; not even to my own brother,” replied Óin. “For I thought Balin, as the Eldest of us after the loss of Thorin, would be a better leader of such a Quest than I could ever hope to become. However, I spoke to Frár and his Raven Lady; and I spoke to Old Lóni as well. My heart tells me they would follow – if only we could present them a true leader and a way to succeed.”

“And can you present them those?” asked Burin with burning eyes, speaking for the first time. Until now he had remained silent, out of respect towards his elders, but even a blind Dwarf could have seen that his spirits had already been lifted by the chance of such a great adventure.

Óin turned to him. “By right, your father should be King Under the Mountain,” he said sharply. “Dáin might be more closely related to Thorin but your father had always been the closest to our true Kings. Have he and your uncle not accompanied Thráin at his first attempt to return to Erebor?”

“And a fat lot of good that did to us all,” muttered Dwalin. “We lost our King and nearly our very lives and had to return to the Blue Mountains with our task unfinished. We could not even get close enough to the Mountain to spy out its defences.”

“Aye, but Thráin chose the two of you and no-one else,” reminded him Óin. “By right, Balin should have become Thorin’s heir.”

“Nay, you did not, and we all know why,” replied Óin. “Dáin was better suited to protect Erebor with his armies, and you realised that; which only shows your qualities as a true leader. You did honourably by our people, serving the good of us all, instead of just your own. I think not we could find anyone more deserving to lead us on this Quest – and to become the Lord of Moria if we succeed.”

“If you succeed, which is highly questionable,” returned Dwalin. “’Twas insane enough to return to Erebor with only thirteen of us, an old wizard and a plump little Hobbit whose first request was to turn our whole trek back for his forgotten handkerchiefs. And reclaiming Erebor was child’s play compared with the enormous task of getting Khazad-dûm back. What makes you believe you would have the faintest chance to succeed? Where would you take the armies to do so?”

“If I have learned anything from our Quest than this: sometimes stealth can be more successful than a parade of vast armies,” answered Óin. “Sneaking through the back door can lead further than trying to break down the Front Gate by force. We should not repeat King Thrór’s mistake but use the tactic of Tharkûn. After all, Khazad-dûm did have a back door as well – the one through which the people of Khelebrimbur used to enter.”

“Aye, but that gate could only be opened by magic,” reminded him Balin,” and to approach it, we would need to cross the Misty Mountains first. Do I need to remind you what a perilous undertaking that still is… not to mention how costly?”

“We?” echoed Dwalin suspiciously. “Brother, you cannot be considering joining this madness, are you?”

“Nay, I am not; at least not yet,” replied Balin. “However, ‘tis something I shall have to think about long and hard… and now is not the time for that. Let us pass Midwinter Day first. Once the feast of Ori’s wedding is over and all have sobered again, perchance the others from the old Company would be more willing to think of anything else. Until then, we can study the ancient lore to prepare ourselves for a proper council. Who knows, we might even find the opening spell for that back door, just in case.”

“Peace, brother. I have made no choice to join Cousin Óin’s Quest, should it ever come to happen. Nor shall I decide anything in such a short notice. But he seems determined to go, even if he has to go alone; therefore the least he deserves is our help with researching the old legends. For I shall support him, should this come to a debate before the King, even if I choose not to join him,” he turned back to Óin warningly. “I ask you, Cousin, not to discuss this with the others from the old Company just yet. Everyone is busy with Ori’s upcoming wedding, and he deserves to celebrate his long-awaited day of happiness without disturbance.”

He was clearly speaking as the head of the family now, and even though Óin was only related him on his father’s side, he considered Balin his elder and bowed to his wishes willingly.

“As you wish, Cousin. I shall not mention this to anyone; not even to Glóin.”

“As if he would ever go with you!” snorted Dwalin. “And even if he would want, Lady Nais would sooner see him dead than allow him to run off on another mad adventure.”

“She does not need to hold him back by threats,” replied Óin a little sadly. “My brother is quite content with his life here in Erebor; and anyway, he would not want to leave behind his family again. Not now that they finally have a home.”

“If that is true, who could blame him for it?” asked Balin quietly. “He already left behind a life of peace and plenty when he followed Thorin to Erebor. Not because he would hunger for gold or glory but out of loyalty, honour and the willingness of his heart; because his King called upon him and he could do nought else but answer. But I am not his King; and even if I were, I would never ask him to give up the life he had built for himself and his family again. A life that is worth more than all the riches and splendour of Khazad-dûm.”

“Whom you choose to summon is your choice alone, Cousin,” said Óin. “I shall not ask my brother to come with us, either – not even if he wanted to do so – for it would be foolish to raise the ire of his lady. A venerable matriarch our Nais might be, but her grip on the battle-axe is still firm and she would not hesitate to put me in my place if she thought it would be the needful thing to do.”

“You should find yourself a mate of your own,” suggested Dwalin, grinning, “instead of letting Nais terrorise you. I begin to understand the true reason behind your wanderlust: you just want to be as far from her as you can, as often as you can come up with a reason that would be halfway acceptable.”

For it was a well-known fact under the Mountain that Dwalin, the renowned war hero twice over, the bane of Orcs, Goblins, Wargs, Giant Spiders and other evil creatures, was completely under the yoke of his much younger wife. Who happened to be an extraordinary, gold-haired beauty and had chosen him against everybody’s expectations, refusing to accept the courtship of many a younger, wealthier and more handsome male.

Needless to add that the Lady Hilborg was well capable of reining in her sons as well – that is, her only remaining son now – if the need arose. Which was why Dorin, although he had come to age long ago, still would not go off on any adventure without his mother’s consent. Not even if Burin called upon him.

Dwalin shrugged, not the least embarrassed by the fact that he was well and truly owned by his lady. He considered himself fortunate to be chosen by her and they had been very happy ever since. He could not care less what other Dwarves thought about him; even less so those poor, unlucky fellows who still had not found the one of their hearts.

Óin looked at the big, raw-boned, bald-headed BlackLock and smiled fondly. Dwalin was like an old war-horse, taken in by a farmer’s family and living out the rest of his life among small, meek ponies; out of his true element yet still content nonetheless. Hilborg had taught him the gentler pleasures of life and he was no longer willing to give that up.

He was not the bookworm kind of scholar like Balin and Ori, nor the travelling and seeking kind like Óin himself. His knowledge came more from the oral tradition; from the ancient legends and songs handed down from father to son since the dawn of time. In a different life he might have become one of the greatest bards of Durin’s Folk, given his excellent ear for music. But being the chancellor of a King was not such a bad thing, either, he found.

“Well,” Óin rose, feeling that they all had said everything they had to say in the matter, “I shall be going then, Cousins.”

“Go,” Balin nodded. “But we shall see each other after Midwinter Day again. When I have given your news a great deal of thought and have searched some of the ancient books we keep in the secret archives the Dragon never found.”

“You could open the Archives, then?” asked Óin in surprise. “How? For years upon years have we tried to find the opening spell but we could not even locate the cave where the books were supposed to be!”

“We were fortunate that Ori got in his head to learn the Elvish letters when we were resting in Rivendell during the Quest,” said Balin. “Turns out the spell has been before our very eyes all the time: hewn into the rock wall in that High-Elven script they call Tengwar. We had just thought it was merely ornamentals, until Ori recognised some of the letters. From there on, putting together the spell was easy.”

“Thorin, may he rest in peace amongst his longfathers, would be fit to be tied if he knew that,” Dwalin grinned from ear to ear. “He hated and mistrusted everything that came from the Elves; to find that his own grandsire used their script to protect his secrets would be too much for him.”

“Thorin was not the only one foolishly mistrusting the Elves,” reminded him Óin. “We all behaved like fools in Lord Elrond’s house, much to my regret. One might think about Thranduil what one want – and I am certainly no friend of his – but Elrond Half-Elven has never been aught but decent to us.”

“That is because he is only a half-Elf,” snickered Dwalin, admittedly not a friend of Elves himself.

Óin, who had befriended some of the Wise in Elrond’s house, just shook his head ruefully. A few decades were too short a time to cure Ages of mutual mistrust and prejudice. Which, in his opinion, was a crying shame, as the two races could have still learnt a great deal from each other. And the example of Narvi and Khelebrimbur had clearly showed that friendship between Elves and Dwarves was possible – if both sides were willing.

He knew, though, that his cousins would not be open to such bold ideas. At least Dwalin would not; and Balin was probably too old to change now. At least he could be civil to everyone.

Deciding that this was not the time to breach such a topic, Óin took his leave from his cousins and returned to the mansion he shared with his brother’s family to brood over his plans some more. He could not know that other plans had been set in motion in the meantime – plans that might very well end in him getting wedded and tamed, just as his brother had been.

The Book of Mazarbul

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author's note: Just remember, my Dwarves rarely look like those movie caricatures of Peter Jackson's. Especially not Bifur, who is, after all, female in my interpretation, and quite a pretty one by Dwarven standards. I tend to accept Óin, though, save for the hearing aid – he really looks impressive. Bombur's extended family is my invention. More about Uruktharbun, Thorin's city in the Blue Mountains, can be read in my other story, "If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit".

My heartfelt thanks to Glîrnardir, my generous canon beta, for fact-checking and proofreading.

This is actually Chapter 14. I had to eject Chapter 13 completely, as it wouldn't fit the rules of this archive. You can read it on FF.Net - it is quite hilarious, in fact.

Chapter 11 – Family, Friends & Fealties

The Midwinter Day festivities lasted another three days. Dwarves did nothing by halves. On the fourth day, however, even the bawdiest ones reached their limits and some kind of drunken lethargy lay over the entire Mountain like a warm fur blanket.

The only ones still up and fully awake were the Forge Guards; mostly out of fear of what Yngvildr would do, should she find them in less than peak condition. Frár might be their commander – and he was a fairly heavy-handed one, to tell the truth – but it was the Raven Lady who put the fear of Mahal into them all. Including Frár himself sometimes, or so the rumour said. No-one was foolish enough to actually ask either of them.

No member of Óin's extended family was with the Forge Guards, though, thus they could afford to sleep out their drunken stupor in peace. The only ones already up around the third hour of the day were Óin himself, who could hold his ale better than anyone else in the family, and the Lady Nei, who had the common sense not to indulge beyond her endurance. She was already in the kitchen when Óin emerged from his chambers, cooking the traditional hangover breakfast for them all.

"I wish Glóin would share your mother wit and knew when to stop drinking," she said grouchily. "I love him more than life itself, but sometimes I am truly tempted to beat some sense into that stubborn head of his. More so as his table manners decrease rapidly when he gets drunk. I was deeply ashamed of him last night. Again."

Óin laughed. "That was nothing. You should have seen him when we invaded the home of poor Mister Baggins, our esteemed burglar, almost fifty years ago. I thought the poor little thing would faint from our table manners alone."

"Or rather from the lack thereof," commented Nei snidely.

Óin nodded, still chuckling.

"Oh, aye. You should have seen him, running around like a headless chicken, trying to save his furniture, his mother's pottery, those ridiculous crocheted doilies… and, before all else, the contents of his larder. Or larders, for he had several of them, all very well stocked."

"With Bombur present, it must have been a hopeless endeavour," said Nei.

Óin grinned. "Bombur alone would have been enough, that is for sure. But we had Dori there, too, and you know how fond he is of his food. 'Tis a miracle he survived accompanying Ori on the Path of Clarity or whatever it is called."

"It must have been hard on him," agreed Nei. "By the way, I cannot remember seeing Bifur, Bofur or Bombur at the wedding. Were they not invited?"

"Oh, they were; Ori would never do that to one of the Company," replied Óin. "In fact, Bofur was there, and so would have been Bombur if he could. He is not one who would miss a feast. But he is not well; had not been well for some time by now. His legs cannot bear his weight as well as they used to, and he is too proud to let himself carried across half the Mountain."

"A shame; his cooking is among the best," said Nei. "What about Bifur, though?"

"Sigrún no longer attends to weddings," answered Óin curtly.

He was one of the very few who still insisted on calling the little BroadBeam dam by her true call-name. Everyone else had grown too accustomed to her male disguise as Bifur the toy-maker, even though she had been the matriarch of her family for some sixty years by now.

Of course, no-one else had found the One in her.

Nei nodded tersely. It was not so that she would dislike Bifur, who was a tough little person of quiet dignity. She was just bitterly disappointed that Bifur would not return Óin's feelings, thus condemning him to a lonely existence.

"Gudhrun Óttarsdóttir came to see me right before the wedding," she said, seemingly out of context, although Óin knew it better. He knew that Glóin's lady was not one for idle chatter. The announcement surprised him a little, though.

"Hrár's wife? What did she want?"

"She came on behalf of her daughter," Nei turned the sausages in the frying pan. "It appears that Hrín Hrársdóttir has an interest."

"In Gimli?" asked Óin, not particularly surprised any longer. The lad might be a little young for a Dwarf-dam like Hrín, but he was handsome, of a good family, with a thin trail of Durin's blood in his veins – and a passable weaponsmith.

Nei gave him a wry look. "Would I discuss it with you then? Besides, Gimli and Vigdís Reginsdóttir have pledged to each other while still in diapers, and that has not changed. Nay; Hrín has shown interest in you."

"In me?" echoed Óin, fairly shocked. "I could be her father."

"You could; yet you are not," pointed out Nei. "And you are still in your prime. Not everyone is so blind for all that which you have to offer as Bifur. Hrín Hrársdóttir clearly has a good eye for a worthy mate."

"And I am flattered, I truly am," said Óin, overcoming his shock. "But you can tell her mother that I am not interested. I have found the One of my heart a long time ago, before Hrín was even born. If I cannot have Sigrún, I shan't have anyone else. This is our way; and you know it."

"And yet it has happened before that two Dwarves bound, even though they were not the One for each other," Nei reminded him. "'Tis rare, true, bit it can be done."

"Not if one of them has felt the true longing for someone else as I have longed for Sigrún, ever since I came out of my last growing pains," replied Óin. "Besides, why should I even consider doing so? I am not some King that would need an heir at any costs. Nor is it up to me to preserve Durin's line. I see no reason to enter such an empty bond; and Hrín is young, she can afford to wait for the One meant for her."

Nei shook her head but did not argue with him. She had had but very little hope that he would agree to a bond of convenience. He was right: such a thing was possible between two Dwarves who had never experienced the love-longing but not for one who had been living with it all his adult life. Especially not for a noble-born FireBeard. Their longing was fierce and all-consuming, more so than among other Clans.

"I shall tell Gudhrun not to nurture any hopes, then," was all she answered.

The discussion with his sister-in-love inspired Óin to a visit by his BroadBeam friends. He had not seen them since before he would set out for the Desolation of the Dragon and found that it was time to redeem that.

Besides, if not the other two, at least Bofur might have been interested in returning to Khazad-dûm. Their ancestors had come from that great Dwarf city, after all. And Bofur was still young enough – not to mention an adventurous spirit – for such a quest.

Though held in great honours as members of Thorin's Company, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur did not live on the same level as those of Durin's line or the highly respected warriors who had followed King Dáin from the Iron Hills. They dwelt on the Third High, mostly populated by merchants and artisans of respectable skills and wealth, just one level below the quarter of the truly rich and powerful Guild Masters.

King Dáin had offered them better places to live, of course; they could have moved into any one of the great, empty mansions of the First High before anyone else would claim them, but they politely refused.

"We are simple miners, traders and small craftspeople," Bifur had said simply. "We are better off with our own kind."

And that had been it.

Still, they did not need to be ashamed of their home. While not exactly a mansion, it was still a spacious house cut in living stone, with a lovely stone garden in the front. Large enough not only for the three of them but also for those of Bombur's children who had chosen to remain with their father: his heir Bávor and his younger son Gellir with their respective families, as well as his only daughter Inga and her mate, Nár Frársson.

Of course, Inga and Nár could have moved in with his parents, but Inga had adamantly refused to live in the shadow of the Raven Lady, now that she actually had a home of her own. And since in such debated cases the male was always supposed to follow his mate, Nár had obediently moved out of the mansion of his legendary parents and in with his wife's fairly simple kinfolk.

Not that he would mind it; he honestly did not. Unlike his younger brother Yngvi and his cousin Hannar, who chose to join the Forge Guards, Nár was not a warrior. He was a bronzesmith like Inga herself – they had first met while learning their craft in the Iron Hills – and like Inga, he preferred a simpler, more quiet life.

It was Inga who answered the door when Óin rang the doorbell. He had not seen her for almost six years, but she still looked very much like half a century before, when she had been travelling the roads of Middle-earth with Bifur's merchant caravan from the Blue Mountains to the Iron Hills and back, always on the Road, with only short breaks to rest between two journeys.

She was a stunning beauty as BroadBeam dams go: sweet-faced and wide-eyed, with her ginger hair wrapped around her head in an elaborate triple braid. Only her clothing had become richer and more refined in the years as the skilled artisan wife of a well-to-do craftsman. Instead of the former plain kirtles and undergowns of simple wools she was now wearing a heavy gown of deep emerald green velvet over an undergown of dark gold figured silk. Her hair was braided with small emerald beads and her silky side whiskers powdered with gold dust – a fashion that had held itself among the Dwarrow-dams of the Mountain for decades.

"Uncle Óin!" she exclaimed in delight. "How good to see you! It has been a long time."

"Too long," Óin agreed ruefully, kissing her on the cheek as was his right as an honorary uncle. "How are you doing, Inga? You look fine."

"I am fine," she laughed, already maneuvering him inside the house. "My littlest has just come out of his most recent growth pains, the twins have been apprenticed to a merchant house and to a master stone-mason each, Nár is hoping to become a Guild Master in the near future, and I have just delivered a fairly big commission to the Knights of Dale, so aye, we are doing well."

"What about the rest of the family?" asked Óin, following her to the living room on the ground level, where the family usually gathered.

BroadBeams were a close-knit bunch, Bombur's family even more so than the rest of the Clan.

Inga shrugged. "Aunt Sigrún still goes down to Dale regularly to teach her apprentices. Men are better at woodwork than at metal-work, and she likes the company of their young ones. Uncle Bofur has been made Master of the Copper Mines since your last visit and seems content enough with it, although the King had offered him higher positions, several times. Bávor is still travelling with the caravan from time to time, but he is at home right now, working with the local ironsmiths, and Gellir, well, he has found himself a mate, and the two are thinking of going back to the Blue Mountains where there are no so many skilled toy-makers."

Óin noticed that she had not said a word about Bombur. Not a single word.

"And your father?" he asked quietly. "Is he well?"

The smile faded from her face. "He is not getting any better," she admitted. "Though he is not getting any worse, either, or only very, very slowly; I suppose we ought to be grateful for that. But it is hard to watch him fade a tiny bit each new day."

Óin nodded in understanding. Bombur was old, older than any of them, including Balin and the late Thorin, and the harsh life on the Road had taken its toll on him. The death of his beloved wife, Maren, had broken him almost beyond healing; only the Quest of Erebor, as it had later been named, reawakened his old spirit for a while.

After the Battle of the Five Armies, in which he had suffered a crippling leg wound, he felt he had a purpose again. The gargantuan work of rebuilding the Kingdom Under the Mountain filled him with renewed vigour. But after a few decades, once the most difficult tasks had been mastered, Bombur fell into deep melancholy again, and seemed to sink deeper with each passing year.

"Does his healing charm no longer help?" asked Óin.

The charm, a cloak pin in the form of a golden trefoil, had been wrought for Bombur right before the Quest by Mother Edhla, the famous FireBeard wise-woman of the Blue Mountains. It had three jewels adorning its tree leaves: topaz against melancholy, obsidian against grief and jade against loneliness. Bombur had worn it hidden under his clothes; neither the vile creatures of Goblin Town nor the jailors of the Elvenking had ever found it, for it had been enchanted by a very strong, ancient spell so that only Dwarven eyes could see it.

Inga shrugged again, her lovely face clouded.

"Perhaps it is just the charm that still keeps him with us. Or perhaps it has lost its power, now that Mother Edhla is gone. Who can tell? I hope seeing you will cheer him up a little. Just sit here, Uncle, I will call the others. They will all be glad to see you."

She hurried off and soon the others came in, one by one or in twos and trees, and glad they were indeed to see their old friend. Even Bombur's heavily wrinkled face lit up as he hobbled in, supported by Bofur on one side and by his oldest living child, Bávor – a spitting image of his father in all but the colour of his hair – on the other.

Gellir came next, and then Bávor's lovely wife, Ragna, with six out of their eight children. Bávor clearly followed his father's example where building a large family was concerned.

Inga's twins were still with their respective masters, but her youngest, a ginger-haired, snub-nosed youth with button-like, beetle-black eyes, came eagerly to meet the rare and famous visitor. And finally, after everyone else, came Sigrún, and Óin's heart stopped for a moment at the sight of her.

She had not changed much since the times when she had travelled the Road in the disguise of Bifur the toy-maker. Her face was still smooth, her black, almond-shaped eyes shrewd and observant, her great mane of thick raven hair untouched by silver. But now she wore it in a series of decorative braids, plaited with silver beads and filaments and pulled back from her face into an intricately woven topknot. Her glossy side whiskers were groomed in the same style, and the finely wrought silver filigree framing the shell of her ear spoke of a very skilled silversmith.

She, too, was wearing a sleeveless velvet gown in dark burgundy red that was split in the front all the way to her bosom to reveal the long-sleeved undergown of pale yellow silk beneath. It was cinched under her breasts by a soft, jewelled leather girdle. Only the fine, jagged black lines tattooed on her temples and alongside her cheekbones to the middle of her face revealed that she was a warrior, too – or at least used to be – blooded in battle.

She greeted Óin in a subdued manner – very different from the exuberance of the others, which included head-butts (Bofur), slaps on the back that could have swept an oliphaunt off its legs (Bombur), warrior-style clasps of forearms (Bávor) and unashamed hugs (all of the youths). Óin was not surprised. She had been subdued towards him ever since she had found her One during the Quest – the very One she could never have – as if she did not want to reawaken any old feelings that she could not return. A short affair in their shared youth was all he would ever have of her, and he had long accepted it and learned to live with the memories.

They all found a good place on the broad, low stone bench that run around the living room, generously strewn with furs and flat pillows against the cold of the stone, eager and ready to hear Óin's tales about his long journey to the far North. Bombur particularly seemed relieved to take his considerable weight off his crippled leg, which Inga dutifully popped up on a footstool, for it was alarmingly swollen, and Óin wondered how the old BroadBeam could walk on it at all, even with help.

Bombur caught his worried looks and smiled sadly.

"See what a burden I have become, my friend?" he said. "This old leg has had enough and does not want to serve me any longer."

"But why?" Óin shook his grizzled head in confusion. "We forced all that Orc poison out of your wound after the battle. I made sure that it was clean; that no traces of the defilement remained. And you worked hard for decades afterwards, without the wound giving you any grief."

"'Tis not the wound, 'tis my heart," replied Bombur with the same resigned smile. "I am old, my friend; two hundred and fifty-seven years are a high age, even for a Dwarf in these days," he gestured at his snow white beard of hair, the latter now definitely thinning on the top of his head. "You see, I have even turned grey."

"So has my brother, and that does not mean he is old," said Óin. "So have I, as the matter of fact. And Balin has been grey since the Battle of Azanulbizar – do you find that he had lost his old fire?"

"Nay; but you have turned grey from grief, all of you," Bombur reminded him. "I have turned grey from age – and you know what that means."

Óin nodded glumly. Of course he knew. As a rule, Dwarves did not turn grey – unless as a result of something truly terrible they had seen or experienced – until the last decade or two of their lives. Age-related greying always meant that a Dwarf had begun the last leg of his journey.

"But let us not mope about my age," said Bombur briskly. "Tell us about your adventures, Óin my friend! I might prefer the comfort of my house in these days, but that does not mean I would not enjoy tales of strange places and derring-do."

Óin smiled, oddly touched by the bravery with which the old Dwarf faced the upcoming end of his life. Regardless what others might have thought of him, Bombur had always been a brave soul. And if he still delighted in tales of adventures, then that was what he would get.

"Very well," said Óin. "I shall tell you about the strange places I have visited and the strange people I have met, although I fear you might not believe me…"

And so he told them everything about his long journey. About the small settlements he had visited in the Grey Mountains. About celebrating Durin's Day with the small FireBeard Clan. About meeting Miödvitnir, the Rune-smith and his great knowledge in dragon-lore. And finally about Eikinskialdi, the Fire-mage, his arcane powers and the disturbing creatures he shared his caves with.

He tried to skim over the aspects related to a potential return to Khazad-dûm, for now that he had seen his old friends again he was fairly certain that no-one of them would be up for another dangerous adventure. Not even Bofur.

It was a doomed attempt, of course. Bifur, Bofur and Bombur might have grown used to settled life but they were no fools. And, as he could have expected, it was Bofur who confronted him with the whole truth.

"Why ain't you telling us about your mad plan?" asked the miner, the challenge clear in his voice. "Why ain't you asking if we wanted to go to Khazad-dûm with ya?"

"For I know that you would not," answered Óin honestly. "Besides, it is not so as if there would be any set plans yet. 'Tis all very much a theoretical debate still."

"And yet you have already seen Frár and Yngvildr about it," said Bifur quietly.

Of course they knew about that. Nár had been present at the meeting and would tell Inga everything. What Dwarf would keep something like that from his mate, more so if an old friend of the family was involved?

"I have," admitted Óin. "And as you know, it did not get me too far. The Raven Lady, while not entirely adverse, wanted proof that it can be done."

"Can you bring that proof?" asked Bofur, his dark eyes gleaming with interest.

"Balin offered to search the old legends and chronicles for me," said Óin. "And Old Lóni showed a definite interest for meeting Eikinskialdi. He might be willing to join a Quest like this; he knows the paths of the Misty Mountains better than anyone else, and he feels very strongly about Khazad-dûm."

"Not stronger than our family does," said Bombur with a sigh. "I wish I had the strength still to go with you, even if it were the last thing I did in my life. To see the wonders of Khazad-dûm, to walk the halls and tunnels where our ancestors lived and worked… it would be worth the risk of being captured or killed by those filthy Orcs."

Bifur shook her head, appalled. "You are mad. You both are. We have won back the Mountain, against all hope; we should be grateful and not take other mad risks. We have lost enough friends already. Was Azanulbizar and the Battle of the five Armies not enough for one lifetime?"

"Our losses were grievous, for sure," said Bávor slowly. "And yet I believe that Óin is right. We cannot allow for Khazad-dûm, the greatest of all Dwarf cities ever, to remain in the hands of the enemy. If we could take Khazad-dûm back, that would mean control over the paths of the Misty Mountains. We could make it a fortress again; a stronghold, a stalwart tower in our never-ending war with the spawn of Gundabad."

"We?" repeated Inga, visibly shocked. "Are you planning to join Uncle Óin in this madness?"

Bávor smiled at Ragna and his wife returned his smile with obvious pride.

"Ever since Nár came home with his news, Ragna and I have been discussing this," he replied, "and we have come to an agreement. Father cannot go; you and Uncle Bofur would not go. But somebody of our family has to go, and I am the only sensible choice. I am an ironsmith and a skilled negotiator; I have the strength and the warrior training. If anyone goes, it should be me."

"You are also Bombur's heir and have eight children to raise," reminded him Bifur.

Bávor waved off her concerns. "Most of my children are grown, with families of their own, and Ragna is more than fit to deal with the rest on her own if needs must be; not that I would intend to die any time soon. But if I do, Father can always name my firstborn as his heir; or Uncle Bofur, which would be even better. Unless you want to come, too, Uncle," he added, looking at Bofur askance.

The miner shook his shaggy head. "Nay, me lad. I had my fair share of adventures, both on the Road and during the Quest, and frankly, I am content with my life as it is. Besides, I cannot leave the burden of the family last on Sigrún's shoulders alone."

"You must not stay for my sake if you wish to go," said Bifur. "I shall deal as I always have."

"I know you would," replied Bofur, "but I honestly don't want to go. All I ever wanted was to get off the Road and have a home – I shan't leave that behind, now that I friendly have it, for another mad adventure."

"I see," Óin was a little disappointed – he had nurtured some hope of talking Bofur into joining them, against all sensible considerations – but not truly surprised. He had only travelled with their caravan for a few years after Azanulbizar, until his father had recovered from his grievous wounds and from the loss of his mother, but he knew all too well how hard life on the Road could be. So he could not truly blame his friends for choosing the safety of the Mountain.

"And you would agree with your eldest joining us?" he asked Bombur. The fat old Dwarf smiled with an equal measure of pride and sadness.

"The lad has been his own Dwarf for the last hundred years or so. He does not need my blessing – but if that is what he wants, he gets it whole-heartedly. I kept him from coming with us and facing the Dragon; he deserves to have his own adventure."

There was more than just an adventure, of course, and they all knew it. Bávor felt the need to serve the future of their people, just as his father, his uncle and his aunt had before, and Bombur would not take that chance away. Not even out of fear of losing another one of his beloved children.

One level higher, in their spacious home in the Clerks' Quarter, Old Lóni sat in counsel with his only remaining brother, Lofar. The house was actually Lofar's home who, although not nobly born, had once been Thorin's head clerk in Uruktharbun, their city in the Blue Mountains, and after the reclaiming of Erebor had become the same for Dáin Ironfoot.

Some had wondered that Dáin would not choose someone of his own, trusted scribes for that position, but the King knew what he was doing. Lofar's forefathers had been clerks of Erebor for hundreds of years before the coming of the Dragon, and he had been trained to become one from a very young age. He knew all the secrets of both kingdoms and was therefore invaluable, which explained his privileged status in both cities.

Not having any family of his own – he was one of those Dwarves who lived for their craft only – he gladly took into his house Lóni with all his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. They filled his home with laughter and vibrant life, and that was more than enough for him.

Albeit sixty-five years Lóni's junior, Lofar was an old Dwarf nonetheless, with a craggy face that looked as if it had been hewn from withered rock with an axe, a short but proudly bent nose, thin lips and a jutting, cleft chin; a LongBeard through and through. His iron-grey hair was pulled back from his face into a tight topknot to keep it out of his eyes during work. His forked beard began below his chin and was braided with small jade beads, the two braids – each thicker than a grown Man's arm – looped back under his large, flat ears and fastened to the topknot with jewelled clasps. He had his left eye burned out by dragonfire during the flight from Erebor (at which time he was but a mere stripling) and wore a gilded leather patch covering the empty eye-socket.

Unlike Lóni, who rarely put on anything but the rough green and brown garb of the scouts whom he commanded, Lofar preferred more refined clothing, made of precious materials, as his status at the court allowed. His dark yellow breeches and short-sleeved tunic were made of the fine wool of the long-haired mountain goats bred by StiffBeard shepherds on the north-western slopes of the Mountain, with a grey shirt made of the finest linen available on the market of Lake-town and richly embroidered on the neckline and the sleeves. Above all that he wore a long, sleeveless surcoat of thicker, heavier wool in a deep midnight blue, seamed with small yellow jewels in a geometric pattern.

He had a very dignified look in his rich clothing and with that grim face of his. The younger clerks went in awe of him as they would of any of the legendary warriors. Which was not entirely mistaken from their side, seeing as Lofar, too, had fought at Azanulbizar – and survived to tell the tale.

The true thing, however, through which he had earned the respect of every single Dwarf of Erebor and the Blue Mountains, was his rich knowledge of the old records. Not even Balin, Ori, Óin or the other scholars could match him in that area, as scholars were mainly interested in old legends, chronicles, songs and other arcane stuff, while royal clerks knew the records kept about the daily life of a kingdom – and that was the kind of knowledge Lóni needed right now.

Fortunately, the Dragon never bothered with the Archives in the deepest chambers – either he had not found them or he could not break the heavy, triple stone doors protecting them. Whichever the case might have been, the records from the very day on the Kingdom Under the Mountain had been founded were still there, hundreds upon thousands of ancient scrolls, all written in Khuzdul, using either the Angerthas runes of Khazad-dûm or their more crude version, the Cirth, used in Dale or in Lake-town to the current day, kept in their sealed tubes of precious metals and protected by powerful spells against fading or other damage.

Some of these scrolls had been saved from Khazad-dûm when Durin's Folk fled the Dwarrow-delf and already counted as ancient back then, having been written in the Second Age, at Narvi's times. Newer ones came from the times of Durin VI, before Durin's Bane would have emerged from the bottomless depths beneath Baraz, giving precise descriptions – or even carefully drawn maps – of the layout of the great city. Of Deeps and Heights, of halls and tunnels, of mines, living areas, underground rivers and pools, watchposts and markets… everything the greatest Dwarven city ever could once offer.

One of those scrolls was now spread out all over the large stone table in Lofar's study, where he usually had the Kingdom's more current records for controlling the work of his clerks. He no longer had to do the writing with his own hands; and what was more, his status allowed him to borrow the ancient records from the Archives for studying.

"Here," he dragged a blunt fingertip along a dragged line on the map. "Between the First and the Second Halls, on the same level as the Gates, there is a chasm so deep that our miners were never able to sound it out during the three whole Ages of the city's existence. Across it our forefathers built a narrow bridge of stone, in a single curving span, which could only be crossed in a single file."

"Durin's Bridge!" said Lóni in awe; all Dwarves were familiar with the most famous features of Khazad-dûm, of course. His brother nodded.

"Aye; an ancient defence against any enemies who might capture the Gates and the First Hall. Now, Durin's Tower, from which the King could view the wide lands of Eriador that lay west of the Misty Mountains, was a chamber with a ledge high in the peak of Zirak-zigil. It could be reached by the Endless Stair, which climbed in unbroken spiral from the lowest Deep to the very pinnacle of the Silvertine, in many thousands of steps."

"But was the Stair not destroyed when our people fled?" asked Lóni.

Lofar shrugged. "Some say it was; it might be blocked or even broken in many places, but I doubt that it would be entirely destroyed. The stone-work of our ancestors was too strong and enduring for even an all-out war to destroy it."

"Hmmm," Lóni examined the map carefully. "The Second Hall seems to be a good place to settle first. 'Tis easily defended, even against an enemy that outnumbers us one to a hundred, and it is fairly easy to reach from the Great Gate. Of course, approaching the Gate openly from the valley of Azanulbizar had already proved lethal. Other possibilities ought to be considered."

"You can always approach from the west, through the Doors of Durin, of course," said Lofar. "They open onto a shelf that stands five fathoms above the Gate-stream, where the river stumbles in falls. The road along the riverbed, the one that ran between Khazad-dûm and the old Elven city of Khelebrimbur, should still exist, in patches at least. But for that, you should cross the Misty Mountains first."

"Which might pose dangers of its own for a larger party," said Lóni. "The Orcs of the Misty Mountains might have been greatly reduced in numbers in the Battle of the Five Armies, but they, too, had the time to recover. And if we appear with an entire caravan of supplies, they will spot us in no times and call in reinforcement. Still, it may be safer than knocking on the Front Gate."

"Not to mention that you would come dangerously close to the Golden Wood when approaching Azanulbizar, and the Marchwardens have those arrows sitting a bit too loosely in their quivers," added Lofar. "More so when they see our people at their borders."

"Well, their Lord is a kinsman of Thingol," Lóni shrugged. "We are not the only people who are good at keeping long grudges. And they say Kheleborn is old enough to have lived through the Sack of Doriath itself… unless that is just a legend."

"Nay, it is not," Lofar rummaged through the other scrolls and opened one of the tubes. "Here, this ancient scroll records a visit of Prince Kheleborn of Doriath in Khazad-dûm, accompanied by his lady wife, Artanis of Finarfin's House, who was apparently a first cousin to Khelebrimbur's father and had supposedly seen Mahal face to face while dwelling in the Far West."

His snort revealed how much he did not believe the last part.

"Artanis?" Lóni frowned. "Isn't the Lady of the Golden Wood called Galadh… something, like their city? Some old songs tell that Durin once paid them a visit."

"Which one?" asked Lofar with interest. "She must have known at least four by of them – if not all of them."

Lóni shrugged. "I do not remember. 'Twas a very ancient song; so ancient that only Ónundr the blind Seer could remember it still. But she was not called Artanis in it."

"They say Kheleborn gave her a Grey-Elven name, and she has been using it ever since they married," said Lofar. "Strange creatures, Elves. Which one of us would give up their call-name for something their mate would call them in the bedchamber? Such things ought to be private."

Lóni grunted in agreement. Elves had no shame sometimes.

"She might know more about the current state of Khazad-dûm than any of us, though," added Lofar after a short, meaningful pause.

"Perhaps," replied Lóni. "But I shan't go even close to her borders if I can help it. She might have been friendly with Durin… several of them, in fact. But where were the Elves when Khazad-dûm fell? Or when we bled out in our long war with the Orcs, or even at the Battle of Azanulbizar? Erestor of Rivendell was the only one who came to our aid, fulfilling the old debt of his family; and he hailed from Khelebrimbur's city, not from the Golden Wood."

"True enough," allowed Lofar. "But tell me one thing, Brother. Why have you already decided to join this Quest? So far, it is only a vague idea of Óin's. Not even Lord Balin has chosen yet."

"You know that Thorin wanted me to come and face the Dragon with him, for he knew they would need a good archer," answered Lóni. "I could not; Katla needed me. So the young Prince Kíli took my place; the best with the bow I have ever trained, but not blooded in battle yet… and he perished. And so did my King. I owe Durin's line a debt that can never be fully re-paid."

"You cannot be certain that Thorin or the young prince would have survived, were you with them on the Quest," argued Lofar.

"I cannot be certain that they would not, either," returned Lóni. "But I can offer my bow, my knowledge and my experience to Lord Balin, should he choose to go on this Quest. I shan't allow another one of Durin's blood to die if I can do something – anything – to protect him. And Lord Balin is worthy to sit on Durin's throne, should Mahal allow us to succeed."

"You would not find a worthier Dwarf in these times," agreed Lofar. "Very well then, Brother, I shall see the most useful records copied for you, so that you can be prepared when the summons come."

~TBC~

The Book of Mazarbul

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Accordingly, my Dori, who was canonically the strongest Dwarf of the Company, is a much more impressive character than the effeminate hairdresser of the movies. Glîrnardir, my generous canon beta, suggested John Rhys-Davies as a template for Dori, since he has a vaguely oriental look to him without the ridiculous Gimli make-up, and BlackLocks have supposedly awakened in the East. We imagine them with elaborate hairdo and beards, along the line of the ancient Babylonians.

Dori's extended family is also my invention, although part of the bloodline has been conceived by Glîrnardir. More about Uruktharbun, Thorin's city in the Blue Mountains, can be read in my other story, "If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit".

Chapter 12 – Dark Legacy

But Lóni was not called to Balin's presence in the following days… or weeks. Lofar had ample time to copy the records he deemed useful, for Balin sat in council with his brother and with quite a number of important members of his mother's Clan for several weeks to come.

The time of seclusion for the newly wed Ori was barely over when Balin called a full Clan meeting… not to his own mansion but to Dori's home. The eldest and most prominent male of the BlackLocks in Erebor he might be, but the Lady Ai was the new Clan matriarch, and therefore all decisions concerning the Clan had to been blessed by her.

And the possibility of another mad quest, this time one to re-take Khazad-dûm, was very much Clan business, even if the other Clans did not realise it. Not yet in any case.

As much as Dwalin steadfastly refused to have any part in the foolish undertaking, as he called it, he could not refuse to take part on a full Clan meeting. So he went with his brother, grumbling and cursing under his breath, and with them was Burin, Balin's only son and heir, yet not Dorin son of Dwalin who had pledged himself to the LongBeard Clans upon reaching the age of maturity and had thus nothing to do with any Clan business of the BlackLocks.

Apart from Balin and Dori's family, both of which were surprisingly numerous if one counted in the household members who were also Clan, several other prominent Clan members followed the summons of their elder. There was Dólgthrasir, the guard of the Front Gate, then Hilgir with his sons Hedinn and Helgi as well as his brother Sigarr; also Haugspuri and Otkell and half a dozen more whom Flói, who had not spent much time with his clansmen before, barely knew by their names.

The Dori who welcomed them to the great hall of the mansion of his family looked very different from the decent yet seemingly simple BlackLock warrior that had followed Thorin Oakenshield on the Quest of Erebor all those years ago. Had their esteemed burglar, the Hobbit Bilbo been present, he would have had a hard time to recognize the Dwarf who had once lent him his spare hood and saved his life from the Wargs.

During the years in-between Dori had filled out considerably, becoming the living image of his legendary father, Orin Glowhammer: the same round head, the same exotic features, accentuated by the slightly slanted indigo eyes and the artfully braided and curled blue-black hair and beard, both decorated with gold filaments and mithril beads. He was huge – for a Dwarf, that is, even for a BlackLock, who, after all, were the giants of Mahal's Children – with the heavy shoulders and great arms of a stone-mason (which he was by trade), a barrel chest and the strength of a cave bear.

Unlike earlier, his attire, too, clearly showed both his noble lineage and his respected standing at King Dáin's court now.

He was wearing an exquisitely detailed tunic of woven leather strips in various shades of plum, grey and mauve. His over-robe was deep plum velvet with a suede yoke. His regal outfit was completed by a dark purple cloak that looked almost black in the light of the cold-lamps, with a collar made of the fur of the grey squirrel, its wide sleeves lined with heavy, pale gold silk and trimmed with the same woven leather strips as his tunic.

A Man (or a lesser Dwarf) would have staggered under the weight of those clothes, but Dori wore them as easily as a light cotton shirt. He looked much more warrior-like than in his youth, and also a great deal more venerable; and Flói was reminded by the sight that this imposing Dwarf came from a cadet branch of the first BlackLock Father's line and was a distant cousin of Thorin Oakenshield himself.

He hadn't been invited to join the Quest of Erebor without a sound reason.

His younger brothers, Ori and Nori, were similarly (and just as richly) clad, and even Nori offered an impressive sight, now that he had returned to the traditional BlackLock fashion to wear his hair instead of that silly starfish hairdo he used to sport during the Quest. And the Lady Ai simply looked like one of the legendary Queens of old, in her richly embroidered robe of purple velvet and brocaded gold silk.

After Dori had spoken the time-honoured words of welcome, they all got seated around the long marble table in the middle of the hall. Dori's sons, Orin and Ari, served ale and honey cakes with their own hands, as the servants of the house were from other Clans and thus not allowed to be present, Dwarves being a secretive lot, even among themselves.

When they had all had their traditional refreshments as Dwarven hospitality demanded, Dori turned to Balin askance.

"Well, Balin? You wanted to speak to the Clan as a whole. What happened?"

"Nothing so far," answered Balin thoughtfully. "However, Óin has come to me with a matter that we need to discuss among ourselves."

"What kind of matter would that be?" asked Lady Ai; or rather Lady Aurvang, in her function as Clan matriarch right now.

"A foolish errand!" muttered Dwalin angrily under his breath but Balin gave him a warning look.

"Peace, Brother! You have already told me – repeatedly and in no uncertain terms – what you think about the matter. Allow me to present it to the rest of the Clan without trying to influence their judgement beforehand."

"You have our attention, Eldest," Lady Aurvang leaned forward in her chair. "Present your case. We shall listen without judging – for now."

The Clan matriarch having spoken, the other Dwarves fell silent at once, listening to Balin explaining them everything about Óin's most recent journey with great interest. Especially Ori seemed excited about the news; as a scholar, he found the reappearance of a Fire-mage and a Rune-smith fascinating.

When Balin came to the part about trying to re-take Khazad-dûm, however, quite a few of their clansmen seemed to share Dwalin's opinion. Including Dori and his lady wife.

"You cannot be seriously planning something like that," said Lady Aurvang. "We have already tried it once; it nearly wiped out the rest of our race."

"I know," replied Balin mildly. "I was there."

"The Orcs were strong and numerous back then," reminded them Dólgthrasir, also a veteran of that terrible battle. "They are neither, now."

"We cannot know that for certain," argued Dori. "Just because our merchant caravans have not been attacked so frequently in the recent decades, it does not mean that it would be safe to enter Khazad-dûm. Even without taking Durin's Bane under consideration."

"That is true," allowed Balin. "But if Durin's line decides to make another attempt to re-take their ancient home, we have an obligation to help them. We as the Clan; and our family in particular," he added with a sharp look in his brother's direction.

Dwalin's only answer was a derisive snort.

"You are being ridiculous, Balin," growled Nori. "An entire Age long has our Clan done its best to redeem our people for the betrayal of Hodur the Cursed.(1) This constant struggle for atonement has to come to an end ere it gets us killed to the last clansman."

"'Tis easy for you to speak," said Balin tiredly. "You have not descended from the BlackLocks of Naragbabil. The legacy of the Cursed One is a debt that our line will carry 'til the Remaking. Be grateful that your line comes from the trustworthy people of Nargubraz who have never allied themselves with the Dark Lord."

Nori shrugged. "That was more than three thousand years ago. The other Clans have long forgiven you – forgiven us – for it. Never did they blame our entire people for the cruel deeds of one misguided King. Besides, what does it matter now? Naragbabil is long gone, destroyed by the Were-worms of the Last Desert, who devoured its last King, together with his Ring, and the handful of survivors scattered all over Middle-earth. Who is still there who could pay their debt to Durin's House?"

"I am," replied Balin stiffly. "And as I am also of Durin's House, through my father, I have a double obligation where Khazad-dûm is concerned."

Dori shook his massive head in exasperation. "'Tis madness, Balin. You shan't stand a chance, not even with a Fire-mage on your side. Durin's Bane…"

"According to Óin, this particular Fire-mage has already faced Durin's Bane," Balin interrupted.

"That is what the mage says," corrected Dwalin. "We know not if it is true."

"Why should he die?" asked Ori in surprise.

"He is of the Nulûkkhazâd(2)," growled Dwalin. "Mayhap he wants revenge for the ways his forefathers were treated in the past."

"Unlikely," said Ori. "Apparently, he was accepted and treated well in Khazad-dûm. Well enough that he would be willing to face Durin's Bane again. And perchance he will have better luck at the second try, now that he has grown older and much more powerful; not to mention the strength the Dragon Ring of Narvi might give him."

Dori stared at his brother in shocked surprise.

"You are not planning to take part in such a mad undertaking, are you?" he asked.

"Why should I not?" returned Ori. "I have achieved everything there is for me to achieve in Erebor. There are no new challenges for me, and I am not old enough to stagnate yet."

"You were supposed to take over Lofar's work, once he grows too old," reminded him Dori.

"Which can take another hundred years or more," shot back Ori. "Their entire family is all but indestructible. Besides, I do not wish to sit around idly, waiting for him to die. I respect him too much for that. But that would not be my only reason to go."

"Enlighten us," said Lady Aurvang quietly.

Ori turned to her and inclined his head in respect.

"My lady, I am a scholar; more than I have ever been a warrior," he said. "There is knowledge buried in the deep halls of Khazad-dûm; knowledge that our people have lost when they had to flee that great city. I would like to find that knowledge again: the old legends that have faded to almost nothing in the centuries gone by; the secrets of many a craft in which we can never reach the skills of our forefathers."

"And mithril, of course," commented Hilgir, grinning.

Ori shook his head. "For you – for many others of our folk – the call of true-silver may be the deciding factor. For me, 'tis the promise of knowledge; and so is for Óin, I assume."

"Which is but another form of greed," pointed out Balin. "The same greed that lured the Elven-smiths of Hollin into the trap of the Dark Lord and led to the creation of the Great Rings that brought naught but sorrow for those who bore them. Yet I understand you well – one scholar the other one – and I would welcome you and your mate, should you choose to come with us."

Hearing that, Dwalin made a disgruntled sound.

"You cannot be talked out of this mad idea, then?" he asked.

"I have not decided yet," corrected Balin. "Like Frár and the Lady Yngvildr, I want to meet this Fire-mage first. And I want some proof that we have got at least a faint chance to succeed."

"There is no chance!" growled Dwalin. "The only thing you shall see on this Quest is your untimely death!"

Balin shrugged indifferently. "We all have to die sooner or later, Brother, and I have already lived long enough. It has been a good life and I have few regrets."

"That means no need to throw your life away foolishly!" snapped Dwalin.

"I am not planning such a thing," replied Balin. "But I do intend to try again to reclaim the ancient mansion of Durin's House if I see the smallest hope that if could be done; for the sake of my father's people as well as for making amends for my mother's line. For that, I shall give my life gladly."

"And I shall join you," promised Ori.

"You are both mad!" declared Dwalin angrily.

Balin laid a placating hand upon his heavy shoulder. "I know you disagree with me, Brother, but please understand that I need to do this… if I decide that it can indeed be done. I am the eldest of our line; it is my duty to fulfil Clan and family obligations. I understand that you do not want to have any part of this; it is good so. One of us has to survive, to carry on Father's line and legacy – and Dáin would need you when I am gone, taking with me both Ori and Óin. He will need a scholar of his own blood at his side."

"I am not a scholar," protested Dwalin.

Balin smiled at him benignly.

"You know almost as much as I do," he said. "You just do not realize yet. And the rest you can learn from all the books and scrolls I shall leave behind for you. You will do just fine, as always."

"I see that your mind is made up," said Lady Aurvang. "As our Clan stands in the debt of Durin's House, I shan't attempt to talk you out of it – and should any others from the Clan wish to join you, I shall not stand in their way."

"I wonder if anyone else than my benighted brother would be foolish enough to join them," muttered Nori nastily.

"I would," said Dólgthrasir promptly.

"So would I," Hilgir joined him and both his sons nodded in agreement.

Haugspuri and Otkell exchanged thoughtful looks. "We shall think about it," said Otkell finally.

The others shook their head, including Dori and Nori.

"I have participated in one mad Quest," declared Dori. "That is enough for one lifetime."

Nori nodded repeatedly and empathically. "I wish you would reconsider, Brother."

"I shan't," replied Ori simply.

"'Tis your right and your decision," said Lady Aurvang; then she turned to Balin. "However, I shall see whatever proof you may have that this task is doable, Eldest. Otherwise I will not condone it and those who join you against my ban shall not be allowed to return here."

Clan matriarchs rarely intervened with male business; only if they saw the entire Clan endangered by their actions. However, they did not condone suicide missions, either. Mahal's Children never had the numbers that they could have irresponsibly put any lives to risk.

Balin inclined his head regally yet respectfully. "Of course, my lady. Óin promised the Lady Yngvildr to orchestrate a meeting between her and the Fire-mage. I believe it would be good if more of us could be present."

"Agreed," Lady Aurvang looked at her husband. "You shall go; it will do you a wealth of good to set a foot out of the Mountain. I shall make my final decision after you have given me your report about this meeting."

When Dori had left with Thorin Oakenshield to reclaim Erebor, she could not forbid him to go. She had been his wife but not the Clan matriarch yet. Now that she had the power to dispose of the comings and goings of her husband, she did not hesitate to use it as was her right.

"I await further details as any of you may provide them," she added for the others, and with that the meeting was unmistakably adjourned.

"What did Balin mean about our Clan being in the debt of Durin's line?" asked Flói. "And who was Hodur the Cursed?"

Ori looked at him in surprise. "Have you never been taught the history of your own Clan? You come from a family of respected warriors!"

Flói shrugged. "True; but as you know, I was but a babe on arms when my parents – and several of their siblings and uncles and cousins – fell in the Battle of Azanulbizar. The elderly relatives who took me in saw into it that I had enough to eat and learn to wield a hammer, but that was all they could do. Besides, they died right after I had come out of my last growing pains. I have been on my own since I was but a stripling."

"I know that, and I admire you for having done so well for yourself," Ori said. "I just thought you might have picked up a thing or two about Clan history nonetheless."

Flói shook his head. "I was too busy with surviving."

"A shame," said Ori. "But we can educate you still. So what do you want to learn about first?"

"Hodur the Cursed," prompted Flói.

Ori sighed. "Not somebody we would be proud of, I must admit."

"Who was he?" insisted Flói.

"He was the firstborn son and heir of Lothur, King of Naragbabil at the end of the Second Age," explained Ori. "You must understand that many of the BlackLocks at that time had truly fallen deep. They were greedy, immoral, selling their services to the best offerer. Hodur son of Lothur, young and cruel Prince of Baldur's House, proclaimed himself Mahal Returned and killed his father; and as soon as he became the Lord of Naragbabil, he pledged himself to Sauron's case."

This insult to the Maker was too much, even for the worldly Flói. "He dared!"

"He did," said Ori grimly, "and thus Durin's Folk committed their first and only kin-slaying at Dagorlad, against these renegade BlackLocks. Durin IV himself killed Hodur in single combat, despite their differences in age, strength… and size. The legend says that Durin was a head shorter than the evil young BlackLock King."

"And Balin and Dwalin descended from this traitor?" asked Flói in shock. "That must be a heavy burden indeed."

"Nay; they descended from King Lothur's sister, the Princess Godvur, who married the chieftain of a lesser BlackLock clan," explained Ori.

"And your family?" insisted Flói. "I know you are related to Durin's line from afar, but do you also have blood ties to the Cursed One?"

Ori shook his head. "It is as Balin said: our ancestor was Ymir, the lord of a lesser BlackLock realm under the mountain range bordering Khand. When it fell, Ymir fled to the Grey Mountains and gave his sister-daughter Ymrís to King Náin of Durin's House – as a wife," he added empathically, because he was well aware of the Ages-old malevolent rumour that Princess Ymrís would have been the LongBeard King's concubine.

"So that is how you are related to Thorin Oakenshield!" realized Flói.

Ori nodded. "Several branches apart and only from the side, though. We descend from Ymir's son Ydur, who sired Yrin, who in turn sired our father, Orin Glowhammer. Or do you believe the Lady Ai would have bonded with Dori, were we truly royal bastards?"

"You still have royal blood in your veins, from two different lines," Flói was duly impressed.

"So do many Dwarves; too many for the amount of it to really count," laughed Ori. "Besides, Ymir may have called himself King, mostly because the Clan no longer had one when he became Lord of Nargubraz, but that was a self-acclaimed title, not true royalty. I am certain he could count back his ancestors to some insignificant cadet branch of Baldur's House, like half of our clansmen, but that hardly entitled him to be called King. Had Naragbabil not been destroyed centuries earlier, he would have had to pledge loyalty to the true royal line. Not that I would really mind having descended from a lesser chieftain, and neither does Dori."

"But if your family had no part in the betrayal, why do you feel obliged to join this Quest?" asked Flói, understandably confused.

Ori smiled. "I feel no obligation from the side of my BlackLock ancestors," he explained. "But I am also of the House of Durin, however distantly related, and Khazad-dûm is the place where Durin's throne always stood. The place where he would return to one last time; and when he returns, his great city should be cleansed and rebuilt. That is an obligation I feel very strongly."

"You… but not your brothers, apparently," said Flói.

Ori shrugged. "Aye, well, Dori has other obligations now that are just as strong… if not stronger. Should Balin truly leave, Dori will have to take over responsibility for any remaining Clan in Erebor, seeing as he is now the life-mate of the Clan matriarch."

"And Nori?"

"I fear he has not fully escaped the dragon-sickness," admitted Ori glumly. "He still yearns for more power and greater riches. 'Tis better if he stays here where Dori can watch over him."

"I wonder why would Warmaster Dwalin so adamantly refuse to join his brother's Quest, though," went on Flói. "I always thought they were close."

"They are," agreed Ori. "Very close, in fact, as only brothers blooded together in battle can become. But that is Dwalin's problem, you see. He was close to Thorin as well; they were as close as brothers. Losing our King hit him hard, much harder than he would allow anyone to see. I doubt that he could bear losing Balin, too."

"But there is a much greater chance to lose Balin if he is not there to protest him," pointed out Flói logically.

"Mayhap so," allowed Ori. "But losing somebody on a far-away Quest or see them being slain on the battlefield with one's own eyes is a different matter."

"And yet you are willing to follow Balin on a Quest that could easily end in disaster," said Flói.

Ori sighed. "True enough. Let me show you something, though."

He stood to retrieve a heavy, leather-bound tome from the niche where he kept the books and scrolls he was currently working on; small things of personal interest that were not for the royal library. He laid the book on the table and carefully wiped the beautifully decorated wooden cover free of the thin layer of dust it had collected.

Flói looked at the book with interest. The corners of the cover were encased in bronze filigree and in the middle of it stood the title, written by a skilled calligrapher in red ink with the ancient cirth runes:

Dark Legacy

The Legends of Clan BlackLock

Collected and illuminated

By Ori Orinul (3)

Flói forgot to breathe for a moment. He had always known that Ori was extraordinarily skilled with both pen and brush – Dwarves no longer used quills but finely cut pens made of steel, gold, silver or mithril, though the latter had become extremely rare since the fall of Khazad-dûm – but this was the first time he actually got to see one of Ori's works.

"You wrote this?" he asked in awe.

"I wrote up the legends as the elders have told them for uncounted generations, and I draw the pictures," corrected Ori. "This is what I have been working on during the years since we returned to Erebor. It is almost done and will be added to the Clan library before we leave. Read it, if you want to know more about the secrets of our forefathers… and why we have to join Balin's Quest."

~TBC~

(1) This particular period of BlackLock history has been conceived by my Dwarf beta, Glîrnardir, and is used with his generous permission.

(2) Petty-Dwarf

(3) Dark Legacy will be a story of its own, eventually. When I've finished a few of my never-ending WIPs. If I live long enough to see that day.

Author's note: As I mentioned before, several storylines will come together (eventually) in this tale. Now we are leaving Erebor for a short while to see what other key characters are doing.

The fact that the wobbly little tree-house seen in the films is actually Radagast's workshop and not his home has been established in my other story, "If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit". That Gandalf calls him "Cousin" comes from the fact that the Grey Wizard referred to Radagast as his cousin to Beorn in "The Hobbit".

Winter of Southern Mirkwood turned out to be a surprisingly mild affair in the year 2986 of the Third Age. Snowfall had always been rare south of the Old Forest Road, but in this winter not even Rhosgobel, situated a little further on the northern side of the Road, had seen any snow. Temperatures, however, had dropped below the point of freezing in recent days, and the distracted old man known among the Woodmen as Radagast the Brown realized with dismay that the small stream right behind his tree-house had frozen solid during his absence.

It seemed to him that the little house had even been pushed farther apart by the towering tree growing right through the middle of it during the months he had spent away from home, tracking the paths of wolves and spiders. There were small tears in the very walls now! Repairing them, while it was freezing in the outside, would be a pain… and rather time-consuming, too.

Oh, he still had his main lodging, of course: the wide wooden hall in the fashion of the Beornings – not Beorn himself, though; the chieftain of the skin-changers was decidedly odd, even by the measure of his own strange kind, and lived more like a bear than like a Man – but it was way too large for him alone and would take lots of firewood to keep warm.

Thus the Brown Wizard usually spent the winter months in his workshop; assuming he spent them at home at all. Alas, what had once been a cosy little cottage had now become a twisted ruin as the sapling he could not bring himself to pluck all those years ago had grown into a mighty tree, practically taking over the house.

As he entered the workshop and looked around with fresh eyes, not having seen it for months and, frankly, not having taken a conscious look at the interior for decades, at the very least, he realized perhaps for the first time how bad things had truly become. The tree had literally reshaped the little house, shoving its walls out of alignment and making the tiled floor as uneven as the forest ground. Every single window was now leaning outwards, the shelves were all crooked, threatening to drop the countess rows of wobbly glass- and potterware any moment. Not even the mantle of the small fireplace was straight anymore, and it seemed as if the stones of which it had been once built would break apart at the smallest tremor.

"Dear me," he who once in his forgotten youth had been known as Aiwendil in the far West, muttered in mild embarrassment. "I truly have allowed things to deteriorate, have I not? Why have I never seen the state of this place before?"

"Your mind was preoccupied with too many concerns… it still is," an old, thin voice answered from behind his back.

He whirled around and spotted – belatedly – a small, dark figure perched on the edge of his day bed, black against the wildly colourful soft furnishing like a crow upon the rim of its nest full of stolen jewellery.

"I fear I have invaded your house, Master Wizard," admitted the tiny Dwarf-dam ruefully. "The wolves grew bold in the mild winter, and I needed a safe place to hide. There were times when no beast of the forest would dare to turn against me; but those times are over, it seems. My strength must have become waning… and you know what that means."

Of course he knew. Once the strength of a Dwarf started waning, he or she began the last phase of his or her life; a phase that usually did not last longer than a decade or two. And even if one did not take her centuries spent in the Long Sleep, Mother Aase was truly ancient by now.

"I believe that the wolves are once again being influenced by whatever evil is still sitting in Dol Guldur," he replied. "We may have driven the Necromancer out but he certainly had lieutenants who continue his evil work after having lain low for a few years."

Mother Aase grinned tiredly. "That may be so; but it does not change the fact that I have started to fade. Forgive me the intrusion; I did not want to die alone in the woods, eaten by a pack of hungry wolves."

"There is naught to forgive," Radagast assured her. "In truth, I do not mind some company. I like solitude, true; but after a few hundred years on my own it is nice to talk to somebody who is not a squirrel or a hedgehog."

Mother Aase nodded in agreement. "I see your point. I, too, thought I would spend the rest of my life alone. Yet meeting those young folks heading for the Lonely Mountain last year made me long for my own kind once again. Even if they are not truly my kind."

"And well-mannered young folk they were, for all that she was raised by Men and he was a thief," the old crone went on thoughtfully, as if she had not heard the wizard's comment at all. "I wonder if they reached the Mountain safely."

Radagast nodded. "They did; or so the ravens tell me. The girl now runs with King Dáin's scouts; she is a Ranger, after all. The youth works with the hostlers, it is said."

"That is good to hear," said Mother Aase. "Our cousins need young people if they do not wish to die out… as we have."

"Well, you are still here," pointed out Radagast. "How long have you been hiding in my workshop anyway?"

"I came shortly before Midwinter," she admitted. "I hoped to find you home, but as you were gone I was grateful that at least the house was not warded. Weakened as I was I might not have been able to break your spell."

"But that was nearly two months ago!" cried the wizard. "What have you eaten all this time? I have not left any supplies behind, and not even a Dwarf can go on without food infinitely!"

"I am not just any Dwarf, remember? I am perchance the last of the Nulûkkhazâd, and only our people have ever known the secret of the earth-bread."

"Earth-bread?" repeated Radagast frowning. "You mean the wild root, the nameless one that tastes like bread when cooked?"

"Oh, they do have a name; yet only in the Dwarf-tongue, which we do not teach. The Wood-Elves know them not; Orcs have not found them; the proud ones from over the Sea were too proud to delve. My people, however, found them and learned that they are of great worth. More than gold in the hungry winter, for they may be hoarded like the nuts of a squirrel. I have been building a store from the first that were ripe right after my arrival, and you are welcome to share them with me, in exchange for your hospitality."

"That is very generous of you," said the wizard. "Frankly, it would be a welcome change to the dried mushrooms I usually life off during winter."

He rarely ate any meat, unless he had to release a wounded deer or rabbit from its pain, which made his winter diet rather dull.

"You should not live on mushrooms alone," warned him Mother Aase. "After a while they can addle your brain… and yellow your teeth."

"That is what Saruman has been telling him for Ages, but he would not listen," a third voice said full of gentle amusement, and Gandalf the Grey bent his head to fit under the low-linted door of the little house. "Greetings, Cousin… shamukh ra ghelekhur aimâ, Mother Aase,(1)" he added in Khuzdul, bowing in Dwarf-fashion, which, frankly, looked rather ridiculous, coming from a Man of his height.

"Tharkûn!" cried the tiny Dwarf-dam in delight. "It has been too long! What brings you here?"

"Well, I was supposed to meet this one at the Carrock, two days ago," Gandalf waved in the direction of their host. "But as usual, he forgot about me. Therefore, I decided to cross the River and see if he is in any trouble."

"Stuff and nonsense!" grumbled the Brown Wizard good-naturedly. "Which one of us is more likely to get in trouble – in serious trouble – Gandalf? I am not the one who keeps meddling with the affairs of Elves and Men. Or Dwarves and Hobbits, for that matter."

"There is some truth in that," admitted Gandalf smiling. "But that is my work, just as yours is the forest with all the creatures, small and large, that live in it."

"And yet you are here, both of you," said Mother Aase. "What brings you together at this time, in this place? There is no new danger arising in the forest, is there?"

"There might be; then again, there might not," answered Radagast with a shrug. "'Tis hard to tell ere the signs would become clear; and then it is usually too late."

Radagast shrugged again. "I respect Mother Aase too much to tell her white lies. Besides, she knows Middle-earth better than even we do. She has been here a lot longer," he turned back to the old Dwarf-dam. "We know of no actual threat, not at this moment. But we keep a wary eye on the events and changes in Eriador and in the Wilderland and meet from time to time to compare our findings."

"Only that my good cousin here has completely forgotten on which day we were supposed to meet," added Gandalf, taking out his pipe, filling it with the finest of Shire leaf, pressing the leaves down with a thumb and snapping his fingers to light it.

"A good trick," said Radagast in appreciation. "Can you do it with my fireplace, too? I fear the firewood I have gathered may be a tad wet."

"Of course, of course," Gandalf snapped his fingers again, muttered something and in the next moment a merry little flame sprang up in the fireplace where the wood had already been stapled up properly.

"Ach, that is much better!" Radagast dragged one of the crooked chairs to the fireplace, leaned carefully against its broken back and stretched out his legs towards the fire, revealing the fact that he was wearing two different ankle boots: an ornate, worn-away gold lace and velvet slipper on one foot, in Elven fashion, and a blue leather flick toe boot, as the BroadBeam Dwarves preferred, on the other one.

"After all those long nights spent at a campfire, this is a true blessing," he continued. "Too bad you cannot cook a proper dinner in a fireplace."

She hobbled to the shelf where Radagast kept his pots, snatched a small, blackened iron one, put a few round, pale roots into it, filled the pot to the half with water from the pitcher standing on the table, put a cover on it and placed it unceremoniously inside the fireplace.

"Impressive," Gandalf pulled another wobbly chair to the fireplace and extended his hands towards the fire to warm his fingers. "But again, you have survived much harder times in your long life, so I am not surprised. Which is why I welcome your presence. You know these woods better than anyone else. If there had been any changes lately, you would have noticed."

"You told me about the wolves having grown bolder," reminded her Radagast, and she nodded.

"Or their blood might have been mixed with that of the Wargs again, making them wilder and more dangerous," said Radagast grimly; then he looked at Gandalf. "Have you spoken with Beorn? Has he seen Wargs in the forest lately?"

Gandalf shook his shaggy head. "Nay; but if the numbers of the Wargs have begun to grow since the Battle of the Five Armies, they would lie low 'til they feel strong enough to show themselves openly again. They are evil, not stupid."

Gandalf shrugged. "I am sure they have been breeding like maggots, but it will take time before their spawn would be ready and able to fight again. The Beornings have taken over Goblin Town, cleansed the place and keep a strong watch there all the time to secure the High Pass. I do not believe that we would have to expect any danger from there."

"That is one concern fewer," said Radagast, relieved. "Also, the Wood-Elves have forced the Giant Spiders back into South Mirkwood, beneath the Old Forest Road."

"More or less," corrected Mother Aase. "Some of the creatures still venture across the Road, slipping through the Elven patrols from time to time. Alas, the winter was not harsh enough for them to enter their cold sleep… and as they are awake, they are also hungry. The deer and the smaller game keep fleeing to the North; and sooner or later, the wolves and the spiders will follow."

"I shall send birds to the Woodland Realm to warn Thranduil," promised Radagast. "The ravens will have already warned King Dáin, I deem."

Gandalf nodded. "So I am told. However, Dáin may have other, more urgent problems at hand right now."

"Nay," said the Grey Wizard. "'Tis something much more subtle yet equally dangerous: unrest. There is murmur among the Dwarves of Erebor, the friendly raven told me. There are some who feel caged by the peaceful, settled life under the Mountain and are looking for new challenges."

"Now that they have their little kingdom back, some of the older Dwarves have grown reckless and speak about re-claiming the last of the great Dwarven kingdoms; the only one that still exists," explained Gandalf grimly.

"Moria?" whispered Radagast, blanching under the various layers of travel filth covering his face. "Those fools want to go back to Moria again? And even Dáin is fool enough to let them go?"

"I seriously doubt that Dáin knows about it at all, unless his spymaster is much better than his reputation," answered Gandalf drily. "And it is not so as if he could forbid anyone to go, save for his Forge Guards who have pledged themselves to his service. Not even a Clan matriarch can prevent a warrior from going to battle if they are about to fulfil an obligation towards fallen kin or shield-brothers. Dwarves take such obligations very seriously."

"Aye, and we all saw how well it went for them at the first time," muttered the little Dwarf-dam darkly. "I cannot believe that the fools would want to fight another Battle of Azanulbizar! If their greed does not bring them to utter ruin, their pride certainly will!"

She had no understanding for such folly. The Petty-Dwarves had always been a great deal more pragmatic – not that it had saved them from dying out.

"That might happen," agreed Gandalf, clearly in concern. "Perhaps one day Durin's Folk will, indeed, return to the ancient halls of their First Father; but that time has not yet come, and shall not for a long while."

"How could I?" Gandalf returned. "They have not asked for my help or my advice; they did not even tell me what they are planning. I have no way to interfere."

"But who is behind this insane idea?" asked Radagast. "Are they truly so unhappy with Dáin's rule? I always thought him to be a good King."

"He is," said Gandalf. "I doubt that this is because of his leadership, which is indeed stable and wise. As far as I can tell, Óin son of Gróin returned from one of his longer journeys with the idea firmly rooted in his head. The raven could not tell me how he had come to it; only that he had visited the Withered Heath to see whether there may still be a dragon hiding in that desolate place."

Gandalf shook his head. "Apparently not. But it was immediately after his return that he began to ask the oldest Dwarves about Moria and Durin's Bane."

"Durin's Bane," muttered Radagast unhappily. "It always comes back to that, does it not? And after all those years, no-one knows what it was Dáin Ironfoot saw when he looked into the darkness behind the Front Gate of Moria, do they?"

'No-one but Dáin himself," Gandalf sighed, "and Dáin would not speak about it to anyone. Not even Thráin did he ever tell what kind of terror had he seen, and though some were bold enough to ask – Balin and Dwalin in particular that I know of – they never got an answer."

"But why would Óin even consider facing such darkness willingly?" asked Radagast bewildered.

He had met the adventurous Dwarf quite a few times while Óin had been out on one of his numerous journeys and found him a remarkably level-headed individual as Dwarves go. Particularly ones with FireBeard blood in their veins.

Gandalf shrugged. "All I can think is that he must have met somebody on his latest journey; somebody truly powerful"

"But whom?" insisted Radagast. "No-one of our Order has ever wandered so far north, save yourself. Saruman has not left that tower of his since the last meeting of the White Council, and what has become from the others is unclear."

"We are not the only ones with ancient powers," reminded him Gandalf. "Nor is it certain that Durin's Bane still dwells in Moria. True, I only went through the Front Gate once, but as you can see I came out unharmed. In truth, I saw no-one at all during my foray, though I could feel that the Dwarrowdelf was not empty."

"It was still probably full of Orcs," muttered the Brown Wizard. "They just did not want to reveal their presence, in the hope of richer bounty if they could make you think the place was empty and bring there others."

"That is one possibility," allowed Gandalf. "The other one would be that whatever holds them under its spell was asleep and they feared to wake it. Orcs are not bright enough for complicated acts of deceit; but they are capable of fear."

"And what makes Óin believe they could overpower something that fills even the black hearts of Orcs with fear?" asked Radagast doubtfully.

"That I cannot tell," confessed Gandalf. "But you might learn about it sooner than I do. Should they indeed choose to return to Moria, their path will lead them by Rhosgobel; you just need to be home on the right day."

Gandalf shook his head. "My heart tells me that I shall be needed in Eriador for the next few years. I must go to Rivendell first, to consult with Lord Elrond, and then continue westward: to the Angle and the Shire."

Radagast's eyes twinkled in understanding. "You feel the need of keeping tab on your Hobbit?"

"Bilbo Baggins is not my Hobbit," corrected Gandalf. "Like all Hobbits, he belongs to himself and to himself alone. But yea, I want to keep an eye on him. He has changed during his adventure more than he might know; I need to make sure that he is safe."

"Do you have any reason to believe that he might be in danger?" asked Radagast in surprise.

Gandalf did not answer at once, and the long silence hung between them like a grey cloud.

"I cannot be certain," he finally said. "There are some small details I need to clarify about the time he was separated from the rest of the Company before I can tell for sure."

Whenever Eikinskialdi submitted to true sleep instead of the dream-like twilight existence in which he spent the last few hundred years, he dreamt of fire. That in itself was nothing unusual, considering who – and what – he was. Fire was the life force of the ones like him: ancient Khazâd who had fully internalized the power they had been born with, instead of shaping it into items of great artistry. He was fire, just as the wise-women of his small kinfolk were of earth; and just like them, he drew great strength from the element he had been taken of.

Yet the fire he had been dreaming of ever since the fall of Khazad-dûm – assuming that he allowed himself to sleep – was not the clean, imperishable flame that heated the great forge of Mahal the Maker. His dreams… his nightmares, to call them what they truly were… brought him back to the fateful moment when he had faced the dark fire of Udûn – and failed utterly.

The nightmare was as vivid as live memory… which was why he kept resisting true sleep as long as he could. It always began with a mighty quake that shook the very bones of the hearth with a force that sent them to their knees, trying to hold onto the rough surface of the rock wall for balance. Then blackness descended, impenetrable even for the night-eyes of a Dwarf, as a sudden gust of hot, dry wind snuffed out the torches along the wall, bearing the stench of hot iron and burning flesh… a horribly familiar stench for a Fire-mage, one that caused them both spasms of coughing so hard that they almost threw up.

Fire was not supposed to smell like that: like death and carrion and the beasts that fed upon it… like dragon-breath, right after some great carnage caused by a hundred of Worms. Fire was supposed to smell clean, as it always had before, even in the heart of great Dwarven forges.

Barely was the quake over when a vague, reddish gloom filled the shaft, rising from its deep core, and two massive, clawed hands, next to which they looked like mere flies, grasped the edge of the freshly hewn stairwell, and a monstrous creature of fire and shadow emerged from the depths.

It seemed to be forged of black iron, glowing red from the inside as if still being shaped in the hot forge. And indeed, it seemed to change its shape subtly as it grew and towered above them 'til its sharp and twisted horns touched the high ceiling of the cave. Two immense wings of dark flame opened on its back, stretching from wall to wall and sending another hot gust of arid wind along the shaft. Its eyes glowed red like embers in a dying fire. In one hand it held a whip of crackling fire, in the other one a long sword, the blade of it seemed to be living flame.

Then the old mage made a bold step forward – a small, glowing white figure before the background of the fire-demon's dark shadow, like candlelight facing a bursting volcano – and rammed his great staff against the rocky floor.

"You cannot pass!" he grated, barely able to speak in the thickening fog of smoke and horrible stench.

For a fleeting moment the creature stopped, as if in doubt. Then it flicked a wrist thicker than a Dwarf's waist and the flaming whip crackled in the sizzling hot air as it curled around the old mage's legs and swept him away, into the bottomless pit.

Eikinskialdi grabbed at the staff that had slipped from the nerveless hand of his mentor, mad enough from grief and despair to face the creature; to try stopping him… and die trying. But suddenly strong hands grabbed him and yanked him to a side tunnel, to temporary safety, and he screamed in agony as the iron gauntlets his saviour was wearing touched him. The smell of his own burning flesh overlaid the scent of the hellish creature that had just slain his mentor.

"You stunted fool!" rasped the voice of the late Durin VI's sister-son, him who would become King of an exiled people, soon. "Do you wish to die for nothing? This is not a foe that you can best; not now, not for a long time to come."

"I must try!" insisted Eikinskialdi. Now that his mentor was gone, he was the only one left.

Prince Hanar looked at him with shadowed eyes that appeared ancient in his young, almost beardless face, barely recognisable under the crusted layers of soot, blood and ashes.

"You will," he said. "In a better time, many, many years from now, you will," then he let go of the mage's arm, looking at the burn marks is gauntlet had caused in regret. "Birashagimi,(2)" he said in Khuzdul. "A healer will see to your wounds. But we must flee now, ere it is too late."

A thousand years had gone by since that dreadful day. The Dwarves of Khazad-dûm lasted less than a year after the death of Durin VI. When their new King, Náin, was also slain by the monster they had begun to call Durin's Bane, they finally decided to flee their ancient mansion ere they would be slaughtered to the last Dwarf. And when they left, they took the Fire-mage, the last of the Nulûkkhazâd (or so they believed) with them.

Eikinskialdi had learned and grown in power much in those thousand years. Most of the time he had spent lying under deep stone, for that was the best way for a Dwarf to grow in strength, and the stone of the northern mountains was strong indeed. But sometimes he ventured beyond the boundaries of his self-appointed solitude, to learn what was going on in the wider world.

Sometimes he met other people. Dwarves, mostly, but also Northmen and the skin-changers of the great forest; and once in all that time he even met an Elf.

It was not one of the Noldor he had seen in Khazad-dûm before its fall. This one was taller and more powerfully built, with a barely perceptible golden glow surrounding him. His hair, too, was shining like molten gold, his face noble and beautiful and fearless and full of mirth, with eyes so bright it almost hurt to see; on his brow sat wisdom, and in his hand was strength. He was clearly one who had once lived in the Far West.

The Elf never revealed his name, but he told Eikinskialdi much about the times before the Sun and the Moon and of the creatures Melkor had set free all over Middle-earth. And Eikinskialdi understood that the creature under Khazad-dûm must have been one of the ancient fire-demons of Melkor, whom he had summoned by corrupting the Lesser Powers, though he did not tell the Elf about it, of course.

If that was true, however – for one could never know for certain – then it was he sacred duty of a fire-mage to dispose of the creature… or die trying as his mentor had done. And he had no time to waste. He was at the height of his power and knowledge; another decade or so and his strength would begin to wane. If he wanted to give the fight of his long life a try, it had to be soon.

For that, however, he needed to get back to Khazad-dûm safely. And that he could not do alone, or with Miödvitnir as his sole travelling companion. There were too many dangers along the way – there was too much iron everywhere. He could only hope that the scholarly Dwarf the Rune-smith had brought to see him in the previous year would be willing to raise a strong company that would take part in such a perilous quest.

"He is an adventurer," said Miödvitnir when Eikinskialdi spoke to him about his doubts. "He was one of the thirteen who marched across Eriador and half the Wilderland to face the Dragon, with only a wizard and a Hobbit as their company. I have little doubt that he would be mad enough for such an undertaking… as long as there are only Orcs and Trolls to face. But he does not know that Durin's Bane is still haunting their ancient halls. Not for sure. Not as you know; and you have tried to lure him into a death trap."

"Nay, I have not," protested Eikinskialdi indignantly. "I told him about Durin's Bane; and that I would be willing to face the demon again."

Eikinskialdi shrugged. "It matters little. He is of Durin's line; and that line was responsible for awakening the demon. It was the greed of Durin VI that led to its reappearance – had they not kept delving deeper and deeper in their search for mithril, it would still be sleeping in the bottomless depths of the Dwarrowdelf. Therefore it is their responsibility to see it disposed of."

"You cannot be sure that you would stand a chance against Durin's Bane," warned him Miödvitnir.

Eikinskialdi sighed. "Aye, I know that. Yet I am still the one with the greatest chance to succeed. Besides, I have unfinished business with the demon. There is still the matter of my mentor's death between us."

"True," answered the Fire-mage. "But would that truly be so bad? My life has been long and full – almost too long, it seems. 'Tis time for me to go to the Halls of Waiting and rest. Yet ere I do so, I must fulfil the destiny I was born for. I must face Durin's Bane… and slay it if I can."

"Then I will be slain and with me those who will take it upon themselves to free Khazad-dûm of the evil that has dwelt in its sacred halls far too long," replied Eikinskialdi grimly. "And yet it is something that needs to be done. No-one will be safe as long as the demon roams Durin's halls of old."

"It cannot come out, though, can it?" asked Miödvitnir in concern. "They can only survive in darkness, can't they?"

"If it truly is the kind of demon I believe it is, then it could come out if it had to," answered Eikinskialdi thoughtfully. "They prefer the darkness, aye, and the closeness of the fiery heart of the earth. But it is known that at least once, in ancient times, several of them took part in the destruction of Gondolin, the Elven city of singing stone."

"An ancient Elf who was there," answered the Fire-mage simply. "He said that two of the creatures were slain in the final battle before the city fell; even though the Elves who slew them paid with their own lives for their heroic deed."

"Mayhap so," allowed Eikinskialdi. "But at least we know that they can be slain. That is enough for me."

"And I shall go with you as promised; for Khazad-dûm was my home, too… if we can find others who are willing to accompany us on this quest. For I doubt that thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit would be enough this time."

"We shall see," Eikinskialdi glanced up to the shaft cut high into the ceiling of his cave. There was something blocking the grey daylight that usually filtered through the shaft. "Soon enough, it appears."

And indeed, the shadow turned out to be one of the trained ravens the Dwarves of Erebor used to send messages all over Middle-earth. It had a small copper tube fastened to one leg, and in that tube was a small roll of parchment with a message written in the simple cirth used by the Men of Dale and Lake-town… and by all Dwarves when they did not use the ancient angerthas of Khazad-dûm.

"It is from Óin son of Gróin," he then said. "He asks me to meet him and several prominent Dwarves of Erebor in the abandoned halls of King Dáin I on the first day of Spring. Apparently, Balin Fundinul has some questions to ask."

"'Tis not a long journey, and the place is well-known to us both," he said. "The risk of touching iron involuntarily is much lower for me than it would be in Erebor. The choice was well-thought of them."

"I can go forth and make sure the place is still safe," offered Miödvitnir. "Then I shall come back for you," he stopped Eikinskialdi's protest with a raised hand. "I know you can make such a short journey on your own, but you have not left these caves for many years. I on the other hand have been walking the paths of the Grey Mountains all the time. There is no need to take unnecessary risks… or to spend your strength on defending yourself against stray Orcs or Wild Men."

After a moment of hesitation Eikinskialdi gave in. Now that the last great task of his long life seemed to come around, he did not want to endanger it by putting himself at risk. One could never know what sort of creatures still lingered in the Grey Mountains, after Thrór and his people had left.

The time of reckoning was about to come. He would have one last fight… and then he would rest until the Remaking of Arda.

I've just realized that this chapter (and the following one) were never posted here. I'm now correcting the oversight. The next part will be added soon - assuming that there are still people who remember this tale, after all those years.

Author’s notes: This chapter takes place approximately a month after Ori and Flói’s wedding and continues seamlessly the previous one. The description of Gabil-dûm was strongly inspired by the Taran-books of Lloyd Alexander, with the necessary changes.

The concept of Dwarven spellsmiths as well as their characteristics has been borrowed from Valandhir's excellent series The Raven's Blade - again, with the necessary changes

In the last week of winter a small but impressive group of Dwarves left Erebor and headed towards Taforabbad, the Grey Mountains. More precisely to the abandoned halls of King Dáin I which, in return, had once been the great city of Gabil-dûm: the realm founded by Sindri, the StoneFoot Father, back in the First Age when he was forced to leave the place of his Awakening and lead his people to the North and the West.

More than any other Clan, the StoneFoots of old were miners and stone-masons of exceptional skill, and the cities they carved from living rock had been the wonder of the Elder Days. Some said that StoneFoot masons had helped Felakkundu Dwarf-friend to build his wondrous city in the caves of Nulukkhizdîn and that they had been the ones who helped Elu Thingol to create his Glittering Caves. And it was known beyond doubt that when Thranduil had moved the Woodland Realm to the North of Mirkwood, Dwarven masons from Thafar’abbad helped to build his underground fortress.

The road between Erebor and the ruins of Govedar – as the ancient halls of Gabil-dûm were known among Men – was a long and dangerous one. Not only had Balin and his fellow Dwarves to cross Mirkwood at some point – unless they wanted to ride along its northern border, on the edge of the Withered Heath – their destination also brought them dangerously close to Mount Gundabad.

Now that relations with the Wood-Elves (and their volatile King) had settled again, Balin chose the shortest way – that along the Forest River, which emerged from the Grey Mountains right under the front gate of Govedar. That was no accident, either; Dwarven cities were generally built where fresh, clean water was easily available.

To be honest, Balin did not understand why the Fire-mage would agree to a meeting place many miles from his home; but perhaps he did not want his solitude disturbed by strangers, wearing lots of iron. Unless, of course, there was something in Dáin I’s halls that he wanted to show them.

Few Dwarves had dared to revisit the now empty halls of Gabil-dûm, ever since Thrór had led Durin’s Folk back to the Lonely Mountain. From the ones present Óin was the only one who had ventured at least as far as to the outskirts of the once great city. Therefore they were all relieved when – on the last day of their journey – Miödvitnir met them on the edge of the forest.

At first sight the short, stocky Rune-smith did not make much of an impression, but Balin and Ori, as accomplished scholars, soon recognized the meaning of his powerful tattoos and looked on the tattered old Dwarf with newfound respect. Óin greeted him with delight, of course, glad to have somebody who would verify his story for the others.

“Well met again, Miödvitnir,” he said, beaming. “I did not count on seeing you as well.”

“I came on behalf of Eikinskialdi,” replied the Rune-smith in his deep, rumbling voice. “Nothing can beat him in his own halls, but outside them he is vulnerable. So I came to protect him. Who are your companions?”

Óin made the necessary introductions and Miödvitnir bowed to them respectfully; to the Lady Yngvildr even more so than to the others.

“The name and great deeds of the Raven Lady are known even among us, lonely travellers,” he said. “It is an honour, my lady. And you, Lord Balin,” he turned to the Dwarf in question,” are more than welcome. ‘Tis good to have you – all of you – visiting the old halls again. Follow me; Eikinskialdi is waiting, and I shall lead you by short and quick paths to that which was once Gabil-dûm.”

Even on the short and quick paths known to Miödvitnir alone, it took them the rest of the day to reach the Front Gate of Gabil-dûm, right where the Forest River – a small, fast and merry stream here – came out of the mountainside and bubbled down a narrow stone channel that went all the way down to the foot of the mountains. The Gate itself had a distinct likeness to that of Erebor, only older, much older, and the huge sculptures of Dwarven warriors framing it, carved into the withered stone of the mountainside, wore the horned helmet and heavy beards of the StoneFoot royal guards of old. They were large enough for a grown Dwarf to rest in their palms.

The lintel of the Gate was decorated with symbolic heads of the great mountain rams the StoneFoot warriors used to ride and that had become the heraldic symbol of their Clan. Some of the finer details were smoothed over due to the extreme age of the carvings, but they were still recognizable and once must have been truly beautiful.

Hakkon, the StoneFoot miner, who had been invited along to represent his Clan, stared at the stunning handiwork of his ancestors in awe. His family hailed from Thafar’abbad and followed Thrór to Erebor when the kingdom had been moved back there; this was the first time he saw the ancient home of his people.

“Perhaps one day our people will return here, too,” he murmured, “now that the dragons are gone.”

“I know,” said Óin. “But Khazad-dûm, though ruled by Durin LongBeard and his progeny, has never been the home to just one Clan. It has always belonged to all of Mahal’s Children. Should we manage to wrestle it back from the cursed Rakhâs, we might grow strong enough again to eventually reclaim our other cities as well.”

If Hakkon had any answer to that, he did not get the chance to give it, as Miödvitnir urged them to follow him inside.

“Eikinskialdi is waiting in the King’s Forge,” he said, and they went through the Front Gate, under the broken portcullis that might or might not be still functional

The once magnificent halls of King Dáin I under Thafar’abbad were little more now than ruined caverns. They had lain empty ever since the dragons had forced Durin’s folk to flee them. And yet the enormous caverns themselves were beautiful in a way that only a Dwarf could appreciate them.

They stretched out endlessly before the eyes of the Erebor Dwarves like a forest after an ice storm. Columns of massive stone rose like the withered trunks of ancient trees and arched to a high ceiling where stone icicles clung. Along the darkened walls, huge outcroppings sprang like hawthorn blossoms and glittered in the golden light of the fireball floating above Miödvitnir’s upturned palm. It was a breath-taking sight.

And there were colours, everywhere: bright and vivid threads of colour,twisted through luminous shafts of grey rock. Gossamer-fine tendrils of crystal meandered along jagged walls, gleaming with rivulets of water. And chambers after chambers lay beyond the rows of tree-shaped columns, and on each side the Dwarves could see wide pools, flat and glistening as mirrors. Some gave a dull, greenish glow, others a pale blue.

“The work of the ancient StoneFoot masons,” replied Óin. “According to the King’s Records, Thorin I found the halls of Gabil-dûm already there, ripe for the taking, when he moved the kingdom to the North.

“I wonder why no-one thought of claiming this place before Thorin I,” said Balin. “Unless, of course, it was because of the dragons.”

“Mostly but not entirely,” answered Miödvitnir. “Eikinskialdi will show you. Come, we will go this way.”

He turned to the left and led them into a shaft that dripped gradually downward. Its walls of living rock rose higher than Ori’s upraised hands – and the BlackLock scholar was a large one as Dwarves go. They had to thread their way carefully between sharp outcroppings and over broken stones, and more than once had they needed all their strength to keep the frightened ponies under control.

“I find it strange that the corridors leading to the King’s Forge had not been shaped more thoroughly,” commented Balin in surprise

“This was not the main road of the city,” Miödvitnir explained, “just one of the many side-tunnels the StoneFoot miners used when carrying cartloads of ore, stone and gems above ground. The passageway will grow much wider, soon.”

Indeed, it happened as he had foretold, and the arched ceiling soared thrice a grown Man’s height. Narrow platforms of wood, one above the other, seamed the walls on both sides, though many had fallen into disrepair and the beams had tumbled in a heap over the earthen floor. Lengths of half-rotted timbers shored up the archway leading from one gallery to the next, but half of them had partly or completely crumbled, forcing them to pick their way even more cautiously over and around the piles of rubble.

The air was stifling after the restless wind above ground, and hung heavy with ancient dust and decay. Echoes flitted like bats through the long-abandoned chambers as the Dwarves moved in an unwavering file, following the pale golden light of Miödvitnir’s fireball. The twisting shadows seemed to muffle the sound of their heavy footsteps; only the piercing whining of the one or other frightened pony broke the silence.

Soon the magic light glinted on gems half-buried in the ground or protruding from walls. The jewels seemed to grow more plentiful as the long column of Dwarves made their way farther into the tunnel: bright red rubies and brilliant green emeralds, diamonds clear as water and strange gems that, in their glittering depths, were flecked with gold and silver.

Óin nodded. “StoneFoot miners from the small settlements scattered throughout the Grey Mountains ventured here from time to time, if their colony was in need. But ‘tis a dangerous undertaking. There is always the possibility of running into Gundabad Orcs. They can protect their small caves easily, but these halls are too large and they would have little to no cover in here. Nor have they ever dared to enter the King’s Forge, for reasons unknown to me.”

He stopped in front of what looked like an insignificant stretch of unhewn rock wall and muttered something. Moments later a large boulder turned noiselessly inward, opening a doorway into the room behind.

The King’s Forge turned out to be a cavernous hall, with the actual forge – a blackened fireplace with an enormous anvil – standing at the far end of it. Once it had been known as the Steel Hall and was the largest one under the Grey Mountains. The larger part of it had once served as a display place for King Náin’s craft but was now all but filled with what seemed to be a large heap of dull bronze and silver scales, as if somebody had stored a great many of old-fashioned hauberks there.

It was only at second sight that they made out under the apparent wirr-warr of scales a long, sinuous body – more than twenty foot long and half as high – and a head the size of a wagon. It ended in another ten feet of spiky tail, curled around part of the body. Now that they had realized what it was, they could make out further details of the dragon’s body, dead for hundreds of years: the massive, clawed feet, the huge jaws with ragged teeth as long as a Dwarf was tall, and smaller, pale silvery grey scales where his belly had once been.

Any soft parts of the beast had long dried out and fallen to dust; what was still left of it was but the empty armour.

“What is this?” whispered Balin; not that he would not recognize a dragon if he saw one, even a long-dead one, but he was shocked by the sight nonetheless.

Small wonder, as he was one of the few who had seen Smaug in his prime and lived to tell the tale.

“This was Glórund, last of the cold-drakes of Taforabbad,” answered a deep, somewhat hollow voice, and Eikinskialdi appeared above them on a stone balcony looking down at the King’s Forge. “Look at him, o Dwarves, for what you see is the only armour that can withstand the Dark Fire – if you are smiths enough to work with it, that is.”

Balin, a skilled smith himself, shook his head. “Bronze cannot withstand fire, black or otherwise.”

“Ah but this is no ordinary bronze,” replied the Fire-mage. “This is bronze melted with a dragon’s scales; and even though Glórund was not one of the fire-worms, the heat of his own body was enough to melt bronze and bond it to his bony scales. This is the most resistant thing ever made under the Sun; the only one that might protect us from the fire-demon that dwells under Khazad-dûm.”

Balin inched closer to the dragon’s empty skin and tentatively rapped on the scales with his knuckles. They proved hard and smooth as glass, yet as flexible as the best steel. Light, too, he realized, picking up one of the loosened scales from the ground. It was twice the size of his broad palm but seemed to weigh almost nothing.

“It would make wondrous armour and give us great advantage,” he allowed, “if only we had a forge hot enough for the task.”

Up on his balcony Eikinskialdi shrugged his heavy shoulders. “You have spellsmiths among you. Use them.”

All eyes turned to Miödvitnir, but the Rune-smith shook his head. “I may be able to bond spells to steel, but I am not strong enough for such work.”

“I was not talking about you,” Eikinskialdi’s piercing black eyes measured every single Dwarf present and finally rested on Burin son of Balin. “Well, young one? Are you willing and able to put your heritage to good use?”

His words were met with shocked silence. That Burin had manifested the flame, as Dwarves put it – meaning the rare gift of a spellsmith to work powers into the steel, to hear the whispers of the fire and the deep voices of steel and stone – and at such a relatively young age, too, was known to but a chosen few.

‘Twas a gift much greater (and infinitely more dangerous) than the simple fire-touch inherited by certain FireBeards – like Óin’s line – and even the latter had become rare in these lesser days. Spellsmiths, once not uncommon among Durin’s descendants, were practically extinct by now and even the weakest ones fiercely and jealously protected.

The fact that the Fire-mage could recognize Burin’s Gift by sight alone proved his great power and knowledge on the one hand. On the other hand it made him potentially even more dangerous. The Gift had only ever been given by Mahal to Durin’s blood; the last known recipient had been no lesser Dwarf than Thorin Oakenshield himself.

“Why are you so astonished? Did you think I would not feel the fire cruising in the young one’s veins; I who am made of fire myself? He leaned over the balcony, supporting himself on the crumbling railing with both hands. “The question is: does he have the strength to use his Gift? Is he able to pull all of himself into such work, to pour his very soul in the hot metal and in truth he would survive the crucible? It takes a generous, giving soul to do so; and a fearless heart not to fear the flame and the hammer. Having the Gift is just one half of the business; one also needs to have the makings to use it.”

“He is too young,” protested Balin, his old heart breaking in fear for his much-loved late-born son. “There are dangers down that road; grave dangers. One has to put a lot of oneself in such works, part of one’s soul, of one’s heart… and one can easily get destroyed during the process. Burin hasn’t done much spell-smithing so far; the odd dagger or throwing axe, nothing more. He cannot throw himself into such enormous work on his own; and no-one of us can help him. No-one else has the Gift.”

“I can teach him,” said Miödvitnir. “His strength and my knowledge together ought to do the trick.”

“Trying to drag the armour of such a large dragon back to Erebor would be a hopeless undertaking,” he said. “And, above all else, it would make the secrecy needed for our campaign a moot point.”

“Not to mention that the work would take years to finish, even if we only had to fit a few dozen Dwarves with hauberks,” added Ori.

“Are you in a great hurry?” asked Eikinskialdi tartly. “Khazad-dûm shan’t go anywhere; and neither would Durin’s Bane. You could not want for a better forge than the one in which King Náin once worked; the last spellsmith of royal lineage among Durin’s children.”

Clearly, he didn’t know of Thorin’s Gift; but that was the least concern of the other Dwarves right now. Balin stared at the ancient one in exasperation.

“With respect, loneliness and high age must have addled your brain, o Fire-mage,” he said sharply. “Did you not hear what Óin son of Gróin said? We cannot protect a cave as huge as this one against the Gundabad Orcs; which is the reason why the StoneFoot Dwarves cannot return here, either.”

“Actually, we can, with a bit of strategic thinking,” said Yngvildr before Eikinskialdi could have come up with an answer; if he had one at all. “If we make this the first part of our campaign, we could establish a small garrison of experienced warriors here. They can keep an eye on the Orc movements – something both King Dáin and Vestri of the Iron Hills would appreciate – and protect the Forge at the same time.”

“And I am certain that in that case I could persuade at least some of my people to return to the city of our ancestors,” Hakkon added.

“Does this mean that you are considering joining our campaign, my lady?” he asked. “May I ask what persuaded you?”

“This has persuaded me,” she replied. “My forefather Azaghâl managed to wound Glaurung, the Father of Drakes, wearing one of the legendary dragon helms of our people. I imagine that wearing a dragon’s own armour could protect us even against a fire-demon. So aye, I shall follow you to Khazad-dûm, Lord Balin of Durin’s House,” she looked at Frár. “What about you, husband?”

The huge, intimidating IronFist warrior nodded. “As I swore at our hand-binding ritual: wherever you go, I shall follow, my lady. And as I am a Forge Guard, I shall lead the warriors protecting the King’s Forge myself.”

“Dáin shan’t like it,” warned Balin. “You have been his right hand all your life; and his. He would loath to lose you.”

“He has my son to fill my space,” replied Frár calmly. “’Tis time for the younger generation to grow into their duties; and ‘Tis best done in peacetime when they can afford to learn from their mistakes.”

“How are they supposed to learn when their taskmaster is leaving?” asked Hakkon; not because he wanted him to change his mind just for the argument’s sake.

Frár shrugged his heavy shoulders. “They’ll have Dwalin to train them,” he said. “He might be a scholar nowadays, but he used to be Thorin Oakenshield’s war-master for longer than you’ve been alive. He’ll manage.”

“He always does,” agreed Balin with a somewhat sorrowful smile. As much as he understood his brother’s reasons, it saddened him that Dwalin wouldn’t even consider joining him. “Getting Dáin’s leave shan’t be easy, though; and I don’t mean for myself. I am not sworn to him, and due to my lineage need not his permission to do as I please. You two, though, do you believe he would release you from your oaths?”

“Not willingly; and I am sure he would loathe to do so,” allowed Frár. “But each and every Forge Guard is entitled to ask a bon from his or her King; a great favour but once in their lives that their liege lord cannot refuse. Neither my lady nor I have called in this boon yet.”

“And you’ll do so now?” Balin asked in awe. “Why would you do that?”

“I am an old warrior, as much as I am still in my prime,” answered Frár simply. “This might well be my last battle; I want it to be a glorious one.”

“As for me, I have unfinished business with the Orcs infesting Khazad-dûm,” added the lady Yngvildr. “I want to pay them back as long as I still have the strength.”

And an impressive strength she still possessed, Balin of all people knew that. And where she and Frár led, many warriors would follow.

Balin turned to his son now. “What do you say, my son? Are you willing to take the risk and work in King Náin’s Forge for whatever long it might take?”

“I cannot do this without Dorin,” he then said. “I know Uncle Dwalin would never allow him to join us, but I’ll need him while I work on the dragon’s hide. The Gift would swallow me without him.”

Balin nodded. He knew his son was soul-bound to his cousin; the two complemented each other in a way he’d seen only once before: with Fíli and Kíli. If Burin said he needed Dorin to perform the enormous task of turning a dragon’s hide into Dwarven armour, then he would get Dorin’s help, even if Balin had to sit on Dwalin during the whole time.

“You know I would have to take a solemn oath that he shan’t be accepted in our rows, though,” he warned.

Burin nodded unhappily. “Aye, I know that. It would kill me to go without him but ‘tis perhaps better so. At least the younger branch of our family ought to prevail.”

“All right then,” said Balin with a sigh. “I shall see it done. If the lady Yngvildr and her mate bring us the warriors to protect the Forge and Hakkon manages to recruit some of the StoneFoot miners to support us, we can begin with the work as early as late spring .”

“We shall need supplies,” Óin warned him. “I can speak with Niping; his caravan will be heading to the Iron Hills next; they might be willing to make a little detour and provide us with the necessary foodstuffs and whatever else we need.”

“And hopefully on their way back, too,” added Hakkon, grinning. “Starving Dwarves cannot protect their homes.”

“It could cost us a fortune, though,” commented Ori unhappily, “and this would only be the first leg of the campaign. Imagine the costs of the whole undertaking, Balin; how are we supposed to finance it?”

“Glóin and I paid for the supplies for the Quest of Erebor largely from our own pockets,” pointed out Óin; “and that was before we received our shares from the Dragon’s treasure. So did you and your brothers, if memory serves me well.”

“We only had to supply thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit during the Quest,” pointed out Ori. “Even taking the appetite of an average Hobbit under consideration, that was a small group. I sincerely hope that we’ll have a larger one when we attempt to re-take Khazad-dûm; or else the whole campaign would be pointless.”

“If needs must be, I shall give up my share of the Dragon’s hoard to see our debt to Durin’s Line paid and the Dwarrowdelf cleansed from evil,” said Balin grimly.

“You may have to do so yet; and you may not be the only one,” replied Óin. “This campaign will require careful planning and a great deal of patience,” he glanced at Ori. “Your old skills as head scribe may well be needed.”

“And I would offer my service to Lord Balin gladly,” said Ori formally. “But as for financing the campaign… these caves are full of gemstones and precious ores, some of which have already been mined. Could we not use them to pay for supplies?”

“You seem to forget that all this belongs to the StoneFoot Clans,” Óin reminded him.

“So what?” retorted Ori. “They cannot re-open these mines because of the threat of the Gundabad Orcs. Offer them the chance to do so under the protection of our warriors in exchange for a certain percentage if gems and ore and both sides win.”

“It could work,” he judged. “I’ll have to discuss it with the clan heads, but I’m certain they would be happy to use this chance; even if it’s only temporary.”

“We could use the old storage caves to pile up supplies while Burin is working on the dragon’s hide,” suggested Frár. “That way we can start our campaign right here when the time is right, without the need of dragging all the new hauberks and weapons back to Erebor. That would serve the required secrecy much better; and when the time comes, we can simply follow the Greyflood – and then the Great River – right to the East-gate of Khazad-dûm.”

Dori, who had only come to represent his wife, the matriarch of the family, shook his massive head in exasperation.

“You are insane,” he declared. “That route would bring you dangerously close to the Necromancer’s Tower; and even though he was driven out by Tharkûn, one cannot know what kind of evil things may dwell there still.”

Frár shrugged. “We can always cross the river at the Carrock and continue southwards on the other bank.”

“I believe ‘tis too early to dispute about possible travel routes,” said a deep, hollow voice from above; they were startled a bit, as they had forgotten about Eikinskialdi on his balcony for a moment. “One step at a time; let us establish this place as a stepping stone first.”

“Us?” echoed Óin. “Do you intend to leave your home and join us here o Fire-mage? I fear there would be too much iron for your comfort, were we to move in here in considerable numbers.”

“You are right, of course; and I do not intend to move in with you permanently,” replied the ancient one. “That could be dangerous, for both sides. However, I shall visit from time to time. I’ll need to have my own hauberk fitted, after all; and the young one,” he glanced at Burin, “might need my knowledge.”

For his part Óin found it hard to imagine the two ancient Dwarves working with Balin’s adventurous, hot-headed and utterly spoiled son, but stranger things had happened under the Sun – or rather under the earth where Dwarves were considered – in the last three Ages of the world. He only hoped they’d manage without killing (or permanently harming each other. One look at Balin’s face revealed that the future Lord of Moria was having similar concerns.

“I shall return here, too,” he offered. “Perchance I might find the lost records of King Náin somewhere. ‘Tis said that he managed to collect much of the forgotten knowledge about smith-craft only the great smiths of Tumunzahar possessed; Burin could find that useful.”

Being related to said FireBeard masters through his mother’s bloodline he had a personal interest in finding those records, too. But that was another matter entirely.

“What he’d need is the help of other arcane smiths,” said Balin grimly. “Unfortunately, that’s the very thing he shan’t be able to find.”

“Not another true spellsmith, mayhap,” agreed Miödvitnir. “But there are old masters left on some of the scattered FireBeard settlements who still know one or another of the trade secrets. I shall speak to them and summon them to Govedar.”

“And you believe they would answer your summons?” asked Óin doubtfully. “I stayed with them for a while; they did not seem very adventurous to me. Nor do they like strangers, not even from our own kind.”

“’Tis not the adventure that will call to them, ‘tis the chance to work with a dragon’s armour they won't be able to resist,” said Miödvitnir. “What true smith could resist that? Worry not, young one,” he added, looking at Burin. “I shall get you the help you will need.”

“We can discuss the details on our way home,” intervened Ori. “What we need to do now is to agree in a schedule and a method of communication.”

“Aye, but would they be willing to cross the Withered Heath and enter Eikinskialdi’s caves?” asked Dori.

Miödvitnir shrugged. “They only need to find me. ‘Tis true that I visit Eikinskialdi from time to time, but mostly I wander from settlement to settlement in the Grey Mountains and am easily found… for a raven, that is.”

Óin nodded. “Good, then at least that is settled. I shall see that the two of you get word about our moves.”

“And I shall remain here and visit with our Clan all over Thaforabbad, from here to Danakh-khizdîn to see if I can win some of them for our cause,” offered Hakkon.

“Our cause?” echoed Ori, grinning. “Does this mean you’re planning to join us, too?”

Hakkon grinned back at him. “Let us say that I am at least willing to support the first part of the campaign; for what StoneFoot in his or her right mind would miss the chance to dwell in the ancient halls of Govedar again? As for the rest… we shall see.”

“We thank you for any help you are willing to offer,” said Balin formally; then he turned to Yngvildr. “Are you satisfied with the outcome of this meeting, my lady?”

The Raven Lady nodded. “Indeed I am. We can return to Erebor as far as I am concerned – and work on our strategy to get Dáin’s consent.”

“I thought he owed you a boon,” Ori frowned. “And Balin here can do as he pleases.”

“That is true,” said Frár seriously. “But he is still our King and we cannot lead any number of our people away to Khazad-dûm without his leave. Especially not ones who originate from the Iron Hills; he is our Clan chief as well.”

“And he won’t be easily persuaded,” warned Yngvildr. “As much as he is of Durin’s Line, he has inherited many of his mother’s IronFist sensibilities… who do not feel the same obligation to free Khazad-dûm as the LongBeards, the FireBeards and the BroadBeams. Khazad-dûm was never their home the way it was ours.”

“They still came to fight with us at Azanulbizar,” pointed out Balin. “You did so yourself, Frár.”

“Aye, I did, but that was a war for vengeance,” Frár reminded him. “A war from which we still have not fully recovered.”

“Which is why I shan’t appear in front of Khazad-dûm’s main gate with an army and challenge the filthy Orcs openly,” said Balin. “Stealth and secrecy worked well for us when we attempted to re-take Erebor. We shall follow the same path; though, hopefully, with more people, this time,” he turned to Eikinskialdi. “Our thanks for this meeting o Fire-mage. We shall return to the Mountain now and begin with the preparations. But we shall stay in touch.”

The Book of Mazarbul

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author’s note: As I mentioned before, several storylines will come together (eventually) in this tale.

The caravan is basically the same Bifur and her cousins travelled with in “If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit”, though some of its members have been replaced. Uruktharbun in the Blue Mountain has been established in the same story. So have most of the OCs featuring here. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter 15 – The Wanderers

The imposing merchant caravan of BroadBeam Dwarves reached the Lonely Mountain in the early days of Spring. They had set off from Uruktharbun in the Blue Mountains, where once Thorin’s impressive Halls lay upon twice seven levels – now a shared FireBeard and BroadBeam settlement, mainly – travelled across the land of the Halflings, then through the sparely populated lands between it and the Misty Mountains, crossed the High Pass and the Old Ford and continued their journey northwards on the western border of Mirkwood, finally following the Elf-path to the Long Lake and beyond that to King Dáin’s realm.

The arrival of a merchant caravan – any merchant caravan – was always the source of great excitement in Erebor. Not only did they bring new and exciting wares for the marketplace, having visited strange lands and strange folk, they also brought news and messages from kinfolk – something that Dwarves, a race that held ties of kinship in high esteem, valued greatly. As many as Thorin Oakenshield’s former subjects had followed him to Erebor, once the Mountain had been won again, a great number of them had chosen to remain in Uruktharbun, and messages and gifts were going back and forth between the two realms all the time.

This particular caravan, however, was greeted with even more delight than the others. For this was the one founded by Bifur’s parents after the Fall of Erebor. The one Bifur, Bofur, Bombur and their family had travelled with for most of their lives. And even though they had chosen to become settled after the Quest, they never failed to come forth and welcome their travelling companions of old.

The caravan that now reached the Front Gate looked a great deal more presentable than the one they used to travel with – small wonder, as Bifur had spent much of her share of the Dragon’s hoard to help rebuild it. The old, heavy wagons were still there, of course, being the ones in which the Wanderers actually lived and which they used to build their line of defence for the night while resting on the Road, but they had been restored and strengthened, so that they could serve their purpose much better.

And then there were the new carts, serving mainly as ready-made market stalls to display the wares in the most tempting manner. They were not pulled by the usual sturdy, shaggy hill ponies but by large goats, rams and pigs, to draw even more attention.

Gellir son of Bombur’s toy-maker’s cart, manned during this most recent journey by his nephew Bivör, Bávor’s oldest, opened up like a mechanical Jack-in-the-box, to display his merchandise. Closed up again, it could look quite different, making it useful as a travelling vehicle for one. It was a clever design, the last joint effort by Bifur and Bofur ere they retired from the life of Wanderers, and it was pulled by a great mountain ram of particularly foul disposition that only ever obeyed Bivör’s instructions.

The cart of Frér, the rug-trader, had a roof to protect the astonishingly beautiful array of rugs and camel-hair blankets he had collected from all over Middle-earth: from Mithlond to Rhûn and from Dale to Harad and even Khand. Oil lamps, cut of crystal and safely closed on all sides so that no spark could escape, hung from all four corners of the cart roof, casting light on the beautiful rugs inside in a complimentary manner.

The cart of the cloth-merchant – Frér’s father Fráeg – was pulled by a huge goat. It also had a roof and brocaded curtains hung from it on both sides to protect the bales upon bales of fine cloth piled inside.

The cart of the wood-worker Egill – one of the original caravan members – and his mate Bláin, whom he had met somewhere in Lindon on a previous journey, was laden with chairs and tables. Together with the toy-maker, the rug-merchant and a walking troupe of other traders, they were the essential other items that completed the package when they rolled into a town outside of market days and set up, so they complimented each other.

The cart of the wine merchant Thrasi was pulled by a giant pig. It was loaded with barrels of Dorwinion red, pale yellow wine from Gondor, the finest spirits from the Shire and other much sought after beverages twice the height of the cart itself.

The others – the leather-workers, the cutler, the bronze- and ironsmiths – still used the old-fashioned wagons drawn by ponies. Those might not be as fancy as the new carts, but they were stable and reliable and served as comfortable homes on the Road. Those with warrior training rode along the carts and wagons on their ponies, while the craftsmen themselves preferred to walk.

Sitting around idly was not something a Dwarf – even a wealthy Dwarf – liked to do.

Bifur, Bofur and Bombur came down from their modest home to the marketplace to greet their friends and comrades of old, and so did Niping, too, who had taken over the caravan after the Quest, even though it were his sons, Nídi and Nidud who did the actual travelling these days, taking turns at every journey. After all, Niping was an old Dwarf; one of the few born in Erebor of old who had miraculously survived the coming of the Dragon.

He came from a family that had once been wealthy and influential. In Erebor’s heyday they used to have their own caravans and traded in precious fabrics, gemstones, Dorwinion wine and other luxury items. After the Fall, Niping, then a beardless lad still waiting for his first growing pains, had been taken in by the family of his future wife, Dagrún, and travelled with them for many years. Eventually, they joined the caravan of Bifur’s parents for the safety of numbers and became friends for life.

When Erebor had been freed, Niping moved back among the first. He became the Master of the Merchant’s Guild and reclaimed the old home of his family on the Third Height, in the quarter of the rich Guild Masters.

They had also found much of their lost treasure among the Dragon’s hoard – the Dwarven custom of etching the owner’s mark on just about everything they owned had proved helpful in the process – and as Niping now walked down to the marketplace to greet his firstborn, Nídi, who had been with the caravan for this particular journey, everyone could see at once that he was a Dwarf of wealth and importance.

The recent years had undoubtedly been good to him. He was as broad as he was tall (which, admittedly, was not much, even for a BroadBeam), now that he was leading a more sedate life, in fine clothes that matched his appearance. He wore his thick ginger hair – still untouched by frost – in multiple decorative braids, now adorned with beads and clasp of pure gold and gemstones and tied to a knot on top of his head. He was wearing a knee-length tunic of dark burgundy red brocade, seamed with the fur of the grey squirrel, and a heavy, sleeveless royal blue overcoat, upon which his elaborately braided beard spread like a ruddy cloud. His wrist-guards, now worn for show rather than out of necessity, were decorated with bronze decorations and so were his heavy boots and his broad belt.

His firstborn and heir, Nídi, who was returning with the caravan, got both his looks and his colouring from his mother. A few inches taller than Niping, he had Mistress Dagrún’s straw blond hair, which he wore unbraided, save for the obligatory family braids, and a very high, almost bulbous forehead and grey eyes… traits that spoke of some StoneFoot blood somewhere up the bloodline. He had his forked beard and long moustaches artfully braided, though, and adorned with silver clasps and small gemstones. Returning from a long journey, he wore sensible travelling clothes; after all, he had been born to the Road and knew how to survive on it.

With him came his wife, Tirsa, a stunning BroadBeam beauty of light brown hair, a heart-shaped face, cat-like hazel eyes and a voluptuous figure. She was also a master weaver who made the finest woollen cloth that they traded to many people all over Rhovanion.

Tirsa had taken to accompanying Nídi on his journeys since their children were old enough to stay behind with the rest of the clan, as her family had always lived in the Ered Luin and she had seen very little from the wider world before. She was quite an adventurous soul for all that she came from a wealthy and conservative merchant family that had never had anything to do with Erebor or the Kings of Durin’s line.

While Bifur, Bofur and Bombur’s family were happily reunited with the original members of the caravan, above all else with Frán, their wise-woman (a grim-faced old crone and veteran of Azanulbizar), Niping now turned to Fráeg the cloth-merchant, to whom he was distantly related by marriage. In recent years Fráeg had been the one who always travelled with the caravan, while Niping’s sons took turns of staying at home and learning from their father how to deal with the local side of the business.

Like Niping, Fráeg was a fairly old Dwarf whose family had lived in Uruktharbun through the better part of the Third Age and had little to do with the kingdom of Erebor. They still lived there, at least in theory – now that the Road was reasonably safe again, they had taken to travelling with adventurous delight.

Aside from being old and wealthy, Fráeg was also one of those Dwarven merchants who strongly believed in displaying one’s best wares on one’s own person. Therefore he was decked out so splendidly in fur-lined wool and finely made leather and brocaded silk that it would have made a king pale in envy. His impressive mass of iron-grey beard and his thick hair were carefully combed and oiled, even on the Road, and adorned with golden beads and clasps, and he wore heavy, bejewelled rings upon his thick fingers.

Compared with him, his wife Jórunn – a distant cousin of Niping and the caravan’s accountant – looked almost plain. She was a voluptuous Dwarf-dam with strawberry blonde hair worn in a coronet of multiple braids woven together and adorned with small gemstones. Some of the braids were pulled free from the coronet and hung over her shoulder, touching her heavy robe of fine scarlet wool, seamed with gold ribbon embroidery, under which she wore a long-sleeved ochre velvet undergown.

She had a marked resemblance to Niping and her face spoke of a great sense of dry humour. She was also said to be good-natured and patient, which she probably needed to put up with Fráeg’s infamous eccentricity. Their children also travelled with them; their son was the rug-trader and their daughter a skilled seamstress.

“Well, Niping, my friend,” said Fráeg, releasing a beast that looked like a white camel, which was bound to their wagon, and entrusting it to one of the stable lads that had come running to be of service. “’Tis good to see you again. It has been a long time.”

“Too long,” agreed Niping, giving the camel – if it was indeed one – a curious glance.

He had seen camels before, of course, on his journeys across Near-Harad, but never one without a hump. Also, this was much smaller and more graceful than the average camel, with extraordinary thick and fine fur.

“Where did you get this beast from?” he asked. “I never saw one like it.”

“And you shan’t, unless you travel to the easternmost ranges of the Blue Mountains,” replied Fráeg. “Some odd StiffBeard clans have found them and domesticated them around the beginning of our Age, when other beasts of burden were confiscated and lost in the great war. There are different kinds of them by now; some are raised for their wool, others as pack animals, others again to be slaughtered and eaten, though I found their meat not very palatable.”

“What are they called?” Niping reached out to pat the nose of the beast… and almost got some fingers bitten off for his effort.

“Careful,” warned Fráeg. “They have a nasty temper. The StoneFoots call them lamas; although where the word comes from no-one could tell.”

“I say this must be one of those raised for their wool,” said Niping. “But why would you bring a single beast?”

“’Tis a test,” explained Fráeg. “I wanted to see if she would survive in the higher regions of the Mountain, together with the mountain sheep. If she does, we can bring more and breed them properly; for their wool is very fine indeed. Finer than the camel hair of the Haradrim, in fact.”

“And warmer, too,” commented Frís, daughter of Fráeg, who was the living image of her mother Jórunn. “One shirt of lama wool – well, and another one for change – would bring a miner through the hardest winter. Or a travelling merchant,” she added with a knowing smile.

Niping whistled in appreciation. His parents had dealt with Haradric merchants for camel hair shirts that were made from the finest camel wool, light and wondrously warm. If these… lamas produced wool that was even finer and warmer, then they could be as ill-tempered as they wanted, for all that he cared. Securing the rights to trade in it in Rhovanion would be pure gold… or even better.

Not to mention that such clothes would serve exceedingly well if Lord Balin’s quest finally started – assuming that the noble old Dwarf could get King Dáin’s leave in the first place. Niping had been shocked upon learning about what he thought was an insane plan but was more than willing to supply the campaign with all necessities – for the right price.

Of course he needed to discuss the whole issue with Fráeg in detail first.

“Well, go and have a hot bath, a good meal and some rest,” he said. “Afterwards we’ll have something to talk about. Something that would be more than a little risky but could make us very, very rich in exchange.

That certainly piqued Fráeg’s interest, but he knew Niping wouldn’t go in any detail before he had seen to his most immediate needs.

“All right,” he said. “But I expect a keg of really good ale with this mysterious story.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was quite a gathering in Niping’s home when the former and current senior members of the caravan came together to discuss the unusual request that had only been made a couple of weeks previously. Niping had not told any of them about it so far, although he did have a suspicion that some of them already knew.

There was Dagrún, the mistress of the house, naturally; now richly clad as it behoved the wife of a Guild Master and the matriarch of a well-respected family. There were their sons, Nydi and Nidud, with Nídi’s wife Tirsa and Nidud’s mate, Fródi.

There was Fráeg with his wife Jórunn, their son Frér and their daughter Frís – all of them family, one way or another, all of them wealthy and accordingly clad. Now that the roads were reasonably safe again and trade flourished once more, the BroadBeam traders had steadily grown in wealth and respect.

Frán, wearing her usual simple and practical garb, stood out of the rich merchants like a sore thumb. Neither she now her mate Halli or their son Hunbogi gave a Goblin’s arse about fancy clothes; and yet she was highly respected by all for being a fearsome warrior – and a wise old crone indeed.

With them came Bávor son of Bombur with his wife Ragna and their oldest son Bivör. Bifur and Bofur came, too; they might no longer be involved in the daily business of the caravan but they were family to Frán and Bávor and had a great deal of experience when it came to the roads. Also, they already knew what Niping wanted to discuss with the rest and their insight was most welcome.

Custom demanded that they discuss the caravan’s recent journey first, though, as trade was their livelihood. Fortunately, Fráeg and Jórunn had good news about that; and thus after a lengthy business report Niping could finally bring up the other, even more important reason for their gathering.

“I was approached by Óin son of Gróin a few days ago,” he began, “about a business that, should it indeed come together, might bring us great profit. But it could also prove risky… even fatal, should our good luck run out.”

“It would most certainly prove fatal,” said Bifur grimly. “It is madness, pure and simple. I cannot fathom how even my own family could consider taking part in it,” she added, with a disapproving glare in Bávor’s direction.

“You know what this is about?” asked Fráeg in surprise.

Which was unflattering, really. After all, Bifur had not only led the caravan successfully for decades, she was also a member of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company, and for that alone she would deserve respect. But Fráeg, who had only dared the Road after the Dragon was gone, having lived in the relative safety of the Blue Mountains all his life, would never truly understand why somebody with a handsome share from the Dragon’s treasure would retire from business and lead the life of a simple craftsperson, just to care for an elderly cousin.

Bifur knew that, of course, but she couldn’t care less.

“Aye, I have known of this for some time; and so have we all,” she said sharply. “Óin told us about it when he tried to persuade us to join him. Again, she shot Bávor a dark glare. “Some were even foolish enough to agree.”

Good-natured as ever (just like his father), Bávor took no offence.

“We have been through this several times already, Aunt Sigrún,” he said, smiling.

“Well, would you have the courtesy to tell the rest of us what it’s about, then?” prompted Fráeg, getting more than a little impatient.

Niping looked at Bávor. “Would you mind to explain? It seems you know more than I do.”

Bávor nodded. “Gladly. This will be a quest even greater than the re-taking of Erebor… assuming that we succeed.”

“You will not,” commented Bifur darkly.

Bávor ignored her and went on. “Now that we’ve grown in strength and numbers again, Lord Balin chose to listen to the murmurs among us and lead us back to our very roots: to the great city of Khazad-dûm; to cleanse it from the evil things that have befallen it and to fulfil our curses upon the filthy Orcs.”

For several endless moments there was shocked silence in the room. Those who only now heard about the plan it was hard to even imagine somebody wanting to do this. Finally Fráeg recovered enough to speak.

“I fear I must agree with Sigrún,” he said. “By all due respect to Lord Balin, this plan is insane. And I fail to see how could it in any way be profitable for us.”

“This will be a much longer campaign than Thorin Oakenshield’s quest,” explained Bávor. “Óin hopes that at least several dozen Dwarves will join. And such a large group will need supplies; food, above everything else, but other things, too. And we’ll need wagons in which to transport those supplies… not to mention people who are used to life on the Road.”

Fráeg looked at Niping with a frown. “Are you seriously considering offering our caravan for this… this madness?”

“Not the entire caravan,” replied Niping calmly. “I doubt that Lord Balin would have need of toys or rugs or any of the fancy carts you use to draw attention. But some of the old, heavy wagons could be useful; if anyone but Bávor is willing to go, that is.”

“I spoke to our people,” said Bávor. “Jörundr and Mötsognir declared their readiness to come with us.”

“I shall come, too,” announced Frán; at the surprised looks of the others she smiled grimly. “I’m old, but I can still wield a battle-axe better than many a young stripling. I already fought at Azanulbizar as a young warrior; going back would allow me to come to full circle.”

“And Father and I shall go with you,” added his son Hunbogi. “We’re both miners and stone-masons; we’ll be needed in a place like Khazad-dûm.”

Fráeg shook his head in exasperation. “You are insane; all of you. And I still don’t see where is any possible profit in this.”

“Lord Balin is willing to use his share from the Dragon’s hoard to supply the campaign,” said Bávor. “And so are Ori and Óin.”

The silence following his words was different from the one before: not one of shock but one of careful consideration. They were Dwarves, after all. Merchant Dwarves, with a keen eye for opportunity.

“Well then,” said Fráeg with a speculative gleam in his eye; everyone knew that the share of Thorin’s Company from the Dragon’s treasure had been a considerable one. “It seems that the profit might be worth the risk, after all.”

“Unless Old Ironfoot puts a ban on the whole undertaking; in which case we might lose our right to do business in Erebor for having any part of it,” warned his wife Jórunn.

Old Frán made a derisive snort. “You’ve been leading a way too comfortable life all your life,” she said. “Be careful or the Dragon-sickness might get you, even after all those years.”

Jórunn’s lovely face darkened and she was about to give a sharp answer but Niping stopped her with a raised hand.

“Not everyone is born to live on the Road, Lady Frán,” he said. “Nor is this the time to discuss – or condemn – each other’s chosen way of life. We are here to decide if we should take upon us the sole responsibility of supplying Lord Balin’s campaign, seeing that only a handful of us wish to take active part in the quest itself. Should we take the risk of such a dangerous journey? Do we have the means to do so?”

“If we want to do this, we need to plan everything to the smallest detail,” said his son Nídi. “This won’t be one of our usual trading rounds. This will be more like supplying an army; though mayhap only a small one.”

“We need to know their numbers and the route they intend to take,” added his brother Nidud. “Much will depend on the route: how long they would be able to get fresh food on the way and how much of dry goods they would need to take with them.”

“I fear that whatever route Lord Balin might decide to take, it will lead through empty lands beyond Laketown,” replied their father. “And they would be hard-pressed to feed a large group of Dwarves by hunting and gathering. Mirkwood is simply not suited for that – unless you are Elves.”

“And even the Elvenking buys some of his food from Dale or Esgaroth,” added Dagrún. “Or else he could not feed all the people dwelling in that fortress of his. Only the small family clans of the Woodland Folk that live scattered all over the northern forest can feed themselves.”

“Which means we should begin to fill up our stores with dry goods way before the quest starts,” commented Frán thoughtfully. “”Tis a good thing that cram keeps for years upon years. We can build up a great supply without fearing that it might go bad.”

“Aye, because it is horrible from the beginning,” commented Frér son of Fráeg grinning.

The old crone gave him a flat look.

“That horrible waybread saved us from starving quite a few times, back when the Road was not safe enough for you, soft and spoiled brats, to travel,” she countered grimly. “We lived on cram and tree-bark on our way back from the Battle of Azanulbizar – and survived. Cram is the stock food of every Wanderer and every travelling army; everything else is just addition.”

“The honey-cakes of the Beornings also keep long and are very tasty and nutritious,” added Bávor. ‘And we can build up a large stock of dried and salted meat, smoked fish and the likes. We might need a few more of those old-fashioned wagons, too. The ones we still have from earlier likely won’t be enough. It all depends on the size of the group, of course.”

“Nay,” Fráeg interrupted. “It depends on whether the King gives Lord Balin his leave. If he does not, I for my part shan’t have anything to do with this campaign.”

Nídi rolled his eyes. “You ain’t even a subject of Old Ironfoot,” he pointed out. “You still live in Oakenshield’s old halls in Uruktharbun.”

“But I trade with Erebor; and going against the King’s wishes would put an end to it,” replied Fráeg.

“And of course you would not put that at risk,” commented Bifur with quiet disdain. “Not even for those without whom there wouldn’t even be a Kingdom Under the Mountain to trade with.”

Fráeg gave her an unfriendly glare. “I thought you were against this campaign.”

“I am,” she replied; “but for different reasons. I would hate to lose even more beloved ones to foolish Dwarven pride. ‘Tis not my own strongbox I am worried about.”

“Well, “tis not so as if you would need to,” Fráeg snapped at her nastily. “You have been sitting on your share of the Dragon’s treasure ever since the re-taking of Erebor.”

Enraged by the merchant’s insolence towards their family Matriarch (not to mention a hero of the Battle of the Five Armies), Bávor rose from his seat and there would have been bloodshed and broken bones, had Bifur not stopped him with a hand upon his forearm. A hand that still bore that old, faded scar from her own years on the Road.

“What I do or don’t with my share is my business alone,” she said with quiet authority. “I have earned that right by following Thorin Oakenshield on a seemingly hopeless quest. I faced Trolls and Goblins and Wargs and Giant Spiders, and in the end the Dragon itself; and before that I spent decades on the Road, in a battered old wagon, while you led a lush and comfortable life in Uruktharbun and never dared to go any further than the Shire,” she touched the black tattoos on her temples, the proof that she had been blooded in battle. “Don’t you dare to open your mouth against me, Fráeg Achimul; I might have only picked up weapons out of need and despair in the past, but I can still give you a bloody nose if you rile me up beyond endurance.”

“And I shall lend you a hand,” added Frán, baring her teeth at the frightened merchant. “You fat and lazy gits believe you can look down your big noses at us; well, think again! And learn some manners or I shall teach you – with my battle-axe!

“Peace, Lady Frán,” Niping saw it necessary to intervene. “I am the leader of this caravan; and I and mine travelled with you all those years when the Road was still dangerous, remember? If Fráeg does not wish to take part in this particular business, no-one forces him. In one thing, though, he is right: we should wait and see what King Dáin has to say.”

“We’ll go anyway,” hissed Frán. “My King was Thrór and I followed his summons to Azanulbizar while barely more than a Dwarfling. I shall not be denied my revenge.”

“But we still need someone used to take care of the daily business of a large caravan,” her mate Hjalli reminded her. “Neither of us has that kind of experience.”

“I shall go,” said Nídi, to everyone’s surprise; “at least as far as the southern edge of Mirkwood. I shall see the wagons there safely; I do not promise to take any part of the fighting, though. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”

“And yet battle might find you, even along the way to Khazad-dûm,” Bifur warned him grimly. “’Tis a five-month journey at the very least, whichever way you might go; probably longer when you are slowed down by the supply carts. And the lordless lands between here and there are full of evil things… and evil people. You know that as well as I do.”

“Aye, I know that,” replied Nídi. “But Lord Balin will need people who can get his supplies safely across the empty lands. If we have to supply a larger group, Bávor and Mistress Frán’s family shan’t be enough.”

That was very true, and they all knew it, even though the actual number of those who wanted to go was still to be learned.

“Besides,” he added with a wry grin,” somebody ought to keep an eye on the supplies while the others do all the fighting.”

Everyone laughed at that as Nídi – albeit without formal warrior training – was known as a skilled axe-man and a fierce fighter. The fact that he chose to go with the supply trek reassured his father and the other merchants that their investments, should they indeed invest into Balin’s campaign, would be in good hands.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with working out the details. Long-term calculations were made, risks and profits were weighed against each other, endless lists of necessities and possible sources were put together. They were all experienced merchants with a keen eye for detail, so it was a long and arduous process – but a necessary one.

Bifur excused herself after another hour or so, declaring that she did not want to have anything to do with their madness. Bofur, although still not interested in going with the trek, stayed behind to support his nephew with advice born of long experience, and his knowledge was more than welcome.

Finally they had everything they needed to take under consideration – everything but the numbers, that is. That was the lesser problem, though. They were Dwarves and merchants and therefore practical people. They would adjust their calculations to whatever number Balin’s company would have.

In the meantime they could already start the long-term preparations. The weavers, leather workers, wood-workers and ironsmiths would be busy with commissions in the foreseeable future.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Let’s count the numbers then,” said Jörundr the cook, counting them on his thick, blunt fingers indeed. “Your parents are coming with us, Bávor, and even Nídi? It will be almost like old times.”

He was sitting in The Troll Cave, one of the more popular inns of the Second Deep, with his brother Mötsognir and their old friend Hunbogi. The inn was owned by Bombur’s eldest daughter Bomfrís and her husband, and while all members of the caravan were welcome there any time, these three earned quite a few interested looks from the other customers – mayhap because they were so different.

The two sons of the late Grechar looked very much alike, although they had fairly different trades. Jörundr was a cook who had taken over from Bombur the feeding of their caravan in recent years, and Mötsognir was an ironsmith. Both quite young yet in Dwarven terms, they were short and very broadly build, even by Clan measures, with barrel chests and flaxen hair, which Jörundr wore in multiple braids.

Mötsognir’s hair was still too short to be properly braided – it had been burned off by a forge accident shortly before the Quest of Erebor, together with his beard – but he made up for it by being incredibly strong. He was known to have beaten up a Forge Guard with his bare hands once, just because said Guard (an IronFist warrior a foot taller than him and twice his age) insulted his craft.

Jörundr tended to react similarly when his cooking was being criticised. They both took great pride in their work and rightfully so.

Compared with them Hunbogi was almost skinny; not that there had been any skinny Dwarves in Middle-earth, with the possible exception of Burin son of Balin. He was half the brothers’ width but twice their age, well into his middle years. A miner and a stone-mason by age, he united the sharp and rugged features of his parents, which resulted in a rather wild-looking visage. He wore his dark brown hair and beard unbraided (unless working); his long, upswept eyebrows and moustaches were quite spectacular.

Small wonder that people who did not know him well were vary in his presence, even his fellow Dwarves. His looks alone helped to make Men back off when he entered a confrontation. Things like that came in handy on the Road.

The sons of Grechar, however, did know him well, having travelled the Road with him all their lives. And they were cautiously excited about sharing a great (albeit dangerous) new adventure with him. One that was going to be sung of in epic ballads for the rest of Dwarven history.

“It would be like old times if Sigrún and his cousins came with us,” Mötsognir commented. “I hoped that at least Bofur would come; I knew Sigrún would never abandon Old Bombur.”

Hunbogi shrugged. “Unlike us, they weren’t born to the Road. They took to it out of necessity. I cannot blame them for wanting a more settled life.”

“But their entire line descended from Dwarves of Khazad-dûm!” Mötsognir shook his head in bewilderment. “How comes that they would not wish to return home?”

“Khazad-dûm was the home of their – our – ancestors,” pointed out Hunbogi. “Bifur, Bofur and Bombur helped to win back Erebor; this has become their home, and they have every right to claim it. We all have to follow the call of our hearts; and no-one is entitled to question our choices. This has always been our way, ever since Mahal shaped the Seven Fathers on his heavenly anvil.”

The brothers fell silent, for Hunbogi was not a Dwarf of many words as a rule. If he chose to defend Bifur, Bofur and Bombur’s choice so passionately, that meant that he felt strongly about it… about them. And while he might appear scrawny compared with either Jörundr or Mötsognir, the brothers knew from experience that raising his ire would not be wise.

At least the two of them were in complete agreement about Lord Balin’s campaign and the necessity of taking part in it. Now everything depended on what King Dáin would say.

~TBC~

Author’s note: This chapter continues seamlessly the previous one. The settlement of Danakh-khizdîn (=Green Dwarf-Place) in the Grey Mountains is game canon; so are the Brotherhood of Stone and Narag-gund. Shalakanâm (literally: water of kisses) has been invented by The Dwarrow Scholar.

It took Hakkon weeks to reach Danakh-khizdîn, the main StoneFoot settlement in the Grey Mountains. He had visited half a dozen small settlements where only a few isolated families of the Clan dwelt first – among them is own birthplace, now barely populated at all, as most Dwarves had harkened to Dáin’s summons and moved to Erebor years ago. Even so, he had found a few adventurous miners among them who were willing to return to Gabil-dûm for the length of time the planned new garrison would stay there. The riches of their old home still lured them there, despite the risks.

The same was true to most other settlements as well. But Danakh-khizdîn, the Green Dwarf-Place, one of the oldest StoneFoot villages – almost as old as Gabil-dûm itself and certainly older than Erebor – was an exception. It had been founded by the Niddînaban, the Brotherhood of Stone, a secretive guild of stone-masons and engineers from Narag-gund that had been the main city of the Clan in the Red Mountains, back in the First Age, before they would migrate westwards.

While the nobles of Narag-gund had settled in Gabil-dûm after the loss of their old home (and went down with it due to the attacks of Orcs and dragons), the Niddînaban carved their own dwelling place into the living rock of the far North and managed to survive there, in spite of their dangerous neighbourhood. Since the Niddînaban had been founded by Sindri, the StoneFoot Father himself in the early First Age, their village had always enjoyed great respect among fellow Clan members; and their village Elder had been the highest authority since the passing of the last StoneFoot King.

The current village Elder was a Dwarf nearing his silver years (meaning he was beyond three hundred years old), yet with his strength still unbroken. A survivor of Azanulbizar by the name of Herger, he had icy blue eyes, an enormous, curly blond beard with barely any silver threads in it, and coarse, straw-blond hair, which he wore in a single, elaborately plaited braid that hung down to his waist.

He welcomed Hakkon with the customary Dwarven hospitality, offering him the usual welcome cup of shalakanâm – a clear, very strong spirit with little odour, made from buckwheat grown on the terraced fields around and above the village. The drink was popular amongst BlackLocks and IronFists as well; some of the latter were even mad enough to hold drinking contests of shalakanâm, which usually ended with most contestants passing out in the shortest time.

StoneFoots were a much more sensible lot, of course; and Hakkon, too, politely refused the second cup that was traditionally offered but seldom accepted. Herger nodded approvingly.

“A wise decision,” he said, grinning. “This year’s brew is particularly potent. Now, tell me what led you to us. ‘Tis rare that the returnees from the Lonely Mountain would pay our modest little village a visit.”

“I have come on behalf of Lord Balin Fundinul, First Advisor to King Dáin the Second,” replied Hakkon formally. “He is looking for people who would join the Quest he is planning; either right away or later, when the rebuilding might begin. Miners and stone-masons from our Clan in particular are much sought for.”

“Hmmm,” Herger hummed thoughtfully. “I would like to hear more about this Quest before I would say aye or nay.”

“So would I,” said a third voice, and a stunningly beautiful Dwarf-dam – perhaps not the youngest but still in her best years – joined them on the porch. She wore the working kirtle of a craftswoman – the tools in her large apron pocket revealed her as a leather-worker – and her great sheaf of honey-blond hair was wrapped around her head in a thick braid like a woven coronet.

“My youngest daughter, Hallveig,” introduced her Herger, and Hakkon hurriedly stood and bowed with deep respect.

“Hakkon Hróáldrsson, at your service; miner and stone-mason, living under the Mountain right now,” he said.

“Welcome to Danakh-khizdîn,” she replied. “Now, tell us about this Quest of yours. I might have an interest to see other places than just our village before I get too old to go on longer journeys.”

For the moment, however, Hakkon was completely tongue-tied, staring at the golden beauty sitting opposite him with his mouth… well, not actually hanging open, but it was a close thing. He knew the longing could hit one quite unexpected, but he had never expected it to happen to him even though he was of the right age for quite some time. Until now, he had believed to be one of those Dwarves who found their fulfilment in their craft and never wanted more from his life.

Yet now, as he was looking at Hallveig Hergersdóttir, at least a decade or two his senior, he felt completely lost… as if hit by a spell. It felt like liquid fire cruising through his veins and it was hard to breathe. All of a sudden he felt embarrassingly flushed, and it took all his considerable craft of will to put his feelings aside – at least for the time being – and give the object of his desire a coherent answer. Or as coherent as he was currently able to.

“’Tis not my Quest,” he replied; “although I might consider joining it, at least the first leg of the campaign; and a few of our clansmen consented to do the same.”

And he gave Herger and that beautiful daughter of his a report of detailed accuracy about Balin’s Quest and what had been done so far. They listened to him with shocked surprise (Herger) and cautious excitement (Hallveig).

“That is certainly a noble goal,” Herger finally said,” but also a foolhardy one. Lord Balin might end up commanding five mines and a pit(1). We have already tried to re-claim Khazad-dûm; and failed spectacularly. He was there; and so was I. I shall not allow our Brotherhood to have any part of it. But a few who want to enter the mines of Gabil-dûm again may do so, as soon as the garrison is established. And should Lord Balin succeed, against all odds, we shall offer our help with the rebuilding of the Dwarrowdelf. This I promise as Mahal may hear me.”

“And I shall go with those who return to Gabil-dûm,” announced Hallveig; then, to the utter shock of her father, she added; “and I shall follow Lord Balin to see the wonders of Khazad-dûm.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed. “But I hear the call in my heart to see Durin’s Throne; a call too strong to resist, even if it means my untimely demise.”

“Which is likely to happen,” said Herger wretchedly. “I cannot condone this, my heart. Living so close to Gundabad is dangerous enough; but entering the biggest Orc-den in Middle-earth is folly, plain and simple.”

“That may be so,” she returned, “but my mind is made up; and I would thank you if you gave your blessing, ‘adad – if for naught else, then for good luck.”

Herger shook his head in despair. “I could never deny you anything, my golden bird. But I do have one condition.”

Herger’s eyes flickered in Hakkon’s direction. “I do not want you to go alone.”

Hallveig followed the direction of his look; and she frowned. “I have no interest in him,” she stated.

“But he certainly has an interest in you,” returned Herger. “Look at him: he displays the clear signs of the longing, albeit the two of you have just met. He is yours to the end of his life and beyond.”

“You will accept his courtship; and you will marry him in due time, unless you find your one in somebody else,” Herger declared forcefully. “Or you will stay home, at safe distance from any foolish adventure; ‘tis your choice.”

“Oh aye, I can. I am your father and I am your village Elder. I have double authority. Your mother transferred her authority to me on her deathbed, in front of seven witnesses, to make sure you are suitably protected.”

“And you do not show more maturity now, when you are five times that age,” her father returned coldly. “You had some training with weapons but you are no warrior. I shan’t allow you to walk into a death trap without proper protection.” He looked at Hakkon. “If she goes, you will protect her.”

It wasn’t truly a question but Hakkon nodded nevertheless. “With my life, if needs must be.”

“I fear that will be the case,” Herger sighed; then he turned back to his daughter. “Well, daughter? What say you?”

Hallveig gave their visitor a reluctant glare but she had to admit that while she was loath to accept a mate not of her own choosing, she could have done worse. Hakkon was quite handsome, even in StoneFoot terms, with his elaborately braided honey-gold hair and beard and seemed immensely strong, even for a Dwarf. Miners and stone-masons usually were, and he had been trained as both.

Beyond that, he was apparently willing to accompany her on the greatest adventure of the Age, so that spoke for him, too.

“Well, I guess he is better than some of the others you have tried to foist upon me during the last hundred years or so,” she said tartly. “But I make no promises. I may find my One yet.”

Somewhat reassured now that he had at least her father’s blessing, Hakkon grinned at her. “I can wait, lady mine. We who work with stone have the patience of stone as well.”

“You will need it,” she replied and stood. “Now, unlike some males who can afford to while the day away with ale and pipeweed, I have work to do.”

She left them without as much as a backward glance. Herger shook his head with fond exasperation.

“I fear her mother and I have spoiled her terribly,” he admitted ruefully. “She was our only girl-child; and a late-born one at that, when we had given up all hope for any children after two sickly babes that had not seen more than one year, either.”

Hakkon nodded in understanding. Dwarflings had always been few and precious, especially girls; and life thus far in the North was perilous. He did not find Hallveig spoiled, though, just headstrong. But then all Dwarf-dams were. He said so and Herger laughed.

“True enough. Hrera, her mother, was the most stubborn creature that ever walked the earth… something we both should be grateful for. Because it was her who insisted on trying for another child after we had lost two babes. Without her persistence I would not have a daughter now – and you would not have a wife.”

“If she will ever be willing to bond with me,” said Hakkon, not all that certain about that.

Herger laughed again. “Oh, she would have kicked up a lot more stink if she had any true objections against your person, trust me on that,” he refilled their tankards. “Well, son of Hróáldr, tell me about yourself. As Mahal apparently wants us to become family, I wish to know whom I am taking in. I seem to remember a valiant Dwarf named Hróáldr who led a small group of StoneFoot warriors to the Battle of Azanulbizar. They rode huge battle-rams and had sturdy bows, if memory serves me well.”

Hakkon nodded. “Aye, that was my father; one of the only eight Dwarves from our small village who made it back… though a leg shorter. He recovered eventually and served as the village head for decades afterward, as he could not return to the mines due to his injury.”

“No; he fell in a skirmish with marauding Orcs many years ago. He could still wield the axe well enough. My mother took over the leading of our village from him; not that there would be more than a dozen or so families left. Most of us moved to Erebor.”

“That is a shame, though I can understand the reasons,” said Herger. “Now tell me more about you.”

Standing in front of Dáin’s chair in the Lesser Hall under the Mountain, Balin quietly congratulated himself to the foresight of having asked the King for a private audience. Well… as private as an audience with one’s cousin could be while at least two dozen Dwarves, all of them high-born or having key positions at court (or both) were present. At least most of these witnesses were in favour of his plea; a support that he sorely needed.

For saying that Dáin was whole-heartedly against the idea of anyone setting foot in Khazad-dûm ever again would have been the understatement of the Age. He was positively fuming and did not hesitate to call Balin seven kinds of fool in his face.

“Clearly, advanced age has addled your brain, Cousin,” he said, shaking his massive head. “Why else would you even consider walking into a death trap with your eyes wide open? You cannot fathom the horrors that await you in the darkness of Khazad-dûm.”

“Oh, I believe we can; no thanks to you, though,” returned Balin. “You have never been forthcoming with answers whenever asked what it was you saw behind the front gate.”

“Nay, I have not; for some secrets better remain unveiled,” said Dáin, his ever-sharp eyes clouding with remembered terror. “You cannot fight Durin’s Bane; no-one of us can. Axes are no use against…”

“Against a fire-demon of the Elder Days,” finished Balin when the King trailed off. “Aye, we know, Cousin. We spoke to the only Dwarf that has ever been able to face the demon, even if only for a short time. He was young back then, when Khazad-dûm fell, young and terrified. He is old and strong now… and willing to come with us.”

“He is named Eikinskialdi; and he is the last of the Fire-mages,” replied Balin simply. “And he is wearing the Drakkon, the Dragon-ring of Khazad-dûm, forged by Khelebrimbur himself as a gift for his friend Narvi.”

Unlike most Dwarves, everyone even remotely related to Durin’s line knew who – what – Fire-mages were. The tale of them escaping from the drowning of Tumunzahar and finding refuge in Khazad-dûm was part of the family legendarium.

And nearly every Dwarf knew of the Drakkon, of course, the famous Dragon-ring, given to Master Narvi by the fiery Elf-smith as a sign of their legendary and highly unusual friendship. Of the lengths an Elf born in the High West was willing to go to keep his mortal friend with him just a little longer. The Drakkon might have been one of the Lesser Rings, but it still provided its bearer with a long life and considerable power.

Still, even these unexpected tidings were not enough to persuade Dáin about the feasibility of Balin’s quest.

“That may be good for the mage, but the rest of you would still be cooked alive in your armour when the demon unleashes its dark fire,” he said.

“Not if we have armour made of a dragon’s hide,” Lady Yngvildr interfered.

“I intend to take part in it,” replied the Raven Lady calmly. “My mate and I wish to ask for the boon we are owed, my liege.”

The latter was said in the time-honoured manner of a vassal asking their liege for a boon. Both Forge Guards lowered themselves to one knee, fists pressed against their chests – the gesture of deepest respect required when making such a request.

Very few things could still shock Dáin Ironfoot after all that he had seen and done in his long life. Yet now he was staring at Frár and Yngvildr in mute horror.

“Have you both lost your minds?” he finally asked. “You will be slaughtered, all of you. No-one can face that… thing and live to tell the tale.”

Dáin snorted. “Aye, because I ran like a frightened animal, with my tail between my legs, too scared to even look back,” he said. “And what is this business about a dragon’s hide? Do you want to fish Smaug’s carcass out of the Long Lake? That would do you no good.”

“Nay, it would not,” allowed Balin. “But in the Steel Hall of the Far North the remains of Glórund, last of the cold-drakes of Gabil-dûm still lie. Its scales have merged with bronze, became harder than steel and are capable of withstanding even dragonfire. That is what we shall have our armour made from.”

“You’d need a spellsmith for that; one much older and more knowledgeable than your son,” Queen Burkdís gave Burin an apologetic look. “No offence, youngling.”

“None taken, my lady,” replied Burin respectfully. “I know I shan’t be smith enough for such a gargantuan work alone. But Miödvitnir, the Rune-smith, offered me his help; and that of the old FireBeard smiths of Thafar’abbad.”

Glóin, one of the few nobles present who were not part of the planned campaign – and a skilled weaponsmith himself – shook his head. He might be in charge of the Royal Treasure in these days but he had not forgotten his troubled youth and the dangers of the Road they had faced before settling in Uruktharbun.

“And how are you planning to drag the carcass of a long-gone dragon down all the way from Gabil-dûm?” he asked. “Those roads are constantly endangered by the Gundabad Orcs, even in these days.”

“We do not,” said Balin. “Lady Yngvildr suggested establishing a small garrison of warriors and scouts in Gabil-dûm itself; to keep an eye on Orc movements, should there be any, and to protect the smiths working in the Steel Hall. We shall gradually move those who are willing to join us to Gabil-dûm, fit them out with weapons and armour, stock up on reserves and launch our campaign directly from there.”

“And how do you intend to get those supplies?” demanded Glóin. “There is nothing up there; not even game!”

“There are fish enough in the rivers; and if needs must be we can revive the terraced gardens of Gabil-dûm,” his brother answered. “As for the rest…”

“We shall take care of the rest,” Niping, invited to this audience by Óin, interrupted. “We can divide our caravan and use the old, massive wagons to provide the garrison with all necessities. Some of our people – those who are used to living on the Road – declared themselves willing to go as far as the Vale of Azanulbizar, even if not any further. And we have the storage room here to stock up on supplies and bring them to Lord Balin’s company on their way to the South.”

Niping shook his head. “On the contrary. This will need a great deal of careful planning yet and preparations may take several years; even if only a few dozen Dwarves join Lord Balin’s quest.”

“Years that the smiths will need to forge the armour for everyone,” added Balin. “Fortunately for us, Ori Orinul has taken upon himself the task of coordinating all our efforts; and Lofar has taught him well.”

“That he has. And I have not had a good challenge since the re-taking of the Mountain, so I am grateful for the chance.”

“I am surprised that the Lady Ai would let you go,” said the Queen; “seeing as none of your brothers would want to.”

Ori shrugged. “She is the BlackLock matriarch, aye; but I am also a Durin on my father’s side. She does not have the authority to hold me back from fulfilling a family obligation.”

Dáin shook his head in sorrow. “Tell me, Cousin, what is the true reason for this madness? Upon Thorin’s death you could have taken up kingship; I might have been closer to him in blood but you have always been closer in spirit. Yet you did not want the throne then, even though it would have been a kindness towards me. What made you change your mind?”

“My family has an ages-long obligation towards Durin’s House,” answered Balin simply. “And Durin’s throne has always stood in Khazad-dûm; not under the Mountain.”

The impact of that simple truth silenced everyone in the Lesser Hall. Even Dáin needed an endless moment to recover.

“You will go to certain death for the honour of your line,” he then said, his sorrow evident.

Balin inclined his silver head. “That may be so. But of all possible times this is the one we may have the slightest chance to succeed. I cannot let it slip through my fingers.”

Dáin sighed heavily, for Balin was right and he knew it. With the Gundabad Legion all but wiped out and the Orcs of the Misty Mountains greatly decimated, they might have a chance, in the purely military sense of it. And if the Fire-mage could face Durin’s Bane – which Dáin seriously doubted – a great evil would be purged from Middle-earth, to everyone’s relief.

Besides, he couldn’t stop Balin if Balin wanted to go; and he did owe Frár and Yngvildr their boon for centuries of faithful service, much as he was loath to see them go.

“I still believe ‘tis utter madness,” he finally said. “But if this is where your heart calls you, I do nit wish to stand in the way of your destiny. You may go; and all those who want to join you. Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi astû,(4)” he added the traditional blessing in Khuzdul.

After having escorted Eikinskialdi back to his caves, Miödvitnir, the Rune-smith, headed to the North again, intent to visit the ancient FireBeard settlements in Thafar’abbad. His last stop was the small, nameless settlement under the farthest north-eastern outskirts of the Grey Mountains where he had met Óin for the first times.

At least the place was nameless now; if it had a name to begin with, that had long faded even from Dwarven memory. The very few Dwarves who knew about its existence at all simply called it ‘Mother Thekhla’s village’, after the venerable matriarch of at least three hundred years who led the small and rather poor clan inhabiting it.

The mostly older Dwarves that refused to leave their birthplace for the plentiful life in Uruktharbun, Erebor or the Iron Hills, welcomed Miödvitnir gladly, for he was a regular – though infrequent – visitor who provided them with tidings about the rest of the world. Tidings that they would not get otherwise, as even the ravens came rarely this far.

He was directed to the caves of Old Hreidarr – the healer of the village – at once. Hreidarr was fairly old indeed, seconded only be Mother Thekhla herself: he had turned two hundred and seventy shortly before Durin’s Day. He was also an old friend of the Rune-smith and had willingly shared his knowledge about healing stones – an art known only among FireBeard healers – with Óin when the latter had been visiting the small FireBeard dwellings in the remote Grey Mountains in the previous years.

Hreidarr did not live alone in his spacious and comfortable caves. Though he never married and thus had no family of his own, he took in gladly his great-nephew Svávarr, the grandson of his brother (another victim of Azanulbizar where Hreidarr, too, had fought), Svávarr’s wife Eydís and her brother Eivindr. For a while anyway, as Svávarr and Eydís moved to Erebor shortly after the Mountain had been re-claimed.

Only Eivindr stayed with Hreidarr, even though they were not related by blood. But Eivindr had no other family, either, and the two became as close as father and son – or rather grandfather and grandson – during the long years spent under the same roof.

Eivindr was the reason for Miödvitnir’s visit, despite his centuries-long acquaintance with the old healer. The young FireBeard was a bronzesmith of considerable skill and always eager to learn more of his craft. And though his fire was not strong enough to become a true spellsmith, he was not far from it, either. Miödvitnir, always willing to nurture any true gift he might encounter on his journeys, taught him everything that could be learned without the use of earth magic during his infrequent visits, and Eivindr proved to be an outstanding student. He even managed to work simple spells and runes into his forging; not quite an arcane smith, not without the rare and special gift of Durin’s line, but the closest thing to it there was.

He was wasted in Mother Thekhla’s village, and Miödvitnir was here to change that. Eivindr might not be interested in the re-taking of Khazad-dûm, but he could be a great help for Burin Balinul in working with the dragon’s hide… if Miödvitnir could persuade him to do so.

Both solitary Dwarves were working in their respective workshops when Miödvitnir arrived: Eivindr in his smithy and Hreidarr in the small side cave he used for cutting his healing stones. Often a particular cut could increase the potential of a stone and thus he had trained as a crystal-cutter, too, in order to be able to use them at the greatest efficiency; even though he was a healer first and foremost.

He looked up from his work in delight when Miödvitnir entered his workshop, removing the bronze-encased magnifying glass from his eye socket; while his hands were still rock steady, his eyesight was slowly weakening due to advanced age. His magnificent beard was all silver now, and he wore his silver hair pulled into a tight knot on the nape of his neck.

“Miödvitnir, my friend,” he greeted his guest jovially and rose from his work-bench to deliver the customary head-butt. “What brings you back to us so soon? Not that you weren’t welcome any time,” he added hurriedly, “but it usually takes you much longer to return.”

“’Tis a long story,” replied the Rune-smith; “one best told over a good meal and a stiff drink.”

“Both of which we can and will gladly provide,” said Hreidarr agreeably. “My work can wait. Let us go to the dining hall and talk, shall we?”

The dining hall was the largest of his caves, in a central position, as all family members would meet there. Hreidarr served a simple meal of cold meats and dark bread, with some eggs and mushrooms; they could not win much more out of these harsh mountains. When he brought forth the webanshalk – a brandy liquor made of hawthorn berries and petals that every family brewed differently – Eivindr joined them, too.

The bronzesmith was young in Dwarven terms yet, just passed his first century, and very obviously of pure FireBeard descent. His hair, a pale reddish gold, was pulled back from his face in a simple working braid, while his beard – a flaming copper red, much darker than his hair – was elaborately plaited and decorated with beads of his own making. He had hazel eyes and thick, dark eyebrows – all in all, an interesting palette of colours on the same face.

He, too, greeted the Rune-smith respectfully, and then both he and Hreidarr listened to the news with great interest.

“I am on errantry,” Miödvitnir began. “Lord Balin of Durin’s line has decided to make another attempt to re-claim Khazad-dûm and cleanse it from the Orc scum that has infested it for too long. I have offered to join his quest; and to find smiths skilled enough to forge armour for his flowers from a dragon’s hide,” he looked at Eivindr. “Not any smith could do that. But I have taught you enough to work with the last spellsmith of Durin’s blood.”

“That is a fool’s errand,” he said. “We have already tried it… and failed. I was there; I saw the carnage and the countless dead, my only brother one of them. So much death; and it brought us nothing, just endless sorrow.”

“True enough,” allowed the Rune-smith. “Yet I do not want to talk you into the quest itself. We need good smiths to work on weapons and armour; FireBeard smiths who still harbour some of the lost skills of Tumunzahar. I have visited every settlement between here and Eikinskialdi’s caves, and a few old smiths already agreed to help us.”

“I do not wish to move to Erebor,” said Eivindr dismissively. “This village has been founded back in the First Age, by refugees after the drowning of Tumunzahar. This is my home, not Erebor; not even Uruktharbun.”

“I am not asking you to move to either of those places,” replied Miödvitnir. “The great work will be done among the ruins of Gabil-dûm, in the Steel Hall itself.”

“Which is every bit the death trap Khazad-dûm would be,” pointed out Hreidarr. “Gabil-dûm is dangerously close to Gundabad. You cannot hope your presence to go unnoticed.”

“Perhaps not,” agreed Miödvitnir. “But if everything goes according to Lord Balin’s plan, a small garrison of warrior Dwarves will be established in Gabil-dûm: to protect the smiths and to keep an eye on the Gundabad Orcs.”

“That is long overdue,” said Hreidarr,” Erebor cannot afford another unprotected attack.”

“Exactly,” said Miödvitnir. “That way we shall kill two birds with the same stone: King Dáin will have reliable reports about the movements in Gundabad and we will have our protection and can work on the dragon’s hide undisturbed,” he looked at Eywindr shrewdly. “If you are up to the challenge, that is.”

“I am, and you know that,” replied Eywindr in a flat voice. “And I’d love to take part of that great work… and to see the wonders of Gabil-dûm with my own eyes. But I cannot leave Old Hreidarr alone; not after the rest of the family has left. I have an obligation.”

“If that is the only thing holding you back, then you need not to stay,” said the old healer. “I, too, would love to see Gabil-dûm while my eyes can still serve me. If we are indeed protested there, I shall go with you.”

The Rune-smith stared at him in surprise. “Are you certain? A moment ago you called it a fool’s errand.”

“And it would be without proper protection,” returned Hreidarr. “But if it is reasonably safe, then I am all for it. I have come into my silver years; I shan’t be around much longer anyway. Seeing something wondrous before I would join my long fathers in the Halls of Waiting is a gift I cannot, will not refuse. And besides,” he added with a mischievous wink,”all those eager young people might need a healer who patches them up from time to time.”

It happened several days later, back in Erebor, that Svávarr, the great-nephew of Old Hreidarr (also a bronzesmith of considerable skill) returned home much later than usual. His wife, Eydís, the best whitesmith under the Mountain (meaning that she worked with both, silver and gold, and was also the only one who still know how to make stargold) glared at him in annoyance. Not so much out of jealousy (Svávarr had been hopelessly fallen for her since the day they first met some sixty or so years previously); just because she liked to spend her day in a well-ordered manner.

“Where have you been?” She demanded. “We were supposed to eat hours ago!”

Like most childless couples who worked long hours in their craft, they usually ate in the Guild Hall of the smiths, but at such a late time all they could hope for would have been leftovers… not something fairly young Dwarves with a healthy appetite would appreciate.

“Birashagami,(5)” he said in Khuzdul; he knew the fiery temper of his beautiful wife all too well. “I was summoned by Lord Balin. He is looking for bronzesmiths from our Clan to work with his son and wanted to know if I would be interested.”

“I hope you said yes,” replied Eydís. “Working with Burin Balinul is a great honour; and a great chance.”

“’Tis not so simple,” Svávarr sighed. “The project would take years to finish; and I’d have to go to Thafar’abbad with the others, to work in the Steel Hall of Gabil-dûm itself.”

“Oh!” Eydís, having lived in Mother Thekhla’s village in her youth, did not want to leave the safety and comfort of Erebor behind to return to the lonely and dangerous Grey Mountains. “Why would they want to go there?”

“Apparently, they have rediscovered the remains of a long-dead cold-drake,” answered Svávarr.” There is only its hide left, but Lord Balin wants armour made of the dragon’s scales. It is supposed to be harder than anything our ironsmiths might forge on their own.”

“And he wants bronzesmiths to do it?” She clearly did not understand the reason for that.

“It seems that the dragon’s scales got fused with bronze, the same way Smaug’s were fused with gold,” explained her husband. “We shan’t be able to work on it without spellsmiths helping us, but that is what Burin Balinul will be there for. And Miödvitnir.”

“He will be there?” Eydís knew the enigmatic Rune-smith from her youth, of course, but had not seen him since they moved to Erebor. Svávarr nodded.

“Everyone with the fire-touch will be needed. Your brother followed the summons, too. And Old Hreidarr chose to go with him. For them, it will be a fairly short journey.”

“Short… and perchance deadly,” muttered Eydís. “There is a reason why Gabil-dûm has been abandoned for centuries.”

“Not much longer, though,” said Svávarr. “There will be an outpost with a small garrison again, soon. And some of the StoneFoot masons will be returning to the mansion of their forefather, at least for a while. As long as the work on the dragon’s hide will take.”

“I see,” Eydís pondered over these tidings for a while; then she looked at her husband in understanding. “You want to go.”

It wasn’t a question, but Svávarr nodded nonetheless. “As you said: ‘tis the choice of a lifetime.”

“Nay, husband. “I shall not be denied. As Mahal chose not to bless our bond with children, you are all that I have. I shall not be parted from you. At least this way I can see my brother and Old Hreidarr again. It has been too long.”

(1) Dwarven idiomatic expression meaning that someone might bite off more than he can chew.

(3) As Durin will awake (That is very true; expression of wholehearted agreement.

The Book of Mazarbul by Soledad