Chapter Eighteen

Moria – Part One –

   A three day's march was ahead of them, and Daevan thought about Strider's revelations about his life. In sight of the mountain slope they settled for another night to rest, and the young man asked hesitantly:

   “Are you… an Elf?”

   Strider stopped chewing and looked up.

   “I am not. Why?”

   Daevan summoned his courage to go on, and again felt sheepish. His hands played with the leather thong of the water-skin.

   “Of all that you told me… I mean, that woman you plighted a troth with is an Elf, you said. And… it appears to me that your foster-father might be too. You said that your brother was much older, and, hum, you said you are quite old.”

   Strider swallowed the bite of dried meat and gave a slight nod.

   “You are right to say so. But I am no Elf. Yet I was raised among them.”

   “At Rivendell.”

   “Aye.”

   “Nilana said you talked in your sleep. And I heard it, too, but did not understand it. So that might have been… Elvish talk?”

   “Sindarin.”

   “I thought all people spoke Common Speech.”

   Strider held back his smile.

   “Nay, Daevan, many folks have their own languages though Common Speech is known to all of them. There is Rohirric, there is Dwarvish, there is the rolling tongue of the Haradrim and that of the Easterlings. And the Black Speech… of Mordor.” Strider lowered his gaze. “But of that we hopefully will not hear a word.”

   Daevan swallowed, but cast aside the shiver he felt creeping up his spine.

   “Do you know all these languages?”

   “Aye, some better than others. Rohirric is well known to me. And since the Elves once had dealings with the Dwarves, I know of some phrases. I have not used it for a long time though.”

   Daevan was impressed, but tried to hide it. He let go of the thong.

   “Will there be Dwarves in the mountains?”

   “The last tidings I know of said that the Dwarves reclaimed their colony,” Strider said with a glance at the sky, overcast with grey clouds carrying unshed rain. “But there will be Orcs too.”

   Daevan swallowed and tried to keep his voice even.

   “Will at least the Dwarves be… friendly?”

   Strider's lips curled to a grin.

   “The Dwarves are quick with their anger, and quick with their axes. But if you gain their trust, they are loyal friends.” He unfolded his cloak to use as cover for the night. “We can only hope to encounter them in a moment of peace.”

~~~~

   For ten days they plodded through the vast mountain slopes, seeking footholds with care, cautious to avoid rubble. After he had slipped down a few yards and abraded his shins and palms Daevan had cursed, but been more alert than before. And ever and anon they had to cross ancient ravines, gaping before them maliciously. Strider's gaze restlessly swept the sky as if he feared to meet with danger from above. They ascended craggy hills only to descend them on the other side, and their way was dreadful and meant to make them despair. No living soul crossed their path, and the search for food grew more difficult. Yet Daevan was willing to continue as long as Strider found his way without hesitation.

   They looked inside every cave and tunnel, but found no further sign of Gollum. Daevan saw Strider's face turn grim every time they moved on, trying to find their way. They had left the slopes and sought their way through small paths and under overhanging ledges, ever watchful and aware of foes hiding behind rock plates. At some places, the passage was so narrow they had to unload their packs and shove themselves to the other side. And more often than not they found the path coming to an abrupt halt beyond which were chasms they could not cross. Nevertheless, they made progress northward, and though Daevan thought the road would never end, Strider announced that they were getting closer to the Dimrill Dale.

   As the days passed, they grew more careful. One night they heard Orcs nearing their path on patrol and quickly hid in a narrow cave. From that night on Strider forbade Daevan to kindle a fire, and their nights grew chill and uncomfortable. They shortened their rations, but still their provisions were not adequate for weeks in the bare lands of the mountains.

   For their camp that night, they chose to take shelter from the rain under a wide ledge, but the wind blew spray into their hiding place, and they shivered with the sudden cold. Spring had not yet come to the Misty Mountains. The peaks still carried snowcaps, and in the morning, the trails were slippery with frozen wetness. Daevan sought his way with care, and while Strider halted on a steep ridge to scrutinize the surrounding peaks and dales, the young man asked:

   “What will you do once you have captured that beast?”

   Strider glanced over his shoulder, watching Daevan come up to him. His breath created small clouds of vapour in the morning chill.

   “I will deliver him.”

   “And then?”

   “Take up my duties as a Ranger again.”

   “A Ranger?” Daevan straightened beside him and looked across the small valley before them. “You are a Ranger? I heard of them, but… I considered them to be, well, legend.”

   “Well, they are not. There are few left of us now, but they still prove their value in the northern lands and west of the Misty Mountains.”

   “What are they?”

   “Guardians of peace.” Strider turned to move on, frowning. “The entrance to the mountains is ahead of us. So your decision is made?”

   “Must I repeat myself?”

   “This is my task to fulfil, and only I must walk that way, even if it is perilous. The journey could come to a bad end very soon,” Strider said, glancing over his shoulder while he walked up the slope.

   “So be it,” said Daevan with a shrug.

   Strider flinched at the light tone.

   “I do not wish you to come to such an end. You are -”

   “Too young?” Daevan's voice got an edge to it as he continued, “Let me tell you then I am mature. And you insult me by thinking otherwise.”

   Again Strider was taken aback by the fierceness of the young fisherman. At the same time he was content to see the change. This was not a boy's decision to go on an adventure.

   “Still you should…”

   Daevan passed him by, his jaw set.

   “You don't need to watch over me.” With long strides he climbed the slope. On its far end the Dimrill Dale shone in the rising sun.

   “The gods may bless that decision,” Strider said quietly and not for Daevan to hear.

-o-o-o-o-

   The wanderers approached more carefully, now that the Dimrill Stairs came into sight. They sought cover behind a boulder when footsteps approached across the hewn steps with their white and grey stone. Two Orcs in tattered clothes with pieces of armour about them and spears in their stout hands went by on crooked legs. Sniffing the chill evening air, they turned their broad heads here and there, baring snouts rather than faces under notched helmets, which shone dimly beneath the dirt. Dull yellow eyes swept the pathway. They grumbled in their tongue, but when they saw and heard nothing they trod on.

   Daevan let go of his breath. The sight of the foes on the very path to the Dimrill Gate frightened him. How many of them would they meet ere they reached the gate Strider had told him about? And would there be many of them? Would Moria be overrun by Orcs, or did the Dwarves still rule? He swallowed his fear. Strider moved on, soundlessly, vigilant, and bent to be a smaller target. They approached the stairs in the backs of the enemies. Slowly they drew near until they could smell their foul stench and hear their fell voices. Strider gestured the young man to wait, and Daevan reluctantly complied. The day waned quickly; already had the sun plunged behind the mountain peak, and the light grew dim. From a few yards across their way, the young man heard the quick lashing of a sword, a growl, and a muffled shriek of utter fear. Then silence fell again. Daevan turned around, observing any change. But the wind had calmed, and no birds circled the air. No one moved beyond the rocks. When Strider returned he wiped clean the blade of his sword to sheathe it again.

   “We better hurry. There will be more of them at night.”

   They crossed toward the stairs, and by the last glimpse of light lowered into another hiding-place. There were more Orcs coming their way. Daevan counted four and held his breath. They could not fight them all at the same time. There would be one at last to return.

   Hideous mouths with sharp teeth parted, and one of them growled,

   “I smell blood! Go, hurry, that way! They're out here somewhere!”

   And they scattered to climb nimbly over boulders and through clefts to vanish out of sight. Strider rose, and they marched into the opposite direction.

   “Will they not find them and know we are here?”

   “That cannot be helped,” Strider replied under his breath. “We must face that threat in any case now.”

   They evaded three more creatures by crouching in the shadows of large rocks and made it safely to the last boulder. In the cover of a thorny thicket, they lay to watch the gate beyond the vast plateau of rock plates in white and grey. The entrance had once been beautifully carved, back in times that now belonged to myth. The columns were cracked or broken, some statuettes smeared with scrawls, and all over them weeds had grown, covering the letters welcoming the guests to the halls of the mighty Dwarves under the mountain.

   “Hurry, the doors are ajar,” Strider whispered and was up and on the path a moment later. Daevan followed swift.

   They entered the darkness of Moria.

~~~~

   Strider crouched down at the left side of the wall, evading unfriendly eyes. The stairway in the mountain before them was vast, even to the Great Warrior it was breathtaking. Though the old stories were known to him, he had never imagined Moria to be of such unrivalled beauty. The cavern was lofty, sixty paces high, and the stairs winding through seemed to be endless, going in sharp turns down and up, leading to tunnels, which lurked black and ominous. He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the twilight fed by torches along the main wall. He rested his back against the stone, listening to the sounds around him.

   Daevan crouched beside the wanderer, gaping at the constructions the Dwarves had accomplished so long ago. Fully lit he would have seen the patterns along the walls and ceiling, telling the story of the Dwarves in detail. They had toiled long yet in happiness to create the Dwarrowdelf, the home of the free folk. Since the early days the Dwarves had loved everything that was made of rock, and ore, and precious stones, and they had dedicated all their skill to forging dead things into beautiful shapes. Daevan tried to imagine laughter and feasts in the vast halls and on the stairways, but could not. It was a dim and foul light about all that he saw, and from the shadows creatures crawled on crooked legs, hissing as they met with others of their race.

   “Where are the Dwarves?” Deavan whispered. He followed Strider down the first flight of stairs. They were walking too much in the open for his taste, but it could not be helped; the only way to pass into the mines was the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. “Should they not be on guard here?”

   “I cannot tell. There are more ways under the mountains than you and I can imagine. We-“ He stopped, pressed Daevan down into the shadow of the stairway and listened. Iron-shod feet marched by. Two voices could be distinguished. They talked quietly with each other, and their Common Speech was mixed with words of another language.

   “Should be here by now,” the first one growled in a deep voice.

   “I did not trust him at all,” said the second one with a lisp.

   “Patrol's not back yet. We'll see.”

   They turned at the next corner and their voices faded away.

   Strider came out of hiding, and slowly, carefully both men climbed the remaining steps. Daevan felt his heart in his mouth. A torch diffused its flickering light across the wall, and like ghosts shadows danced. He swallowed his fear. The wanderer hurried to the nearest corner, and his face, half in light and shadow, turned grim.

   “More than Orcs,” he said under his breath. “The servants of Mordor are multiplying.” He halted, listened, and then moved on.

   Daevan stayed close behind him, but one thought did not leave him: how could they find a creature smaller than a man in the mines of Moria with so many foes around?