The Book of Mazarbul

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

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.

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Chapter 08 – Heroes

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.”

That earned him an amused snort from the powerful matriarch.

“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.”

“Why?” insisted Óin. “What did he see there?”

“Durin’s Bane,” whispered Yngvildr. “That was all he ever told us.”

“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.”

“A shame,” commented Hrín softly.

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.”

“You mean to re-take Khazad-dûm?” asked Frár slowly.

Óin nodded. “They both declared themselves willing to join such a campaign, should it be summoned for within their lifetime.”

Once again, the entire household of Frár and Yngvildr was muted by shock.

“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.”

“What for?” asked Hrár with a frown. “To find our deaths?”

“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.”

“What kind of proof would my lady require?” asked Óin.

“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.”

Gudhrun thought about that for a moment.

“I can ask Nais if you want me,” she then said,

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.

Who in Mahal’s name were these children?

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.

First, however, he needed to speak with Lóni.

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.

“This wakes memories and no mistake,” murmured Óin.

“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.

Óin did not answer him at once; he seemed lost in thought again.

“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.

Óin shrugged; he could not truly blame the old Dwarf for his doubts.

“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.”

“And how do you intend to bring that proof?” asked Lóni.

“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.”

~TBC~

 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.