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~