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. 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".

This chapter takes place approximately two months after Ori's wedding.

Chapter 13 – A Congregation of Wizards

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.

"Oh, bother," he muttered angrily, eyeing his winter lodgings with dismay.

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.

"Mother Aase," he said in astonishment. "What are you doing here?"

"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."

"You are still Mahal's Children; all of you," said the wizard softly.

"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!"

The little old one laughed at that; it sounded like the tinkling of icicles.

"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?"

Mother Aase laughed again, her blue eyes twinkling with amusement.

"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."

"That was not quite reassuring, my good Radagast," Gandalf chided him.

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."

"You mayhap cannot; I certainly can," retorted Mother Aase primly.

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.

"There," she said, satisfied. "The earth-bread shall be done within the hour."

"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."

"Aye, I would," she assured him simply.

"You told me about the wolves having grown bolder," reminded her Radagast, and she nodded.

"Aye, but that may have come from the mildness of winter."

"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."

"What about the goblins of the Misty Mountains?" asked Radagast.

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."

"What?" cried Radagast in dismay. "Not another dragon surely?"

"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."

"What kind of murmur?" asked Radagast tonelessly. "What 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."

"Have you told them that?" she asked.

"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."

"And did he find any?" Radagast frowned.

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.

"What makes him think they would have a chance?" he added.

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."

"Are you not going to ask them, Tharkûn?" asked Mother Aase.

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.

Every. Single. Time.

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.

Fire was supposed to mean life. However, this time it meant death.

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.

"What is this?" then-young Eikinskialdi asked with morbid fascination.

"The death of us all, unless we can stop it," his mentor answered grimly.

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."

"Aye, and he told you that you were mad," pointed out Miödvitnir.

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."

"They could never do it," said the Rune-smith, and Eikinskialdi nodded.

"Of course not. That is why they need me."

"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."

"It might be you who gets finished in such an encounter," said Miödvitnir.

"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."

"And if you cannot?"

"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."

Miödvitnir looked at him in surprise. "Who did you tell that?"

"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."

"And the same will most likely happen to you," muttered Miödvitnir.

"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.

Eikinskialdi carefully rolled out the parchment to read the message.

"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."

"Are you going?" asked Miödvitnir.

Eikinskialdi nodded.

"'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.

"I would welcome your company," he said simply.

The time of reckoning was about to come. He would have one last fight… and then he would rest until the Remaking of Arda.

He found that he was looking forward to both.

~TBC~

1 Khuzdul for 'Greetings and well met!'

2 Khuzdul for 'I am sorry." (Literally: I regret.)