The Book of Mazarbul

by Soledad

I've just realized that this chapter (and the following one) were never posted here. I'm now correcting the oversight. The next part will be added soon - assuming that there are still people who remember this tale, after all those years.

Author’s notes: This chapter takes place approximately a month after Ori and Flói’s wedding and continues seamlessly the previous one. The description of Gabil-dûm was strongly inspired by the Taran-books of Lloyd Alexander, with the necessary changes.

The concept of Dwarven spellsmiths as well as their characteristics has been borrowed from Valandhir's excellent series The Raven's Blade - again, with the necessary changes

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter 14 – The Dragon’s Hide

In the last week of winter a small but impressive group of Dwarves left Erebor and headed towards Taforabbad, the Grey Mountains. More precisely to the abandoned halls of King Dáin I which, in return, had once been the great city of Gabil-dûm: the realm founded by Sindri, the StoneFoot Father, back in the First Age when he was forced to leave the place of his Awakening and lead his people to the North and the West.

More than any other Clan, the StoneFoots of old were miners and stone-masons of exceptional skill, and the cities they carved from living rock had been the wonder of the Elder Days. Some said that StoneFoot masons had helped Felakkundu Dwarf-friend to build his wondrous city in the caves of Nulukkhizdîn and that they had been the ones who helped Elu Thingol to create his Glittering Caves. And it was known beyond doubt that when Thranduil had moved the Woodland Realm to the North of Mirkwood, Dwarven masons from Thafar’abbad helped to build his underground fortress.

The road between Erebor and the ruins of Govedar – as the ancient halls of Gabil-dûm were known among Men – was a long and dangerous one. Not only had Balin and his fellow Dwarves to cross Mirkwood at some point – unless they wanted to ride along its northern border, on the edge of the Withered Heath – their destination also brought them dangerously close to Mount Gundabad.

Closer than anyone had come for a very long time.

Now that relations with the Wood-Elves (and their volatile King) had settled again, Balin chose the shortest way – that along the Forest River, which emerged from the Grey Mountains right under the front gate of Govedar. That was no accident, either; Dwarven cities were generally built where fresh, clean water was easily available.

To be honest, Balin did not understand why the Fire-mage would agree to a meeting place many miles from his home; but perhaps he did not want his solitude disturbed by strangers, wearing lots of iron. Unless, of course, there was something in Dáin I’s halls that he wanted to show them.

Few Dwarves had dared to revisit the now empty halls of Gabil-dûm, ever since Thrór had led Durin’s Folk back to the Lonely Mountain. From the ones present Óin was the only one who had ventured at least as far as to the outskirts of the once great city. Therefore they were all relieved when – on the last day of their journey – Miödvitnir met them on the edge of the forest.

At first sight the short, stocky Rune-smith did not make much of an impression, but Balin and Ori, as accomplished scholars, soon recognized the meaning of his powerful tattoos and looked on the tattered old Dwarf with newfound respect. Óin greeted him with delight, of course, glad to have somebody who would verify his story for the others.

“Well met again, Miödvitnir,” he said, beaming. “I did not count on seeing you as well.”

“I came on behalf of Eikinskialdi,” replied the Rune-smith in his deep, rumbling voice. “Nothing can beat him in his own halls, but outside them he is vulnerable. So I came to protect him. Who are your companions?”

Óin made the necessary introductions and Miödvitnir bowed to them respectfully; to the Lady Yngvildr even more so than to the others.

“The name and great deeds of the Raven Lady are known even among us, lonely travellers,” he said. “It is an honour, my lady. And you, Lord Balin,” he turned to the Dwarf in question,” are more than welcome. ‘Tis good to have you – all of you – visiting the old halls again. Follow me; Eikinskialdi is waiting, and I shall lead you by short and quick paths to that which was once Gabil-dûm.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Even on the short and quick paths known to Miödvitnir alone, it took them the rest of the day to reach the Front Gate of Gabil-dûm, right where the Forest River – a small, fast and merry stream here – came out of the mountainside and bubbled down a narrow stone channel that went all the way down to the foot of the mountains. The Gate itself had a distinct likeness to that of Erebor, only older, much older, and the huge sculptures of Dwarven warriors framing it, carved into the withered stone of the mountainside, wore the horned helmet and heavy beards of the StoneFoot royal guards of old. They were large enough for a grown Dwarf to rest in their palms.

The lintel of the Gate was decorated with symbolic heads of the great mountain rams the StoneFoot warriors used to ride and that had become the heraldic symbol of their Clan. Some of the finer details were smoothed over due to the extreme age of the carvings, but they were still recognizable and once must have been truly beautiful.

Hakkon, the StoneFoot miner, who had been invited along to represent his Clan, stared at the stunning handiwork of his ancestors in awe. His family hailed from Thafar’abbad and followed Thrór to Erebor when the kingdom had been moved back there; this was the first time he saw the ancient home of his people.

“Perhaps one day our people will return here, too,” he murmured, “now that the dragons are gone.”

Óin shook his head. “The dragons perhaps; but not the Orcs,” he said.

“There will be Orcs in Khazad-dûm too,” pointed out Hakkon reasonably.

“I know,” said Óin. “But Khazad-dûm, though ruled by Durin LongBeard and his progeny, has never been the home to just one Clan. It has always belonged to all of Mahal’s Children. Should we manage to wrestle it back from the cursed Rakhâs, we might grow strong enough again to eventually reclaim our other cities as well.”

If Hakkon had any answer to that, he did not get the chance to give it, as Miödvitnir urged them to follow him inside.

“Eikinskialdi is waiting in the King’s Forge,” he said, and they went through the Front Gate, under the broken portcullis that might or might not be still functional

The once magnificent halls of King Dáin I under Thafar’abbad were little more now than ruined caverns. They had lain empty ever since the dragons had forced Durin’s folk to flee them. And yet the enormous caverns themselves were beautiful in a way that only a Dwarf could appreciate them.

They stretched out endlessly before the eyes of the Erebor Dwarves like a forest after an ice storm. Columns of massive stone rose like the withered trunks of ancient trees and arched to a high ceiling where stone icicles clung. Along the darkened walls, huge outcroppings sprang like hawthorn blossoms and glittered in the golden light of the fireball floating above Miödvitnir’s upturned palm. It was a breath-taking sight.

And there were colours, everywhere: bright and vivid threads of colour,twisted through luminous shafts of grey rock. Gossamer-fine tendrils of crystal meandered along jagged walls, gleaming with rivulets of water. And chambers after chambers lay beyond the rows of tree-shaped columns, and on each side the Dwarves could see wide pools, flat and glistening as mirrors. Some gave a dull, greenish glow, others a pale blue.

“These were the royal gardens,” explained Miödvitnir.

“’Tis a place of great beauty,” said Lady Yngvildr, impressed.

“The work of the ancient StoneFoot masons,” replied Óin. “According to the King’s Records, Thorin I found the halls of Gabil-dûm already there, ripe for the taking, when he moved the kingdom to the North.

“I wonder why no-one thought of claiming this place before Thorin I,” said Balin. “Unless, of course, it was because of the dragons.”

“Mostly but not entirely,” answered Miödvitnir. “Eikinskialdi will show you. Come, we will go this way.”

He turned to the left and led them into a shaft that dripped gradually downward. Its walls of living rock rose higher than Ori’s upraised hands – and the BlackLock scholar was a large one as Dwarves go. They had to thread their way carefully between sharp outcroppings and over broken stones, and more than once had they needed all their strength to keep the frightened ponies under control.

“I find it strange that the corridors leading to the King’s Forge had not been shaped more thoroughly,” commented Balin in surprise

“This was not the main road of the city,” Miödvitnir explained, “just one of the many side-tunnels the StoneFoot miners used when carrying cartloads of ore, stone and gems above ground. The passageway will grow much wider, soon.”

Indeed, it happened as he had foretold, and the arched ceiling soared thrice a grown Man’s height. Narrow platforms of wood, one above the other, seamed the walls on both sides, though many had fallen into disrepair and the beams had tumbled in a heap over the earthen floor. Lengths of half-rotted timbers shored up the archway leading from one gallery to the next, but half of them had partly or completely crumbled, forcing them to pick their way even more cautiously over and around the piles of rubble.

The air was stifling after the restless wind above ground, and hung heavy with ancient dust and decay. Echoes flitted like bats through the long-abandoned chambers as the Dwarves moved in an unwavering file, following the pale golden light of Miödvitnir’s fireball. The twisting shadows seemed to muffle the sound of their heavy footsteps; only the piercing whining of the one or other frightened pony broke the silence.

Soon the magic light glinted on gems half-buried in the ground or protruding from walls. The jewels seemed to grow more plentiful as the long column of Dwarves made their way farther into the tunnel: bright red rubies and brilliant green emeralds, diamonds clear as water and strange gems that, in their glittering depths, were flecked with gold and silver.

“These mines are still amazingly rich,” said Hakkon in surprise.

Óin nodded. “StoneFoot miners from the small settlements scattered throughout the Grey Mountains ventured here from time to time, if their colony was in need. But ‘tis a dangerous undertaking. There is always the possibility of running into Gundabad Orcs. They can protect their small caves easily, but these halls are too large and they would have little to no cover in here. Nor have they ever dared to enter the King’s Forge, for reasons unknown to me.”

“You shall see the reason soon enough,” said Miödvitnir.

He stopped in front of what looked like an insignificant stretch of unhewn rock wall and muttered something. Moments later a large boulder turned noiselessly inward, opening a doorway into the room behind.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The King’s Forge turned out to be a cavernous hall, with the actual forge – a blackened fireplace with an enormous anvil – standing at the far end of it. Once it had been known as the Steel Hall and was the largest one under the Grey Mountains. The larger part of it had once served as a display place for King Náin’s craft but was now all but filled with what seemed to be a large heap of dull bronze and silver scales, as if somebody had stored a great many of old-fashioned hauberks there.

It was only at second sight that they made out under the apparent wirr-warr of scales a long, sinuous body – more than twenty foot long and half as high – and a head the size of a wagon. It ended in another ten feet of spiky tail, curled around part of the body. Now that they had realized what it was, they could make out further details of the dragon’s body, dead for hundreds of years: the massive, clawed feet, the huge jaws with ragged teeth as long as a Dwarf was tall, and smaller, pale silvery grey scales where his belly had once been.

Any soft parts of the beast had long dried out and fallen to dust; what was still left of it was but the empty armour.

“What is this?” whispered Balin; not that he would not recognize a dragon if he saw one, even a long-dead one, but he was shocked by the sight nonetheless.

Small wonder, as he was one of the few who had seen Smaug in his prime and lived to tell the tale.

“This was Glórund, last of the cold-drakes of Taforabbad,” answered a deep, somewhat hollow voice, and Eikinskialdi appeared above them on a stone balcony looking down at the King’s Forge. “Look at him, o Dwarves, for what you see is the only armour that can withstand the Dark Fire – if you are smiths enough to work with it, that is.”

Balin, a skilled smith himself, shook his head. “Bronze cannot withstand fire, black or otherwise.”

“Ah but this is no ordinary bronze,” replied the Fire-mage. “This is bronze melted with a dragon’s scales; and even though Glórund was not one of the fire-worms, the heat of his own body was enough to melt bronze and bond it to his bony scales. This is the most resistant thing ever made under the Sun; the only one that might protect us from the fire-demon that dwells under Khazad-dûm.”

Balin inched closer to the dragon’s empty skin and tentatively rapped on the scales with his knuckles. They proved hard and smooth as glass, yet as flexible as the best steel. Light, too, he realized, picking up one of the loosened scales from the ground. It was twice the size of his broad palm but seemed to weigh almost nothing.

“It would make wondrous armour and give us great advantage,” he allowed, “if only we had a forge hot enough for the task.”

Up on his balcony Eikinskialdi shrugged his heavy shoulders. “You have spellsmiths among you. Use them.”

All eyes turned to Miödvitnir, but the Rune-smith shook his head. “I may be able to bond spells to steel, but I am not strong enough for such work.”

“I was not talking about you,” Eikinskialdi’s piercing black eyes measured every single Dwarf present and finally rested on Burin son of Balin. “Well, young one? Are you willing and able to put your heritage to good use?”

His words were met with shocked silence. That Burin had manifested the flame, as Dwarves put it – meaning the rare gift of a spellsmith to work powers into the steel, to hear the whispers of the fire and the deep voices of steel and stone – and at such a relatively young age, too, was known to but a chosen few.

‘Twas a gift much greater (and infinitely more dangerous) than the simple fire-touch inherited by certain FireBeards – like Óin’s line – and even the latter had become rare in these lesser days. Spellsmiths, once not uncommon among Durin’s descendants, were practically extinct by now and even the weakest ones fiercely and jealously protected.

The fact that the Fire-mage could recognize Burin’s Gift by sight alone proved his great power and knowledge on the one hand. On the other hand it made him potentially even more dangerous. The Gift had only ever been given by Mahal to Durin’s blood; the last known recipient had been no lesser Dwarf than Thorin Oakenshield himself.

Seeing his visitors’ shock Eikinskialdi gave them a grim smile.

“Why are you so astonished? Did you think I would not feel the fire cruising in the young one’s veins; I who am made of fire myself? He leaned over the balcony, supporting himself on the crumbling railing with both hands. “The question is: does he have the strength to use his Gift? Is he able to pull all of himself into such work, to pour his very soul in the hot metal and in truth he would survive the crucible? It takes a generous, giving soul to do so; and a fearless heart not to fear the flame and the hammer. Having the Gift is just one half of the business; one also needs to have the makings to use it.”

“He is too young,” protested Balin, his old heart breaking in fear for his much-loved late-born son. “There are dangers down that road; grave dangers. One has to put a lot of oneself in such works, part of one’s soul, of one’s heart… and one can easily get destroyed during the process. Burin hasn’t done much spell-smithing so far; the odd dagger or throwing axe, nothing more. He cannot throw himself into such enormous work on his own; and no-one of us can help him. No-one else has the Gift.”

“I can teach him,” said Miödvitnir. “His strength and my knowledge together ought to do the trick.”

Óin, however, shook his head.

“Trying to drag the armour of such a large dragon back to Erebor would be a hopeless undertaking,” he said. “And, above all else, it would make the secrecy needed for our campaign a moot point.”

“Not to mention that the work would take years to finish, even if we only had to fit a few dozen Dwarves with hauberks,” added Ori.

“Are you in a great hurry?” asked Eikinskialdi tartly. “Khazad-dûm shan’t go anywhere; and neither would Durin’s Bane. You could not want for a better forge than the one in which King Náin once worked; the last spellsmith of royal lineage among Durin’s children.”

Clearly, he didn’t know of Thorin’s Gift; but that was the least concern of the other Dwarves right now. Balin stared at the ancient one in exasperation.

“With respect, loneliness and high age must have addled your brain, o Fire-mage,” he said sharply. “Did you not hear what Óin son of Gróin said? We cannot protect a cave as huge as this one against the Gundabad Orcs; which is the reason why the StoneFoot Dwarves cannot return here, either.”

“Actually, we can, with a bit of strategic thinking,” said Yngvildr before Eikinskialdi could have come up with an answer; if he had one at all. “If we make this the first part of our campaign, we could establish a small garrison of experienced warriors here. They can keep an eye on the Orc movements – something both King Dáin and Vestri of the Iron Hills would appreciate – and protect the Forge at the same time.”

“And I am certain that in that case I could persuade at least some of my people to return to the city of our ancestors,” Hakkon added.

Balin’s attention, however, was solely focused on the lady Yngvildr.

“Does this mean that you are considering joining our campaign, my lady?” he asked. “May I ask what  persuaded you?”

Yngvildr prodded the dead dragon’s armour with the iron toe of her boot.

“This has persuaded me,” she replied. “My forefather Azaghâl managed to wound Glaurung, the Father of Drakes, wearing one of the legendary dragon helms of our people. I imagine that wearing a dragon’s own armour could protect us even against a fire-demon. So aye, I shall follow you to Khazad-dûm, Lord Balin of Durin’s House,” she looked at Frár. “What about you, husband?”

The huge, intimidating IronFist warrior nodded. “As I swore at our hand-binding ritual: wherever you go, I shall follow, my lady. And as I am a Forge Guard, I shall lead the warriors protecting the King’s Forge myself.”

“Dáin shan’t like it,” warned Balin. “You have been his right hand all your life; and his. He would loath to lose you.”

“He has my son to fill my space,” replied Frár calmly. “’Tis time for the younger generation to grow into their duties; and ‘Tis best done in peacetime when they can afford to learn from their mistakes.”

“How are they supposed to learn when their taskmaster is leaving?” asked Hakkon; not because he wanted him to change his mind just for the argument’s sake.

Frár shrugged his heavy shoulders. “They’ll have Dwalin to train them,” he said. “He might be a scholar nowadays, but he used to be Thorin Oakenshield’s war-master for longer than you’ve been alive. He’ll manage.”

“He always does,” agreed Balin with a somewhat sorrowful smile. As much as he understood his brother’s reasons, it saddened him that Dwalin wouldn’t even consider joining him. “Getting Dáin’s leave shan’t be easy, though; and I don’t mean for myself. I am not sworn to him, and due to my lineage need not his permission to do as I please. You two, though, do you believe he would release you from your oaths?”

“Not willingly; and I am sure he would loathe to do so,” allowed Frár. “But each and every Forge Guard is entitled to ask a bon from his or her King; a great favour but once in their lives that their liege lord cannot refuse. Neither my lady nor I have called in this boon yet.”

“And you’ll do so now?” Balin asked in awe. “Why would you do that?”

“I am an old warrior, as much as I am still in my prime,” answered Frár simply. “This might well be my last battle; I want it to be a glorious one.”

“As for me, I have unfinished business with the Orcs infesting Khazad-dûm,” added the lady Yngvildr. “I want to pay them back as long as I still have the strength.”

And an impressive strength she still possessed, Balin of all people knew that. And where she and Frár led, many warriors would follow.

Balin turned to his son now. “What do you say, my son? Are you willing to take the risk and work in King Náin’s Forge for whatever long it might take?”

Burin hesitated for a moment.

“I cannot do this without Dorin,” he then said. “I know Uncle Dwalin would never allow him to join us, but I’ll need him while I work on the dragon’s hide. The Gift would swallow me without him.”

Balin nodded. He knew his son was soul-bound to his cousin; the two complemented each other in a way he’d seen only once before: with Fíli and Kíli. If Burin said he needed Dorin to perform the enormous task of turning a dragon’s hide into Dwarven armour, then he would get Dorin’s help, even if Balin had to sit on Dwalin during the whole time.

“You know I would have to take a solemn oath that he shan’t be accepted in our rows, though,” he warned.

Burin nodded unhappily. “Aye, I know that. It would kill me to go without him but ‘tis perhaps better so. At least the younger branch of our family ought to prevail.”

“All right then,” said Balin with a sigh. “I shall see it done. If the lady Yngvildr and her mate bring us the warriors to protect the Forge and Hakkon manages to recruit some of the StoneFoot miners to support us, we can begin with the work as early as late spring .”

“We shall need supplies,” Óin warned him. “I can speak with Niping; his caravan will be heading to the Iron Hills next; they might be willing to make a little detour and provide us with the necessary foodstuffs and whatever else we need.”

“And hopefully on their way back, too,” added Hakkon, grinning. “Starving Dwarves cannot protect their homes.”

“It could cost us a fortune, though,” commented Ori unhappily, “and this would only be the first leg of the campaign. Imagine the costs of the whole undertaking, Balin; how are we supposed to finance it?”

“Glóin and I paid for the supplies for the Quest of Erebor largely from our own pockets,” pointed out Óin; “and that was before we received our shares from the Dragon’s treasure. So did you and your brothers, if memory serves me well.”

“We only had to supply thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit during the Quest,” pointed out Ori. “Even taking the appetite of an average Hobbit under consideration, that was a small group. I sincerely hope that we’ll have a larger one when we attempt to re-take Khazad-dûm; or else the whole campaign would be pointless.”

“If needs must be, I shall give up my share of the Dragon’s hoard to see our debt to Durin’s Line paid and the Dwarrowdelf cleansed from evil,” said Balin grimly.

“You may have to do so yet; and you may not be the only one,” replied Óin. “This campaign will require careful planning and a great deal of patience,” he glanced at Ori. “Your old skills as head scribe may well be needed.”

“And I would offer my service to Lord Balin gladly,” said Ori formally. “But as for financing the campaign… these caves are full of gemstones and precious ores, some of which have already been mined. Could we not use them to pay for supplies?”

“You seem to forget that all this belongs to the StoneFoot Clans,” Óin reminded him.

“So what?” retorted Ori. “They cannot re-open these mines because of the threat of the Gundabad Orcs. Offer them the chance to do so under the protection of our warriors in exchange for a certain percentage if gems and ore and both sides win.”

All eyes turned to Hakkon who nodded thoughtfully.

“It could work,” he judged. “I’ll have to discuss it with the clan heads, but I’m certain they would be happy to use this chance; even if it’s only temporary.”

“We could use the old storage caves to pile up supplies while Burin is working on the dragon’s hide,” suggested Frár. “That way we can start our campaign right here when the time is right, without the need of dragging all the new hauberks and weapons back to Erebor. That would serve the required secrecy much better; and when the time comes, we can simply follow the Greyflood – and then the Great River – right to the East-gate of Khazad-dûm.”

Dori, who had only come to represent his wife, the matriarch of the family, shook his massive head in exasperation.

“You are insane,” he declared. “That route would bring you dangerously close to the Necromancer’s Tower; and even though he was driven out by Tharkûn, one cannot know what kind of evil things may dwell there still.”

Frár shrugged. “We can always cross the river at the Carrock and continue southwards on the other bank.”

“I believe ‘tis too early to dispute about possible travel routes,” said a deep, hollow voice from above; they were startled a bit, as they had forgotten about Eikinskialdi on his balcony for a moment. “One step at a time; let us establish this place as a stepping stone first.”

“Us?” echoed Óin. “Do you intend to leave your home and join us here o Fire-mage? I fear there would be too much iron for your comfort, were we to move in here in considerable numbers.”

“You are right, of course; and I do not intend to move in with you permanently,” replied the ancient one. “That could be dangerous, for both sides. However, I shall visit from time to time. I’ll need to have my own hauberk fitted, after all; and the young one,” he glanced at Burin, “might need my knowledge.”

“And mine,” added Miödvitnir.

For his part Óin found it hard to imagine the two ancient Dwarves working with Balin’s adventurous, hot-headed and utterly spoiled son, but stranger things had happened under the Sun – or rather under the earth where Dwarves were considered – in the last three Ages of the world. He only hoped they’d manage without killing (or permanently harming each other. One look at Balin’s face revealed that the future Lord of Moria was having similar concerns.

“I shall return here, too,” he offered. “Perchance I might find the lost records of King Náin somewhere. ‘Tis said that he managed to collect much of the forgotten knowledge about smith-craft only the great smiths of Tumunzahar possessed; Burin could find that useful.”

Being related to said FireBeard masters through his mother’s bloodline he had a personal interest in finding those records, too. But that was another matter entirely.

“What he’d need is the help of other arcane smiths,” said Balin grimly. “Unfortunately, that’s the very thing he shan’t be able to find.”

“Not another true spellsmith, mayhap,” agreed Miödvitnir. “But there are old masters left on some of the scattered FireBeard settlements who still know one or another of the trade secrets. I shall speak to them and summon them to Govedar.”

“And you believe they would answer your summons?” asked Óin doubtfully. “I stayed with them for a while; they did not seem very adventurous to me. Nor do they like strangers, not even from our own kind.”

“’Tis not the adventure that will call to them, ‘tis the chance to work with a dragon’s armour they won't be able to resist,” said Miödvitnir. “What true smith could resist that? Worry not, young one,” he added, looking at Burin. “I shall get you the help you will need.”

Burin shook his head. “All I need is Dorin,” he replied.

“We can discuss the details on our way home,” intervened Ori. “What we need to do now is to agree in a schedule and a method of communication.”

“We have trained ravens in Erebor,” pointed out Óin.

“Aye, but would they be willing to cross the Withered Heath and enter Eikinskialdi’s caves?” asked Dori.

Miödvitnir shrugged. “They only need to find me. ‘Tis true that I visit Eikinskialdi from time to time, but mostly I wander from settlement to settlement in the Grey Mountains and am easily found… for a raven, that is.”

Óin nodded. “Good, then at least that is settled. I shall see that the two of you get word about our moves.”

“And I shall remain here and visit with our Clan all over Thaforabbad, from here to Danakh-khizdîn to see if I can win some of them for our cause,” offered Hakkon.

“Our cause?” echoed Ori, grinning. “Does this mean you’re planning to join us, too?”

Hakkon grinned back at him. “Let us say that I am at least willing to support the first part of the campaign; for what StoneFoot in his or her right mind would miss the chance to dwell in the ancient halls of Govedar again? As for the rest… we shall see.”

“We thank you for any help you are willing to offer,” said Balin formally; then he turned to Yngvildr. “Are you satisfied with the outcome of this meeting, my lady?”

The Raven Lady nodded. “Indeed I am. We can return to Erebor as far as I am concerned – and work on our strategy to get Dáin’s consent.”

“I thought he owed you a boon,” Ori frowned. “And Balin here can do as he pleases.”

“That is true,” said Frár seriously. “But he is still our King and we cannot lead any number of our people away to Khazad-dûm without his leave. Especially not ones who originate from the Iron Hills; he is our Clan chief as well.”

“And he won’t be easily persuaded,” warned Yngvildr. “As much as he is of Durin’s Line, he has inherited many of his mother’s IronFist sensibilities… who do not feel the same obligation to free Khazad-dûm as the LongBeards, the FireBeards and the BroadBeams. Khazad-dûm was never their home the way it was ours.”

“They still came to fight with us at Azanulbizar,” pointed out Balin. “You did so yourself, Frár.”

“Aye, I did, but that was a war for vengeance,” Frár reminded him. “A war from which we still have not fully recovered.”

“Which is why I shan’t appear in front of Khazad-dûm’s main gate with an army and challenge the filthy Orcs openly,” said Balin. “Stealth and secrecy worked well for us when we attempted to re-take Erebor. We shall follow the same path; though, hopefully, with more people, this time,” he turned to Eikinskialdi. “Our thanks for this meeting o Fire-mage. We shall return to the Mountain now and begin with the preparations. But we shall stay in touch.”

~TBC~