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.

The caravan is basically the same Bifur and her cousins travelled with in “If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit”, though some of its members have been replaced. Uruktharbun in the Blue Mountain has been established in the same story. So have most of the OCs featuring here. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter 15 – The Wanderers

The imposing merchant caravan of BroadBeam Dwarves reached the Lonely Mountain in the early days of Spring. They had set off from Uruktharbun in the Blue Mountains, where once Thorin’s impressive Halls lay upon twice seven levels – now a shared FireBeard and BroadBeam settlement, mainly – travelled across the land of the Halflings, then through the sparely populated lands between it and the Misty Mountains, crossed the High Pass and the Old Ford and continued their journey northwards on the western border of Mirkwood, finally following the Elf-path to the Long Lake and beyond that to King Dáin’s realm.

The arrival of a merchant caravan – any merchant caravan – was always the source of great excitement in Erebor. Not only did they bring new and exciting wares for the marketplace, having visited strange lands and strange folk, they also brought news and messages from kinfolk – something that Dwarves, a race that held ties of kinship in high esteem, valued greatly. As many as Thorin Oakenshield’s former subjects had followed him to Erebor, once the Mountain had been won again, a great number of them had chosen to remain in Uruktharbun, and messages and gifts were going back and forth between the two realms all the time.

This particular caravan, however, was greeted with even more delight than the others. For this was the one founded by Bifur’s parents after the Fall of Erebor. The one Bifur, Bofur, Bombur and their family had travelled with for most of their lives. And even though they had chosen to become settled after the Quest, they never failed to come forth and welcome their travelling companions of old.

The caravan that now reached the Front Gate looked a great deal more presentable than the one they used to travel with – small wonder, as Bifur had spent much of her share of the Dragon’s hoard to help rebuild it. The old, heavy wagons were still there, of course, being the ones in which the Wanderers actually lived and which they used to build their line of defence for the night while resting on the Road, but they had been restored and strengthened, so that they could serve their purpose much better.

And then there were the new carts, serving mainly as ready-made market stalls to display the wares in the most tempting manner. They were not pulled by the usual sturdy, shaggy hill ponies but by large goats, rams and pigs, to draw even more attention.

Gellir son of Bombur’s toy-maker’s cart, manned during this most recent journey by his nephew Bivör, Bávor’s oldest, opened up like a mechanical Jack-in-the-box, to display his merchandise. Closed up again, it could look quite different, making it useful as a travelling vehicle for one. It was a clever design, the last joint effort by Bifur and Bofur ere they retired from the life of Wanderers, and it was pulled by a great mountain ram of particularly foul disposition that only ever obeyed Bivör’s instructions.

The cart of Frér, the rug-trader, had a roof to protect the astonishingly beautiful array of rugs and camel-hair blankets he had collected from all over Middle-earth: from Mithlond to Rhûn and from Dale to Harad and even Khand. Oil lamps, cut of crystal and safely closed on all sides so that no spark could escape, hung from all four corners of the cart roof, casting light on the beautiful rugs inside in a complimentary manner.

The cart of the cloth-merchant – Frér’s father Fráeg – was pulled by a huge goat. It also had a roof and brocaded curtains hung from it on both sides to protect the bales upon bales of fine cloth piled inside.

The cart of the wood-worker Egill – one of the original caravan members – and his mate Bláin, whom he had met somewhere in Lindon on a previous journey, was laden with chairs and tables. Together with the toy-maker, the rug-merchant and a walking troupe of other traders, they were the essential other items that completed the package when they rolled into a town outside of market days and set up, so they complimented each other.

The cart of the wine merchant Thrasi was pulled by a giant pig. It was loaded with barrels of Dorwinion red, pale yellow wine from Gondor, the finest spirits from the Shire and other much sought after beverages twice the height of the cart itself.

The others – the leather-workers, the cutler, the bronze- and ironsmiths – still used the old-fashioned wagons drawn by ponies. Those might not be as fancy as the new carts, but they were stable and reliable and served as comfortable homes on the Road.  Those with warrior training rode along the carts and wagons on their ponies, while the craftsmen themselves preferred to walk.

Sitting around idly was not something a Dwarf – even a wealthy Dwarf – liked to do.

Bifur, Bofur and Bombur came down from their modest home to the marketplace to greet their friends and comrades of old, and so did Niping, too, who had taken over the caravan after the Quest, even though it were his sons, Nídi and Nidud who did the actual travelling  these days, taking turns at every journey. After all, Niping was an old Dwarf; one of the few born in Erebor of old who had miraculously survived the coming of the Dragon.

He came from a family that had once been wealthy and influential. In Erebor’s heyday they used to have their own caravans and traded in precious fabrics, gemstones, Dorwinion wine and other luxury items. After the Fall, Niping, then a beardless lad still waiting for his first growing pains, had been taken in by the family of his future wife, Dagrún, and travelled with them for many years. Eventually, they joined the caravan of Bifur’s parents for the safety of numbers and became friends for life.

When Erebor had been freed, Niping moved back among the first. He became the Master of the Merchant’s Guild and reclaimed the old home of his family on the Third Height, in the quarter of the rich Guild Masters.

They had also found much of their lost treasure among the Dragon’s hoard – the Dwarven custom of etching the owner’s mark on just about everything they owned had proved helpful in the process – and as Niping now walked down to the marketplace to greet his firstborn, Nídi, who had been with the caravan for this particular journey, everyone could see at once that he was a Dwarf of wealth and importance.

The recent years had undoubtedly been good to him. He was as broad as he was tall (which, admittedly, was not much, even for a BroadBeam), now that he was leading a more sedate life, in fine clothes that matched his appearance. He wore his thick ginger hair – still untouched by frost – in multiple decorative braids, now adorned with beads and clasp of pure gold and gemstones and tied to a knot on top of his head. He was wearing a knee-length tunic of dark burgundy red brocade, seamed with the fur of the grey squirrel, and a heavy, sleeveless royal blue overcoat, upon which his elaborately braided beard spread like a ruddy cloud. His wrist-guards, now worn for show rather than out of necessity, were decorated with bronze decorations and so were his heavy boots and his broad belt.

His firstborn and heir, Nídi, who was returning with the caravan, got both his looks and his colouring from his mother. A few inches taller than Niping, he had Mistress Dagrún’s straw blond hair, which he wore unbraided, save for the obligatory family braids, and a very high, almost bulbous forehead and grey eyes… traits that spoke of some StoneFoot blood somewhere up the bloodline. He had his forked beard and long moustaches artfully braided, though, and adorned with silver clasps and small gemstones. Returning from a long journey, he wore sensible travelling clothes; after all, he had been born to the Road and knew how to survive on it.

With him came his wife, Tirsa, a stunning BroadBeam beauty of light brown hair, a heart-shaped face, cat-like hazel eyes and a voluptuous figure. She was also a master weaver who made the finest woollen cloth that they traded to many people all over Rhovanion.

Tirsa had taken to accompanying Nídi on his journeys since their children were old enough to stay behind with the rest of the clan, as her family had always lived in the Ered Luin and she had seen very little from the wider world before. She was quite an adventurous soul for all that she came from a wealthy and conservative merchant family that had never had anything to do with Erebor or the Kings of Durin’s line.

While Bifur, Bofur and Bombur’s family were happily reunited with the original members of the caravan, above all else with Frán, their wise-woman (a grim-faced old crone and veteran of Azanulbizar), Niping now turned to Fráeg the cloth-merchant, to whom he was distantly related by marriage. In recent years Fráeg had been the one who always travelled with the caravan, while Niping’s sons took turns of staying at home and learning from their father how to deal with the local side of the business.

Like Niping, Fráeg was a fairly old Dwarf whose family had lived in Uruktharbun through the better part of the Third Age and had little to do with the kingdom of Erebor. They still lived there, at least in theory – now that the Road was reasonably safe again, they had taken to travelling with adventurous delight.

Aside from being old and wealthy, Fráeg was also one of those Dwarven merchants who strongly believed in displaying one’s best wares on one’s own person. Therefore he was decked out so splendidly in fur-lined wool and finely made leather and brocaded silk that it would have made a king pale in envy. His impressive mass of iron-grey beard and his thick hair were carefully combed and oiled, even on the Road, and adorned with golden beads and clasps, and he wore heavy, bejewelled rings upon his thick fingers.

Compared with him, his wife Jórunn – a distant cousin of Niping and the caravan’s accountant – looked almost plain. She was a voluptuous Dwarf-dam with strawberry blonde hair worn in a coronet of multiple braids woven together and adorned with small gemstones. Some of the braids were pulled free from the coronet and hung over her shoulder, touching her heavy robe of fine scarlet wool, seamed with gold ribbon embroidery, under which she wore a long-sleeved ochre velvet undergown.

She had a marked resemblance to Niping and her face spoke of a great sense of dry humour. She was also said to be good-natured and patient, which she probably needed to put up with Fráeg’s infamous eccentricity. Their children also travelled with them; their son was the rug-trader and their daughter a skilled seamstress.

“Well, Niping, my friend,” said Fráeg, releasing a beast that looked like a white camel, which was bound to their wagon, and entrusting it to one of the stable lads that had come running to be of service. “’Tis good to see you again. It has been a long time.”

“Too long,” agreed Niping, giving the camel – if it was indeed one – a curious glance.

He had seen camels before, of course, on his journeys across Near-Harad, but never one without a hump. Also, this was much smaller and more graceful than the average camel, with extraordinary thick and fine fur.

“Where did you get this beast from?” he asked. “I never saw one like it.”

“And you shan’t, unless you travel to the easternmost ranges of the Blue Mountains,” replied Fráeg. “Some odd StiffBeard clans have found them and domesticated them around the beginning of our Age, when other beasts of burden were confiscated and lost in the great war. There are different kinds of them by now; some are raised for their wool, others as pack animals, others again to be slaughtered and eaten, though I found their meat not very palatable.”

“What are they called?” Niping reached out to pat the nose of the beast… and almost got some fingers bitten off for his effort.

“Careful,” warned Fráeg. “They have a nasty temper. The StoneFoots call them lamas; although where the word comes from no-one could tell.”

“I say this must be one of those raised for their wool,” said Niping. “But why would you bring a single beast?”

“’Tis a test,” explained Fráeg. “I wanted to see if she would survive in the higher regions of the Mountain, together with the mountain sheep. If she does, we can bring more and breed them properly; for their wool is very fine indeed. Finer than the camel hair of the Haradrim, in fact.”

“And warmer, too,” commented Frís, daughter of Fráeg, who was the living image of her mother Jórunn. “One shirt of lama wool – well, and another one for change – would bring a miner through the hardest winter. Or a travelling merchant,” she added with a knowing smile.

Niping whistled in appreciation. His parents had dealt with Haradric merchants for camel hair shirts that were made from the finest camel wool, light and wondrously warm. If these… lamas produced wool that was even finer and warmer, then they could be as ill-tempered as they wanted, for all that he cared. Securing the rights to trade in it in Rhovanion would be pure gold… or even better.

Not to mention that such clothes would serve exceedingly well if Lord Balin’s quest finally started – assuming that the noble old Dwarf could get King Dáin’s leave in the first place. Niping had been shocked upon learning about what he thought was an insane plan but was more than willing to supply the campaign with all necessities – for the right price.

Of course he needed to discuss the whole issue with Fráeg in detail first.

“Well, go and have a hot bath, a good meal and some rest,” he said. “Afterwards we’ll have something to talk about. Something that would be more than a little risky but could make us very, very rich in exchange.

That certainly piqued Fráeg’s interest, but he knew Niping wouldn’t go in any detail before he had seen to his most immediate needs.

“All right,” he said. “But I expect a keg of really good ale with this mysterious story.”

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

It was quite a gathering in Niping’s home when the former and current senior members of the caravan came together to discuss the unusual request that had only been made a couple of weeks previously. Niping had not told any of them about it so far, although he did have a suspicion that some of them already knew.

There was Dagrún, the mistress of the house, naturally; now richly clad as it behoved the wife of a Guild Master and the matriarch of a well-respected family. There were their sons, Nydi and Nidud, with Nídi’s wife Tirsa and Nidud’s mate, Fródi.

There was Fráeg with his wife Jórunn, their son Frér and their daughter Frís – all of them family, one way or another, all of them wealthy and accordingly clad. Now that the roads were reasonably safe again and trade flourished once more, the BroadBeam traders had steadily grown in wealth and respect.

Frán, wearing her usual simple and practical garb, stood out of the rich merchants like a sore thumb. Neither she now her mate Halli or their son Hunbogi gave a Goblin’s arse about fancy clothes; and yet she was highly respected by all for being a fearsome warrior – and a wise old crone indeed.

With them came Bávor son of Bombur with his wife Ragna and their oldest son Bivör. Bifur and Bofur came, too; they might no longer be involved in the daily business of the caravan but they were family to Frán and Bávor and had a great deal of experience when it came to the roads. Also, they already knew what Niping wanted to discuss with the rest and their insight was most welcome.

Custom demanded that they discuss the caravan’s recent journey first, though, as trade was their livelihood. Fortunately, Fráeg and Jórunn had good news about that; and thus after a lengthy business report Niping could finally bring up the other, even more important reason for their gathering.

“I was approached by Óin son of Gróin a few days ago,” he began, “about a business that, should it indeed come together, might bring us great profit. But it could also prove risky… even fatal, should our good luck run out.”

“It would most certainly prove fatal,” said Bifur grimly. “It is madness, pure and simple. I cannot fathom how even my own family could consider taking part in it,” she added, with a disapproving glare in Bávor’s direction.

“You know what this is about?” asked Fráeg in surprise.

Which was unflattering, really. After all, Bifur had not only led the caravan successfully for decades, she was also a member of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company, and for that alone she would deserve respect. But Fráeg, who had only dared the Road after the Dragon was gone, having lived in the relative safety of the Blue Mountains all his life, would never truly understand why somebody with a handsome share from the Dragon’s treasure would retire from business and lead the life of a simple craftsperson, just to care for an elderly cousin.

Bifur knew that, of course, but she couldn’t care less.

“Aye, I have known of this for some time; and so have we all,” she said sharply. “Óin told us about it when he tried to persuade us to join him. Again, she shot Bávor a dark glare. “Some were even foolish enough to agree.”

Good-natured as ever (just like his father), Bávor took no offence.

“We have been through this several times already, Aunt Sigrún,” he said, smiling.

“Well, would you have the courtesy to tell the rest of us what it’s about, then?” prompted Fráeg, getting more than a little impatient.

Niping looked at Bávor. “Would you mind to explain? It seems you know more than I do.”

Bávor nodded. “Gladly. This will be a quest even greater than the re-taking of Erebor… assuming that we succeed.”

“You will not,” commented Bifur darkly.

Bávor ignored her and went on. “Now that we’ve grown in strength and numbers again, Lord Balin chose to listen to the murmurs among us and lead us back to our very roots: to the great city of Khazad-dûm; to cleanse it from the evil things that have befallen it and to fulfil our curses upon the filthy Orcs.”

For several endless moments there was shocked silence in the room. Those who only now heard about the plan it was hard to even imagine somebody wanting to do this. Finally Fráeg recovered enough to speak.

“I fear I must agree with Sigrún,” he said. “By all due respect to Lord Balin, this plan is insane. And I fail to see how could it in any way be profitable for us.”

“This will be a much longer campaign than Thorin Oakenshield’s quest,” explained Bávor. “Óin hopes that at least several dozen Dwarves will join. And such a large group will need supplies; food, above everything else, but other things, too. And we’ll need wagons in which to transport those supplies… not to mention people who are used to life on the Road.”

Fráeg looked at Niping with a frown. “Are you seriously considering offering our caravan for this… this madness?”

“Not the entire caravan,” replied Niping calmly. “I doubt that Lord Balin would have need of toys or rugs or any of the fancy carts you use to draw attention. But some of the old, heavy wagons could be useful; if anyone but Bávor is willing to go, that is.”

“I spoke to our people,” said Bávor. “Jörundr and Mötsognir declared their readiness to come with us.”

“I shall come, too,” announced Frán; at the surprised looks of the others she smiled grimly. “I’m old, but I can still wield a battle-axe better than many a young stripling. I already fought at Azanulbizar as a young warrior; going back would allow me to come to full circle.”

“And Father and I shall go with you,” added his son Hunbogi. “We’re both miners and stone-masons; we’ll be needed in a place like Khazad-dûm.”

Fráeg shook his head in exasperation. “You are insane; all of you. And I still don’t see where is any possible profit in this.”

“Lord Balin is willing to use his share from the Dragon’s hoard to supply the campaign,” said Bávor. “And so are Ori and Óin.”

The silence following his words was different from the one before: not one of shock but one of careful consideration. They were Dwarves, after all. Merchant Dwarves, with a keen eye for opportunity.

“Well then,” said Fráeg with a speculative gleam in his eye; everyone knew that the share of Thorin’s Company from the Dragon’s treasure had been a considerable one. “It seems that the profit might be worth the risk, after all.”

“Unless Old Ironfoot puts a ban on the whole undertaking; in which case we might lose our right to do business in Erebor for having any part of it,” warned his wife Jórunn.

Old Frán made a derisive snort. “You’ve been leading a way too comfortable life all your life,” she said. “Be careful or the Dragon-sickness might get you, even after all those years.”

Jórunn’s lovely face darkened and she was about to give a sharp answer but Niping stopped her with a raised hand.

“Not everyone is born to live on the Road, Lady Frán,” he said. “Nor is this the time to discuss – or condemn – each other’s chosen way of life. We are here to decide if we should take upon us the sole responsibility of supplying Lord Balin’s campaign, seeing that only a handful of us wish to take active part in the quest itself. Should we take the risk of such a dangerous journey? Do we have the means to do so?”

“If we want to do this, we need to plan everything to the smallest detail,” said his son Nídi. “This won’t be one of our usual trading rounds. This will be more like supplying an army; though mayhap only a small one.”

“We need to know their numbers and the route they intend to take,” added his brother Nidud. “Much will depend on the route: how long they would be able to get fresh food on the way and how much of dry goods they would need to take with them.”

“I fear that whatever route Lord Balin might decide to take, it will lead through empty lands beyond Laketown,” replied their father. “And they would be hard-pressed to feed a large group of Dwarves by hunting and gathering. Mirkwood is simply not suited for that – unless you are Elves.”

“And even the Elvenking buys some of his food from Dale or Esgaroth,” added Dagrún. “Or else he could not feed all the people dwelling in that fortress of his. Only the small family clans of the Woodland Folk that live scattered all over the northern forest can feed themselves.”

“Which means we should begin to fill up our stores with dry goods way before the quest starts,” commented Frán thoughtfully. “”Tis a good thing that cram keeps for years upon years. We can build up a great supply without fearing that it might go bad.”

“Aye, because it is horrible from the beginning,” commented Frér son of Fráeg grinning.

The old crone gave him a flat look.

“That horrible waybread saved us from starving quite a few times, back when the Road was not safe enough for you, soft and spoiled brats, to travel,” she countered grimly. “We lived on cram and tree-bark on our way back from the Battle of Azanulbizar – and survived. Cram is the stock food of every Wanderer and every travelling army; everything else is just addition.”

“The honey-cakes of the Beornings also keep long and are very tasty and nutritious,” added Bávor. ‘And we can build up a large stock of dried and salted meat, smoked fish and the likes. We might need a few more of those old-fashioned wagons, too. The ones we still have from earlier likely won’t be enough. It all depends on the size of the group, of course.”

“Nay,” Fráeg interrupted. “It depends on whether the King gives Lord Balin his leave. If he does not, I for my part shan’t have anything to do with this campaign.”

Nídi rolled his eyes. “You ain’t even a subject of Old Ironfoot,” he pointed out. “You still live in Oakenshield’s old halls in Uruktharbun.”

“But I trade with Erebor; and going against the King’s wishes would put an end to it,” replied Fráeg.

“And of course you would not put that at risk,” commented Bifur with quiet disdain. “Not even for those without whom there wouldn’t even be a Kingdom Under the Mountain to trade with.”

Fráeg gave her an unfriendly glare. “I thought you were against this campaign.”

“I am,” she replied; “but for different reasons. I would hate to lose even more beloved ones to foolish Dwarven pride. ‘Tis not my own strongbox I am worried about.”

“Well, “tis not so as if you would need to,” Fráeg snapped at her nastily. “You have been sitting on your share of the Dragon’s treasure ever since the re-taking of Erebor.”

Enraged by the merchant’s insolence towards their family Matriarch (not to mention a hero of the Battle of the Five Armies), Bávor rose from his seat and there would have been bloodshed and broken bones, had Bifur not stopped him with a hand upon his forearm. A hand that still bore that old, faded scar from her own years on the Road.

“What I do or don’t with my share is my business alone,” she said with quiet authority. “I have earned that right by following Thorin Oakenshield on a seemingly hopeless quest. I faced Trolls and Goblins and Wargs and Giant Spiders, and in the end the Dragon itself; and before that I spent decades on the Road, in a battered old wagon, while you led a lush and comfortable life in Uruktharbun and never dared to go any further than the Shire,” she touched the black tattoos on her temples, the proof that she had been blooded in battle. “Don’t you dare to open your mouth against me, Fráeg Achimul; I might have only picked up weapons out of need and despair in the past, but I can still give you a bloody nose if you rile me up beyond endurance.”

“And I shall lend you a hand,” added Frán, baring her teeth at the frightened merchant. “You fat and lazy gits believe you can look down your big noses at us; well, think again! And learn some manners or I shall teach you – with my battle-axe!

“Peace, Lady Frán,” Niping saw it necessary to intervene. “I am the leader of this caravan; and I and mine travelled with you all those years when the Road was still dangerous, remember? If Fráeg does not wish to take part in this particular business, no-one forces him. In one thing, though, he is right: we should wait and see what King Dáin has to say.”

“We’ll go anyway,” hissed Frán. “My King was Thrór and I followed his summons to Azanulbizar while barely more than a Dwarfling. I shall not be denied my revenge.”

“But we still need someone used to take care of the daily business of a large caravan,” her mate Hjalli reminded her. “Neither of us has that kind of experience.”

“I shall go,” said Nídi, to everyone’s surprise; “at least as far as the southern edge of Mirkwood. I shall see the wagons there safely; I do not promise to take any part of the fighting, though. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”

“And yet battle might find you, even along the way to Khazad-dûm,” Bifur warned him grimly. “’Tis a five-month journey at the very least, whichever way you might go; probably longer when you are slowed down by the supply carts. And the lordless lands between here and there are full of evil things… and evil people. You know that as well as I do.”

“Aye, I know that,” replied Nídi. “But Lord Balin will need people who can get his supplies safely across the empty lands. If we have to supply a larger group, Bávor and Mistress Frán’s family shan’t be enough.”

That was very true, and they all knew it, even though the actual number of those who wanted to go was still to be learned.

“Besides,” he added with a wry grin,” somebody ought to keep an eye on the supplies while the others do all the fighting.”

Everyone laughed at that as Nídi – albeit without formal warrior training – was known as a skilled axe-man and a fierce fighter. The fact that he chose to go with the supply trek reassured his father and the other merchants that their investments, should they indeed invest into Balin’s campaign, would be in good hands.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with working out the details. Long-term calculations were made, risks and profits were weighed against each other, endless lists of necessities and possible sources were put together. They were all experienced merchants with a keen eye for detail, so it was a long and arduous process – but a necessary one.

Bifur excused herself after another hour or so, declaring that she did not want to have anything to do with their madness. Bofur, although still not interested in going with the trek, stayed behind to support his nephew with advice born of long experience, and his knowledge was more than welcome.

Finally they had everything they needed to take under consideration – everything but the numbers, that is. That was the lesser problem, though. They were Dwarves and merchants and therefore practical people. They would adjust their calculations to whatever number Balin’s company would have.

In the meantime they could already start the long-term preparations. The weavers, leather workers, wood-workers and ironsmiths would be busy with commissions in the foreseeable future.

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

“Let’s count the numbers then,” said Jörundr the cook, counting them on his thick, blunt fingers indeed. “Your parents are coming with us, Bávor, and even Nídi? It will be almost like old times.”

He was sitting in The Troll Cave, one of the more popular inns of the Second Deep, with his brother Mötsognir and their old friend Hunbogi. The inn was owned by Bombur’s eldest daughter Bomfrís and her husband, and while all members of the caravan were welcome there any time, these three earned quite a few interested looks from the other customers – mayhap because they were so different.

The two sons of the late Grechar looked very much alike, although they had fairly different trades. Jörundr was a cook who had taken over from Bombur the feeding of their caravan in recent years, and Mötsognir was an ironsmith. Both quite young yet in Dwarven terms, they were short and very broadly build, even by Clan measures, with barrel chests and flaxen hair, which Jörundr wore in multiple braids.

Mötsognir’s hair was still too short to be properly braided – it had been burned off by a forge accident shortly before the Quest of Erebor, together with his beard – but he made up for it by being incredibly strong. He was known to have beaten up a Forge Guard with his bare hands once, just because said Guard (an IronFist warrior a foot taller than him and twice his age) insulted his craft.

Jörundr tended to react similarly when his cooking was being criticised. They both took great pride in their work and rightfully so.

Compared with them Hunbogi was almost skinny; not that there had been any skinny Dwarves in Middle-earth, with the possible exception of Burin son of Balin. He was half the brothers’ width but twice their age, well into his middle years. A miner and a stone-mason by age, he united the sharp and rugged features of his parents, which resulted in a rather wild-looking visage. He wore his dark brown hair and beard unbraided (unless working); his long, upswept eyebrows and moustaches were quite spectacular.

Small wonder that people who did not know him well were vary in his presence, even his fellow Dwarves. His looks alone helped to make Men back off when he entered a confrontation. Things like that came in handy on the Road.

The sons of Grechar, however, did know him well, having travelled the Road with him all their lives. And they were cautiously excited about sharing a great (albeit dangerous) new adventure with him. One that was going to be sung of in epic ballads for the rest of Dwarven history.

“It would be like old times if Sigrún and his cousins came with us,” Mötsognir commented. “I hoped that at least Bofur would come; I knew Sigrún would never abandon Old Bombur.”

Hunbogi shrugged. “Unlike us, they weren’t born to the Road. They took to it out of necessity. I cannot blame them for wanting a more settled life.”

“But their entire line descended from Dwarves of Khazad-dûm!” Mötsognir shook his head in bewilderment. “How comes that they would not wish to return home?”

“Khazad-dûm was the home of their – our – ancestors,” pointed out Hunbogi. “Bifur, Bofur and Bombur helped to win back Erebor; this has become their home, and they have every right to claim it. We all have to follow the call of our hearts; and no-one is entitled to question our choices. This has always been our way, ever since Mahal shaped the Seven Fathers on his heavenly anvil.”

The brothers fell silent, for Hunbogi was not a Dwarf of many words as a rule. If he chose to defend Bifur, Bofur and Bombur’s choice so passionately, that meant that he felt strongly about it… about them. And while he might appear scrawny compared with either Jörundr or Mötsognir, the brothers knew from experience that raising his ire would not be wise.

At least the two of them were in complete agreement about Lord Balin’s campaign and the necessity of taking part in it. Now everything depended on what King Dáin would say.

~TBC~