The Hope of the North: Dwarves 13

Fróin started to move. ‘We walk for Dale now. Then we’ll go into Lake-town and will try to find out if anybody saw that rider. We’ll see after that.’

Everyone followed suit. And there they went, the four dwarves, each with their pack and their walking stick, walking down the Lonely Mountain. It was a sunny morning, and Oi, for now, wasn’t feeling as anxious as he had been earlier. Only a few days in the past years had he been out, to get some exercise, out of Erebor, and even that had been within the purposes of his job, to collect news from the dwarves that lived in Dale and purchase some writing materials and parchment. However, he had never been further away than that.

‘Master Himli, how long will it be to Lake-town?’

‘That depends. We’ll have to see what we find in Dale later today and decide how long to stay. Then, we’ll get some boats to go down the river to the lake, which will take a couple of days.’ He saw Oi’s apprehensive look. ‘Never been on a boat, eh? It’s not my favourite means of transport either, but it’s sensible to use them whenever possible. There will be so much walking to do after Lake-town that you’ll end up wishing we found rivers flowing our way all the time.’

Fróin waited up and joined the conversation. ‘For now, just enjoy it, lad. If I remember correctly, Thorin took ten days from Lake-town to the Front Gate because they did not know the way.’

Himli nodded. ‘That’s right. All credit to them and the hobbit for finding the correct path. If it had been me, I would still be walking around tripping over stones, looking for cracks of the wall.’

Oi tried to remember and then asked: ‘And wasn’t it at this time of year when they came?’

Fróin raised his eyebrows in realisation. ‘Well, yes, that’s correct. The Secret Door could only be opened on Dúrin’s Day, at the end of October. So I guess that, yes, they’d be exactly around here 76 years ago to the day.’

Oi felt goosebumps on his skin and stopped. ’Seventy-six years... October 2941... That’s when I was born. My birthday’s in three days.’

The rest stopped and looked at him. Himli shrugged. ‘Neat coincidence. So what?’

Gimfur, who was walking behind, joined them now. ‘The lad has a point, my sires. When he was born, Thorin the Restorer arrived here, and now he’s leaving on a mission looking to enhance the glory of his people. How about that?’

Fróin looked at him curiously. ‘Are you meaning to read something into this? I hadn’t figured you as superstitious, master Gimfur.’

Gimfur looked at everyone with his typical straight face. ‘It’s just a good omen. What’s wrong with that? It can’t hurt, can it?’ He took Oi by the shoulder and resumed walking, with Himli and Fróin each side of them. ‘Seventy-six years ago, Thorin came all the way from my homeland to re-found the kingdom that was his by right at the other side of the known world. Why did he do it? Who knows? The yearning had been there for generations, but no-one had done it. Until one day he was the one who put a foot on the road and never looked back. Maybe the last drop that filled the cup of his desire was a good sign on a fine morning like this. Rejoice in it, lad. Maybe you were born for this quest after all.’

Oi, again, not for the first time in the last two days, felt his head swimming. He, a figure ‘meant’ to go down in history? Someday someone sitting at his desk would be painstakingly filling parchment with ink to tell his story?

Himli’s voice made him snap out of it. ‘Nice work, master Gimfur. Look at him. Now he thinks he’s Dúrin reborn!’

Oi’s face went red and everybody laughed. It’s funny how sometimes the gloom turns cheer (and the other way round) on the smallest of details. Sunshine in October, a glorious new page of your life to write, when all is promise, and a good sign to start it all off. What could go wrong? They all started marching at a good pace now.

Himli spoke again. ‘Hey, we should sing something. Come on, what could we sing?’

And, without waiting for an answer, he started in his booming voice:

As we leave, our way to weave,

as we go marching on,

we take our pack, food in our sack,

as we go marching on.

The sun is high, our eyes descry

the paths we tread so swift.

A farther place, for us to race,

the paths we tread so swift.

As warm today as yesterday

as we leave house and home.

Far away, and there we’ll stay

til home away we long.

Our needs are few, just me and you

walking past the hills.

We feed our bellies, eating jellies

til we’ve had our fill.

So long, at last, we leave and fast

as we go marching on.

Returning then, I can’t say when

as we go marching on.

As we go marching on!

[Poem by Pi]

The Hope of the North: Dwarves 12

‘So, where are we going?’

Fróin, Himli and Gimfur turned around to look at Oi. They were just outside of the Mountain, with the light already growing strong. They were not leaving in secret or anything like that, but neither did they want to stir curiosity. As far as the population of Erebor would know, they had been sent on just another errand by King Dáin. Nothing out of the ordinary. However, to avoid questions from anyone they might bump into, they had exited via one of the service gates. And there they were, packs on their backs, ready to go. But to go where? Oi had asked the question quite matter-of-factly, as anyone else might. The other three dwarves looked at each other. Dáin had told them to treat Oi as an equal, and no-one had a problem with that, but it would take a couple of days of getting used to, to hear Oi address them without all the usual ceremony. Finally Himli gave him an answer: ‘Well, what do you think, boy? To find those rings, wherever they are.’

Gimfur intervened in his usual neutral tone. ‘Actually, the question is not an idle one. We have a very specific task, but nothing else to go on. The rings are very small, and Middle-earth is big indeed. And I have only seen the north and west.’

Fróin leaned on his walking stick. ‘Before the rings, we have to find Bilbo the halfling, who is in Rivendell with Elrond. Dáin said we are to take him with us.’

Himli interrupted. ‘Exactly. So our course lies west for many days, even weeks. That is straightforward enough.’

Fróin looked at him. ‘I remember what Dáin said about Bilbo. But he also said to be careful with whoever we find.’

Gimfur adjusted his pack better. ‘Yes, yes, our task is straightforward indeed. We must search as many places as we can, being seen by as few people as possible. Then, if we actually meet anyone, we have to get as much information as we are able to from them about our legendary treasure, without them surmising that we are in fact going after it. In particular, we have to go through many lands of men and elves, whom we have to consider possible allies but not actual partners, looking for their help without offering much in return.’

Now Fróin turned to face him. ‘That sounds like a bleak outlook on things.’

Gimfur smiled. ‘Bleak? Oh, no. We Luinians don’t do bleak. We say it as it is, if we say it at all. But the lad’s question still stands. Rivendell is the destination for now, but before that, there are many things to determine. Are we going through Lake-town or not? If we don’t, we might look suspicious. If we do, we’ll find people. From them, we might find answers, but we are also likely to find questions. Can we find the ones without risking the others? And the same applies to the rest of the trip. Are we going to aim for populated areas or avoid them? And then, are we going to wait until we pick Bilbo up to start to actually look for the rings, or are we going to do a little searching of our own on the way?’

Himli scratched his head under his cap. ‘Confound it all, master Gimfur. Why didn’t you ask all these questions yesterday?’

Gimfur smiled again. Oi was beginning to think that Gimfur, in his head, was several leagues ahead of them already. ‘Oh, no, no. Had we started with questions, we would be in there still. And then, Dáin thinks he runs a tight ship, but rumours find their way out, like everywhere else. Before we had known it, we would have had to contend with more interested parties than we could have shaken an ax at. No, sir. Give me an open road and a definite purpose at the end of it any day. I’m glad Dáin took a resolution so soon.’

Fróin nodded. ‘There is wisdom in what you say. I was raring to go ever since I heard the news from the rider’s mouth. The truth is that having many meetings and reunions at this point wouldn’t have helped us much. We will have to take most of our decisions on the spot, based on what we learn on the way, and weeks of preparations would have been in vain.’ He laughed heartily. ‘I mean, look at us! We have barely put our feet out of the Mountain and we are already at a loss! Nice work so far.’

Gimfur palmed Oi’s shoulder. ‘Ha ha. See what you’ve done, lad? Now I see what they mean when they say that words can be stronger than swords. The resolve of four grown-up people, stalled with just an innocent question.’

Oi blushed. ‘I am sorry, sires. It wasn’t my intention.’

The others all replied at the same time, palming his shoulders too. ‘Oh, of course.’ ‘Hey, don’t worry.’ ‘Come on, we know that.’

Oi thanked them and felt more reassured. But now, to the others, he seemed even amused when he asked again with a smile: ‘So, where are we going?’

The Hope of the North: Dwarves 11

The Writing Halls of Erebor were a peculiar construction, because of all the places in the Kingdom under the Mountain, they were the ones that looked the most luminous. Built against the external rock of Erebor, blinding shafts of light came into the parlours from great holes made in the walls directly into the open space outside - or what other peoples of Middle-earth would call ‘windows’. The light of Anor of course shines more brightly than that produced by the biggest forge ever made by the Children of Aulë, and the dwarves gratefully accepted her gift to assist the Scribes of Erebor in their labour of chronicling their life and times, as they sat dutifully to work as close to her as they ever do, for as long as she wishes to illuminate them each day that passes. Great was the care the dwarves put into it, as into any other work of their own hands, and jealously this work of lore was kept and passed on. But most of it was not known by many, and of all of it none was master. This is were Oi had spent most of his time during his apprenticeship, putting in painstakingly neat writing what the Record-takers wrote in hasty scraps of parchment right as events occurred, news came, or councils took decisions. Writing and writing, copying and copying, until his fingers, his eyes and his back ached. All afternoon wishing for the light to finally fail for the day, and then, when evening darkened, one found himself with his nose almost on top of the pen, scraping a few more minutes of light before the work was done. The custom in a rich kingdom like Erebor was that several Scribes hand-wrote the same document. Then the least accomplished copies would be used in everyday consultations or as back-ups, and only one was chosen to be kept as the Master Record, the one that would stay in the Great Hall of Lore, guaranteed to last through the Ages of the Sun, making the name of the copyist part of history, legend and myth along with the tale he told. Long time had Oi had to wait for his first work to be chosen to be in such illustrious company by Dwóin, the Master of Scribes. Of course, Oi remembered very well what it was, and it had been doubly significant, because it was the record of the celebrations of the 200th birthday of Dwóin himself, in the year 3000. What a way to start the millennium that had been! All of this had been brought into Oi’s mind on entering again the Hall by the impact that Dwóin’s book had produced in him. Feeling it with his hand over his pocket, he thought that even if he lived as long as Dúrin himself, he would never be able to make something like that. He looked around, and as at first he didn’t see anyone in the hall, he was tempted to take another peek at it, but in that moment somebody opened the door behind him. It was Fróin.

‘Ah, Oi. That’s a good lad. Nice to see you up and about this early.’ Oi was about to say that for him this was not exactly early, as usually by this time he had already been labouring at his desk by the window for a while –only the exploits of good old Tharkun had kept him today - but he thought that somehow saying such a thing wouldn’t sound very nice. Seeing Fróin brought him back to the task at hand: maybe some time soon he would have to experience first hand the feeling of introducing himself into a lair of orcs, like the hero of the story was doing. Well, yes, what a coincidence, now that he came to think of it. Here they were, looking to start a quest of secrecy and stealth, very probably leading into the heart of the domains of the Evil One, and along had come to him a moment-by-moment account of a similar deed, successfully accomplished. Only, all of them put together wouldn’t reach even the hem of Tharkun’s robes, as far as cunning and imagination went, he thought. Fróin was staring at him now. Of course, Oi hadn’t said what he had first thought to say, but neither had he replaced it with anything else at all. What a discourtesy.

‘Oh, yes, quite early indeed. Good morning, sire.’

Fróin, most probably mistaking Oi’s confusion, still looked at him funny, almost amused.

‘Are you all right, lad?’

‘Aye, sire... As much as one can be in a situation like this, anyway.’

Fróin gave a hearty laugh. He thought his assumption falsely confirmed by these words.

‘Oh, my dear Oi, don’t fret. There is much to do, but we’ll get there. I can promise you that you won’t have any problems to sleep tonight, though. Any useful news?’

‘Erm...’

Again a quick, and dutiful, first thought came into his mind, one that said: ‘funny you should ask that, sire, because I have come across this remarkable story that might come handy...’ but instead, as soon as he put his hand to his pocket to feel the bulk of the book, he felt a sudden loathing to reveal anything to do with it. Maybe later, when he had finished reading the story, he would say something. Yes, that was right. And a good idea too. Maybe the rest of it was just a useless bore, and master Fróin shouldn’t waste his time like that. Yes, he’d read it first. Maybe later he’d talk. Later.

‘Erm, no, sire, nothing at all. And yourself?’

He felt much more assured now. For some reason, he felt he had done a hugely appropriate thing, one that settled his mind with the safety of the duty fulfilled.

‘Not much, no. As soon as master Himli and master Gimfur are here we’ll get going.’

Oi knitted his brow.

‘Going?’

Fróin looked at him strangely again.

‘Going, yes. On the quest, remember? What’s wrong with you today?’

Oi’s eyes opened as wide as they could, but that was only half of what his mouth opened.

‘You mean going, going? Today? Already?’

‘Of course! You thought we’d be hanging about idly after we got our mission from lord Dáin?’ ‘But... but I thought we’d take weeks...’ Fróin stared at him wildly. ‘...or at least a few days to prepare.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, lad. A whole army would scarcely take that long, and there’s only four of us. For such a number, what can you prepare in a week that you can’t in a few hours?’

Oi lifted an eyebrow in realisation.

‘Well, yes, that’s right. But... I didn’t know... I haven’t got anything ready for myself.’

‘Oh, me neither. Gimfur has taken care of that. He was due to return home shortly anyway before the passes are closed by the snow. He has left it late already as it is. He has all our gear ready.’ Oi made such a face of desperation, dread and surprise that Fróin couldn’t help but laugh again. ‘Oh, yes, my lad. If you think these stone halls are cold in winter, wait until we reach the passes through the Misty Mountains, haha.’ He caught Oi by the shoulders and pressed him against his own side. ‘But we’ll be there to keep you warm, don’t be afraid.’

Oi’s breathing had become quite laboured, and Fróin stopped laughing and helped him to a seat. Oi looked around at the hall. Suddenly he thought that cramped fingers, a shortened eyesight and some pain in the back was worlds better than taking a single step outside of the Mountain.

‘But... all this... this is where I belong... I’m not ready, sire.’

Fróin sat by him with a concerned and understanding, but also firm expression.

‘Now, listen here, boy. It’s true that you have been thrown in at the deep end, but you have to pull yourself together. We have to leave as soon as possible for several reasons. The king has given us a year, and it will take a good part of it just to find the halfling, so there is no time to waste. A second reason is that the black rider will be coming back for an answers soon and lord Dáin can only stall him so long. Yet another reason is that now that the company has been decided, we can’t wait around until Thorin, the king’s son, hears of this. I wouldn’t want to be around when he returns and finds that we have been sent to the Shire without him. He took great pains just to be at one of Bilbo’s birthdays, and I think he would gladly give his ring-finger to go back again. And a final reason is that we’re not going to a war, Oi, we just need to grab our packs and go. We have all we need. Master Gimfur will be with us, and he is a formidable walker. This spring he made it here with his company in record time, all the way from the Blue Mountains, farther than we’re going. With him we don’t need maps. He knows his way blinfolded. Then, master Himli, as you know, is an expert warrior with a mean ax-strike. And I myself, well, a bit of both: 'I have walked the walk and hunted the orc', as they say. You are in good company.’

‘But the perils of this quest... surely we will end up facing the worst that the Enemy has to offer. On our own.’

‘About that, who knows now. As much as my heart yearns to recover those precious rings, ‘to done from said there’s a long trek’, as they also say. We don’t have the slightest guarantee that we will find even a clue worth following. That rider might even be lying when he says his master has the rings back. We’ll do what we can on our own and if we return with empty hands, next autumn the lord Elrond might agree to help us.’ Fróin raised a finger. ‘Now, that doesn’t mean that we’re going to concede defeat from the beginning and just go for a pleasant ramble, is that clear? We’ll leave no stone unturned.’ He put a hand on Oi’s shoulder. ‘But for the moment, my dear Oi, you can make up your mind that all we have to do is go for a quite long walk, that’s all. You’ll have time to harden your legs and your resolve on the way.’

The door to the hall opened again. It was Gimfur, stick in his hand and pack on his back.

‘Himli’s waiting at the gate. Time to go.’

Fróin looked into Oi’s eyes. Oi breathed deeply in, then out, and stood up.

‘Well, then. What are we waiting for?’

‘Hah. Glóin’s son’s favourite sentence. Attaboy. We’ll make a dwarf out of you yet.’

The Hope of the North: Dwarves 10

Oi had only walked a few hurried paces down the corridor towards the Writing Halls when the desire to keep reading the book started to come back. As he walked he noticed that no-one was crossing his path, so he stopped, put his hand to his pocket, and after only the briefest instant of indecision, he took the book out and carried on reading as he walked.

"Tharkun had no idea as to how to proceed, but his recent tricks had alerted the orcs to some sort of mischief among them, so greater care was in order. He headed down the tunnel, passing by another opening leading to his right, and after several hundred feet, he came to a wide fork. As he pondered which route to take, he heard another group coming closer, from the right-hand tunnel. He retreated, waited, and was lucky: the new group of orcs continued on down the left hand tunnel, rather than turn into the one he was hiding in, so he quickly started to follow his new unwitting guides heading towards their warren. Tharkun did not know this at the time, but the maze of tunnels where he found this group was called The Web, and had he not found this new band to follow, he could very well have become lost. After some time amidst the maze of tunnels, the passage the orcs took smelled unbearably foul, so he deemed the time had come to let his guides go their own way. He saw more torchlight down the other passage, so he followed it and found himself in a familiar setting: two uruks standing guard behind a heavy iron portcullis.
Meanwhile, the Necromancer stirred in his sulfur-laden sanctuary, deep on the Fifth Stratum. Something had disturbed his contemplation. He turned his attention to his vast citadel and with sudden alarm he sensed a power that recalled images from aeons past, from a time when he had dwelt in Aman as one of Aulë’s people. Now, while he could not identify with certainty the source of his misgivings, he sensed the hand of the Valar. He was far from ready to reveal himself, and all of his evil designs hung in a delicate balance. So, taking every precaution, he sent orders to his personal guard to make ready for departure. While uncertain that he must leave his sanctuary, he refused to be caught unprepared.
Now Tharkun heard a great alarm sound throughout the Web: strange drums and shrill horns echoed along the tunnels and the sounds of charging orcs filled the fetid air. The alarm aroused the uruk guards, who snapped into readiness as troops raced toward the Entry Fortress from both directions. Orcs spilled down the tunnel behind Tharkun. Ten of the uruk-hai leaped from a nearby guard-room on the Seventh Level and rushed beyond the portcullis. Left with no choice but to unleash his power, he erected a wall of enchanted fire and blocked the passage to the Web. He then sent a firebolt toward the two guards that stood behind the gate. The uruk-hai perished in the wizard’s flame, while the orc-warriors mingled in panic before the firewall.
Bellows sounded from the arrow-slits until Tharkun cast another pair of firebolts searing down each of the adjoining passages. The way clear of archers, he raced down the tunnel toward the portcullis. As he hurried past, a shout went up within the small fortress, one simple word: ‘Now!’
Although Tharkun did not know what was about to befall, he feared the worst, and without hesitating, he lunged toward the portcullis, sprawling across the passage floor as a huge trapdoor snapped open beneath his outstretched legs. He clung to the stone as his legs dangled over the side of the pit, and then, with fierce determination, he swung the lower half of his body up onto the floor. He rose to his feet just before two thin fiery columns of oil rained down in and around the pit, narrowly missing his worn grey robes.
He staggered toward the portcullis and prepared to lift the gate. The small troop of orcs beyond the iron grate glared and cursed at their adversary, but with a word of command from Tharkun, the portcullis rose into the ceiling and the orcs fled. Before he could follow his foes, an arrow flew from the wall and grazed his shoulder, sending him reeling to his knees. Though the wound was slight, he could feel the sting of poison and knew he had no time to spare. Getting to his feet, he ran down the passage toward the Central Keep of Dol Guldur.
As he dashed from the Entry Fortress, he heard a deep grating sound. He looked up in time to see portions of the ceiling shift. The stones began sliding downward. Knowing he would be crushed or else sealed off from his goal, he unleashed a great surge of magical force from the end of his great staff. The blast strained his might to the limit, but it held the great blocks aloft just long enough for him to slip away from the quivering mass of stone. Once released, the huge boulders fell with a booming crash. Tharkun was now trapped inside the stronghold of Dol Guldur.
With Tharkun’s unusual show of might, the Necromancer realised that one of his greatest enemies had indeed entered his stronghold, and far sooner than he had anticipated. All of his age-old plots and designs suddenly seemed in peril if by some chance this intruder with great power should learn the truth about him. Though he longed to confront this sneak that dared to enter his domain, no-one was worthy of such monumental risk. He cursed himself for having none of the Nazgul at his side to act in his stead, and saw no choice but to retreat before it was too late. With excruciating reluctance, he began his departure, instructing those left in command to disperse most of the remaining garrison throughout Rhovanion in the following years. Through his retreat he hoped to fool the intruder and his allies into believing they had won temporary victory, and maybe leave Dol Guldur alone before learning too much. Besides, he remained hopeful that his minions would capture this bold enemy before he could escape.
So, as Tharkun kneeled in the dark tunnel tending his wound, a deep and dreadful tone echoed throughout the keep, alerting the entire garrison. The echoes of hundreds of orcs moving and their leaders shouting orders reverberated down the corridors. He was forced to go on along the corridors before him, all alight with torches."

Oi had arrived to the Writing Halls now, very relieved that no-one had seen him with the book, but still wishing he had nothing else to do but carry on reading. Tharkun, Dol Guldur, the Necromancer... He thought this was all well known in Erebor, but he hadn’t read such a detailed narration before. Of course, he knew the ending – Tharkun makes it out of Dol Guldur alive and well, but still the thirst to know more was enthralling. Anyway, he resolutely snapped the book closed, put it away and entered the Hall.

The Hope of the North: Dwarves 9

Tharkun’s tales
as recorded by Dwoin II, son of Dwalin
in ‘The Iron Hill Sagas’, book Seven

Two events dominate the history of Dol Guldur, as far as the Free Peoples are concerned: the two times that Tharkun the Wizard, whom the elves call Gandalf and men Mithrandir, entered the dark halls of the Necromancer. Here is the account made by Dwoin II, written by his own hand, as heard from his father Dwalin, who was told the tale by Tharkun himself many years after it happened.

The First Tale: Tharkun explores Tumun-gabil.

After years of endless pondering and speculation, Tharkun determined that the only way to discover the true identity of the Necromancer of Dol Guldur was to venture into its perilous halls. For the entire summer of 2063, using Rhosgobel as his temporary abode, he gathered knowledge concerning the Necromancer and his servants. Radagast’s winged friends proved quite helpful, explaining the movements of the garrison of the Hill of Sorcery.
Of all the things that Gandalf learned during the long summer, the most precious and helpful information came from an elf called Narindel, a scout who had spent many years spying on the minions of the Necromancer and labouring tirelessly to assist Tharkun. After trailing a patrol of orcs deep in the forest and piecing together snatches of their conversations and movements, he surmised that the northernmost outpost within the Nan Lanc provided access to a labyrinth of tunnels that eventually led into Dol Guldur itself. With this knowledge Tharkun finally prepared to travel south. Both Narindel and Radagast offered aid and companionship, but he refused.
‘At least, then take this,’ said Radagast, producing a small glass vial. ‘For though you are a master of fire and may be able to stand before many orcs, you have no means to hide yourself from the watchful eyes that guard the borders of Nan Lanc. Unlike you, I employ more subtle powers, being a master of shapes and changes of hue. When you drink this, you will be able to appear as you wish for a short while, and this may allow you to enter that dark domain without drawing unneeded attention.’
Tharkun accepted it and set out alone several days later. Armed with his new knowledge and Radagast’s elixir, he seemed strangely sanguine. Nonetheless, the Brown Wizard sensed the dire nature of Tharkun’s journey and bade him an emotional farewell.

Tharkun spent many days avoiding orcs and spiders and travelling through the densest parts of the forest so as to remain unseen by the soaring fell-beasts and damned crebain. Eventually, he reached the southern end of the Emyn Guldur and strove toward the ever-present black storm-clouds hanging over the Nan Lanc. There he found the Men Uruk, the Orc-road, which traversed the Naked Valley, and he concealed himself in a copse of fir trees to await his quarry.
Finally, as the greyish light of day began to fade into utter darkness, a patrol of orcs came marching down the road from the north, as they did every day at that time, just as Narindel had told him. Heedless of danger so close to their master’s stronghold, the orcs grunted and barked their peculiar sense of joy at being near their destination. Then Tharkun gently withdrew a pine cone from his robes, spoke some soft words of incantation, and drank the elixir provided by Radagast. As the orcs passed by, hacking at nearby saplings with their scimitars, Tharkun stepped onto the road just behind them and said in the orcs’ speech: ‘So, you worthless snagi are late again!’
His exclamation instantly halted the orcs, who wheeled about in fear. What they saw was not a wizened old man in grey robes, but a huge olog chief glaring at them. Though the drartul of the patrol did not recognise this black troll, his armament and gear clearly denoted his rank, and he seemed reluctant to risk asking, in particular when the olog made it plain in a harsh, insulting fashion, that he was not pleased with the captain’s performance and that his actions would be reported.
In a few short moments, the orcs resumed their march with their newly-acquired leader. Soon they passed through the line of the Evil Trees that guarded the Necromancer’s realm and entered the barren desolation of the Nan Lanc. Dol Guldur loomed over the vale like a giant spire of gloom and hatred. A dark and evil presence hung in the air like an eerie fog.
Just as he had expected, the orcs’ destination was not Amon Lanc. Rather, they were bound for the small tower which guarded the northern entrance into the valley and served as a gate for many of the patrols returning from the north and northwest. The party of orcs left the Men Uruk and turned west to follow the pummice-covered trail that slowly ascended a rocky slope to the tower on the nearby hill. As the orcs drew near the gate, their ‘chief’ lagged a few paces behind and casually dropped a pine cone in a scrawny bunch of bushes growing by the roadside. None of the weary orcs noticed as the pine cone began to quietly spark and sputter. As they reached the tower, the gates were opened and the patrol lumbered into the outpost, forgetting the presence of the ‘troll-chief’.
Once inside, Tharkun grew worried that his form would start to fade, but fortunately, his device worked, and just as the chieftain of the tower confronted the ‘olog’ as to who he was, a shout came from the staircase leading to the second floor: an excited orc then leaped into view yelling that a fire was blazing in the underbush nearby. In the brief but frenzied confusion that followed, no-one noticed the ‘troll-chief’ quietly descend the stairs to the lower chambers, slipped through a half-hidden door he saw, and into a dark passage beyond.
After following the short corridor, Tharkun descended a spiralling staircase deep under the earth until it came to a stop at the end of a long and crooked tunnel that seemed to run in the correct direction towards Dol Guldur. A foul stench drifted out of the darkness, confirming his suspicions. Tharkun then summoned a dim glow from the end of his staff and headed down the tunnel.
He followed the crooked passage for a long time, surmising that he must have passed beneath the valley and must now be close to edge of Amon Lanc. Then he saw a light in the distance. He quickly extinguished the light of his staff and walked forward, seeing two of the Uruk-hai in the passage, standing guard just behind a lowered portcullis. Tharkun thought it unlikely that a pair of warriors and an iron gate was all that stood in his path, and dared not proceed without careful preparation. Then he caught a glimpse of a row of dark slots cut into the wall of the passage, and a similar row on the opposite wall. He knew then that the place was some intricate trap devised for uninvited guests.
Now Tharkun heard the dreadful sound of many heavy footfalls hammering down the passage behind him. He had to do something quick or he would be trapped, so he quietly crept closer to the torchlight, pressed himself closer to the wall and waited for the approaching group. Soon, as the sound of steps grew closer, the leader of the oncoming orcs called out to the uruk-hai beyond the portcullis. Before they could respond, though, a blinding flash filled the hall and in the next instant all the torches were extinguished.
The approaching orcs fell into disarray and confusion. Some halted, while others blundered forward in their momentary blindness, shouting and shoving at one another. While chaos filled the passage, a dark grey figure bumped his way through the disorganised mob of dazzled orcs, finally stopping several paces behind the last one.
After many shouted orders and the re-lighting of the torches, the troops regrouped in front of the portcullis. Tharkun remained just beyond the edge of the torchlight. The captain of the orcs convinced the uruk-hai to raise the gate, and as the first half of the orc-party passed beneath the portcullis, another explosive flash extinguished all the torches again. Once again, shouts and curses filled the passage. Tharkun quickly pushed his way through the tumult beyond the gate and the orcs, running ahead into the gloom, leaving his still-startled foes to search in vain for their assailant.

A loud knock on his door brought Oi back from his absorption into Dwoin’s book. A booming voice came through from outside. ‘Oi, are you there?’
‘Yes... yes, master Himli.’
‘We need you at once, Oi. Make your way to Master Dwoin’s Writing Halls as soon as possible. Understood?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘All right then. Do not tarry.’
Oi closed the book, and by force of habit was going to put it with the others, but he thought that its wonderfully reduced size would allow him to carry it, and so he hid it in a pocket. Come to think of it, he didn’t feel like leaving it anywhere at all. What a wonder! And Tharkun’s story! As he hurried from his room, he wondered why he had never heard details of his famous visit to Dol Guldur before.

The Hope of the North: Dwarves 8

(Para leer capítulos anteriores, pulsa en 'The Hope of the North' en la columna de la derecha)

3017 October 27

Outside dawn had broken an hour ago, but inside Oi’s room everything was dark, except for a single candle burning on top of his desk. King Dáin had told the party of Ringseekers to return to their chambers to rest for a few hours and start their preparatives to leave in the morning, but Oi just hadn’t been able to. Several hours after the fateful council, he was still struggling to get his head around what everything meant. Due to his job, he was more knowledgeable than most about the lore of Erebor, but even so, he found that the more he thought, the more questions came into his mind, so that eventually it seemed to him that he knew now even less than right after the council was over. Where would they start finding the rings? What powers did they have? Who kept them, and under what perils? How far was the Shire and what exactly were 'hobbits'? In the end he found that he wasn’t even able to finish his own questions before another one assaulted him: Who...? Where...? When...? How long...? Too much to answer for!

Someone knocked on his door now. He started for a second. He didn’t think he had forgotten to do anything or had to be somewhere else. He opened the door. It was Dwalin’s son, Dwóin, the Master of Scribes. ‘Master Dwóin. Do you need me? I will be just a moment.’
‘No, Oi, on the contrary. I would like to come in, if I may.’
This was surprising, an important lord visiting him in his own quarters. Oi always kept his room quite tidy (through lack of use mainly, as he was always very busy somewhere else), but he had a quick look around just in case. ‘Of course, master. Come in.’
Dwóin went in and closed the door carefully. In the room there was only one chair, so there was one awkward moment as Oi didn’t know exactly how to go about protocol in these unusual surroundings.
‘It’s all right, Oi. You take the chair.’
‘No, master, please, you do. I will stand.’
‘All right, I’ll use the chair, but you sit too, on the bed.’ They both sat, and Dwoin’s eyes wandered over to the only other item of furniture in Oi’s room: a bookcase four shelves high, too small for the amount of books and parchment on it. The original items seemed to be in good order, but then the additional ones seemed to have had to find spaces on top of each other. ‘I see you work hard, Oi. Nice collection. How many of these are you going to take with you?’
Oi started. Take books? Of course, he thought. They would need research, maps, information. And obviously, that would be his particular province, the others would expect that of him! Among all the questions he had been asking himself he hadn't thought of that, and now it seemed urgent. For a long moment his mind went from this volume here to that map in another room to a treaty that someone else had borrowed, and his disquiet began to grow manifestly. ‘Erm... sire... I don’t... erm...’
‘Oi, Oi, easy, relax. I don’t mean to burden you with more troubles. It was just a question you haven’t yet given thought to, I guess. I think I can help you with it.’
‘Can you, sire? Oh, thank you so much, I...’
Dwóin raised a hand asking for silence. His face grew stern now. ‘However, Oi, I need to ask you first: how do you think I know about your new task?’ Oi was surprised again, and again did not know what to answer. ‘Yes, Oi, King Dáin asked you for secrecy, didn’t he?’ Oi tried to think back, but wasn’t sure of that. ‘You’re not supposed to talk to anyone about this, and now here I come discussing the matter openly and you’re not able to disguise the fact that you are up to something. That will not do, my dear Oi. I have to know that I can trust you.’
‘Oh, yes, I understand, sire. It will not happen again. But... you do already know, my lord.’
‘I do, Oi. But what I mean is that you have to be careful what you say. And what you hear. See, hear, comprehend. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘All right then.’ Dwóin now produced a small object from his cloak. ‘I have been keeping an eye on you for a long while. I think that your work has been excellent so far. It was always difficult to replace Ori, and for a while no-one really filled his boots, but you have done very well in a short time. You are worthy of the trust our king has in you.’
‘Thank you, sire.’
‘However, Oi, I think he is wrong to send you to this mission. I don’t think you are prepared.’
‘Oh... You... don’t, sire?’ Oi didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or gladly hopeful that maybe he could be discharged of his daunting task.
‘In fact I don’t. And I have told Dáin so.’
‘Oh. Have you?’ Oi shook his head. ‘When?’
Dwóin sat back in the chair. ‘Last night after your conference, my father and my cousin Himli came into our chambers, in a very peculiar way. Both of them were wearing the kind of clothes you only put on for important events. Like an audience with the king, for example. What’s more, Himli was wearing Balin’s House Armour, as you may remember. None of them seemed very cheerful. I was already eager to talk to them about those news that had spread like wild fire earlier in the day: that visit from a black rider from the south. And sure enough, they told me about it, but it was all old helmet, just what I already knew from another source. I felt there was something else, and eventually, as is my trade, I was able to convince them to talk to me, and they told me all that had happened. They would have had to anyway soon, if Himli has to leave for a long while, as I will have to fulfill some of his duties.’ Dwóin kept toying with the small object in his hands. Oi could not see it clearly. It seemed like some kind of rectangular box, but he wasn’t sure. ‘Now, I have to say that the very last bit of information that they revealed to me was that you had been told to go with them. They thought I might not like that, and they were right.’ He looked straight into Oi’s eyes now.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, sire, it was not my idea. I would have...’ Oi stopped.
‘You would have what, Oi? You would have ‘refused if you could’? That’s not for you to decide, my friend. And it’s not in your quality to chicken out, even if you have become something of a bookworm. I think you can trust the lord Dáin as a judge of character.’ Dwóin smiled now. ‘I also think I’m being unfair keeping you on tenterhooks like this. Relax, I can assure you that you will be glad you saw me today. Let me finish and you will know all you need. No, I did not like that Dáin chose you. I believe it was a spur-of-the-moment idea, one that has much to recommend it, but we are talking about a task that if bestowed on the wrong person could do much damage. I do not know if I am the right person myself either, but as soon as I learned all the details, I offered myself to go in your place. I am older, trained in battle and in lore, have seen more of the world, and even have a claim to Balin’s ring, whatever Dáin says. In short, there is not a single reason why you would have been chosen ahead of me if Dáin had had his idea this morning instead of last night. My father acknowledged all this, but still would not bow to the notion, and I kept pestering him for a while, until he just screamed: ‘Enough! Must I lose everyone I love in quests abroad, doomed to ignore even their fates away from home, wondering whether they live or die each day of my life?’ Now, I must admit he has a strong point there. With his brother away in Khazad-dum and his nephew now leaving on a very dangerous undertaking, it’s too much to ask that he lets his own son leave too. What if something happens to both of us? And I do acknowledge that we must present a united front. Not that there will be a shortage of tasks to accomplish here in Erebor too! That is why I have now withdrawn my wishes to go and will be backing you before king Dáin.’
Again there were mixed feelings in Oi. Pride at the recognition, and renewed (and enhanced) fears about the perils ahead. ‘Thank you, sire, I feel honoured by your trust.’
‘And I feel grateful that you accepted, Oi. You know something?’ Dwóin smiled again. ‘You might not be used to disagreeing with a king, but you can refuse when a king asks whether ‘you will’. That’s why the asking is so formal. It is almost an oath if you accept, but you can reject it.’
‘Really? I did not think he was asking. He affirmed ‘you will’, and everyone obeyed.’
‘Ha ha ha. The old trick. Yes, it would be like our beloved king to do that. It is a question, not an order, and you would have known had you been present in a Ceremony of Commanding before, even as a scribe. That might be why he left you for the end, so that you were too scared to think. His sudden ideas have worked before, so this one might too. I’m sure you’ll do at least as well as the others.’ Oi didn’t know if this was very encouraging. ‘Anyway, this is why I am here now. I want you to use this. Here, open it.’
He gave Oi the small object, which turned out to be, to Oi’s surprise... a book. The smallest he had ever seen, the size of a hand, with hard covers in dark blue, but very light. When he opened it, his amazement grew. The pages were incredibly thin, as if they were made of silk, but... not really. Of course they would tear if you wanted to, but they seemed to be remarkably resistant and light. The writing in it was splendid, beautiful, in very small letters but legible even at arm’s length, with no mistakes at all, and each character was perfectly done even at such minuscule size, and very regular. It was difficult to count how many pages it might have, but they couldn’t be less than two thousand. Oi, an expert scribe and, as Dwóin had said, bookworm, was absolutely astounded at it.
‘What is it, sire. Is it from the elves?’
Dwóin looked at him carefully now. ‘This is a precious item, Oi. It is not exactly mine, and because of that I am not at liberty to tell you much about it, but I can let someone else use it if in need. I cannot guarantee that you will find in it all you need to know for this trip, but I can assure you that it will be of use. However, the most important thing is: don’t let the others see it. Do you understand this?’
‘Erm... yes, sire, but why?’
‘The reason why is part of what I cannot tell you. I know there is much to read here, and that if you have to do it unseen from the others it will take you even longer, but it is imperative that you keep it hidden, not only from your companions, but even more from any strangers you meet.’
‘I will. But... what will happen if someone sees it?’
‘Nothing, you fool! Do not fret, it won’t burst into flames and consume you with it! All that could happen is that the others covet it and want it for themselves to read and keep its contents from you. I am serious, I have seen it occurring. Not all treasures are made of gold and precious stones. You are used to being around secrets and keeping them (other than your slip today), but you will see that some of the things this book contains are not for everyone to know, so don’t let them. And you, be careful in using it. The hours fly like seconds when you are engrossed in it, and you may find yourself neglecting other tasks to read more, or hurrying about them to have more time for it, or worse, longing for it instead of resting, or reading it in inappropriate situations, when others might see you. Use your training and good judgement here.’ He stood up, and Oi after him. ‘I have been trying to put myself in the frame of mind of King Dáin to see how he came to see you as part of the solution to his problems, and if there is one thing that has brought me around to accepting the idea of your going is that this party is going to need a cool head more than once. You have a natural inclination for it, but you will need support, and this book will help you be that cool head. You will be that. You will?’
Oi smiled, and put his hand, book and all, to his chest. ‘I will, my lord.’
Dwóin put a hand to his shoulders. ‘Good lad. Now, hasten to your tasks. Get together with the others.’
Dwóin left and Oi sat down on the bed again, with the precious book in his hand. He opened it, and just enjoyed going from one page to another, without actually reading anything, feeling the marvel of the extremely thin pages in his fingers. He hated knowing bits and pieces of stories and legends from scattered parchments and books, and always wanted to start from the beginning. He turned to the first page and found a big runic ‘N’, under which were the words: ‘see, hear, comprehend.’ Oi raised his eyebrows. That sounded familiar. Dwóin had just used those words in their conversation. He turned to the next page and read: ‘Tharkun's tales’.

The Hope of the North: Dwarves 7

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In another moment, it all might have ended in laughter, and Himli would have been the first to move the others to merriment with a joke about the ridiculous situation he had just landed himself in. But now everyone was growing tense about this whole matter, and after all his pondering, Dáin was now impatient in addition to tense.
‘Be it as it may, master Himli, I think we’d better proceed. Stand then, if that’s all you can do now.’ Dáin closed his eyes for the briefest moment and breathed deeply. ‘I have reached a decision now. And it is absolutely final. This is my counsel now, be it right or wrong.’ Fróin interlaced his fingers and put his elbows onto the table. There it was, the long-winded speech again. Patience. ‘We are agreed that a force of war can’t be risked at this stage to leave Erebor, aren’t we?’ Everyone nodded agreement. ‘In particular for so small a thing.’ Gimfur knitted his brow, Himli took a step forward, and Dwalin began to raise a finger, but Dáin, with a single look, challenged all three to say what they were thinking: ‘what do you mean so small’? No-one did.
Glóin cut short the moment. ‘We agree, sire. That is perfectly obvious.’
‘Thank you, master Glóin. I have as big a desire to recover these prized heirlooms of our people as any of you, nay, bigger. But what do we really know after today? Nothing! That rider has come all the way from Mordor sent by the Ringmaker himself to sunder us. ‘Rings we have, bend your stiff necks and you’ll have them’, he as good as said. Well, I say the Rings are ours, and we don’t have to earn them again!’ A chorus of affirmative noises followed. ‘And we’ll get them back!’ The noises went up. Now Dáin lowered his voice, and all the others leaned onto the table as if to partake of a secret. ‘But we won’t be sending a headless troop of dwarves north, south, east and west to look for tiny bands of gold buried somewhere, no. That’s what they expect to see, our kingdom in disarray for a few haughty words and empty promises. We’ll show that rider and his master that we are not to be outsmarted by anyone. We will go out and take what they won’t give. And all will be so smooth that they won’t know how we did it.’ Dáin had everyone entranced now, although Fróin was tugging at his beard nervously for some reason. ‘We’ll use the hobbit again.’

There was a big silence as all sorts of thoughts raced through everyone’s minds. Fróin, the only one who had guessed this much so far, thought he’d better not be the one who voiced any disagreement, as he was sure someone else would do such a dangerous thing in his place. Dáin’s word was commited when he said his decision was final. The only thing that would change in case of a confrontation would be the status of whoever opposed the king. He looked around. Who would speak? Glóin didn’t have anything at stake there, and he was quite fond of Bilbo. Himli seemed to be still considering how bad a move his armour show had been. Gimfur hadn’t opened his mouth so far, and the folk from the Blue Mountains had a reputation for being the quintessential inscrutable dwarves. It had to be Dwalin, as he had raised his tone only recently, and his mood seemed to continue like that.
And so it happened. ‘Sire.’ Everyone seemed relieved that he spoke. Or rather, that anyone spoke. ‘Was this why you called us here? To make us decide whether to use Bilbo or not?’
‘Aye.’
Fróin was expecting an outburst of righteous indignation now, but what followed was unexpected, and in a way, worse: Dwalin just sank back in his chair and seemed to grow old and weary before their very eyes. Then he spoke with a just a thread of voice. ‘I don’t think it will work, sire. I beg you to reconsider.’
Fróin couldn’t have heard right. Beg? Where was Dwalin’s thunder gone? On his part, Dáin was as amazed as he was intrigued. ‘Why do you say that, master Dwalin?’
‘Nothing. I just thought I’d live the rest of my days happily ever after. After the demise of Smaug, we thought no-one could stop us. There wasn’t enough time to do, build, forge, mine and craft. Remember that? And now what? Are we going to risk everything for a rumour? We have lived well and prospered, sire. We don’t live a diminished life in this magnificent kingdom. We don’t need anything else.’
‘I don’t quite understand you. It was Thorin’s undertaking, in which you yourself took part, that brought us to this place. Before that, your people had nothing, and mine were hiding in fear and vigilance in the Iron Hills. If anyone can understand what can be achieved by going out and claiming your right place in the world, I would have said that someone is you. What has come over you?’
‘Thorin’s undertaking almost didn’t work, my lord. I have told the tale often, and I can’t count the times when all could have been lost.’
‘That’s why it was wise of Thorin to look for outside help to bear his burden. If I remember correctly, all the free peoples had a hand in helping us: men, elves, hobbits... even Tharkun the Wizard and that bear-man from the Carrock. What we can’t get for ourselves we barter for. That has always been our way, and I intend to make this a matter in which our daring, our word and our honour will make us the pride of Middle-earth. Right now it’s only a hobbit we need, but I’m also quite decided to speak to the elves about this if needed.’
‘The elves too? Sire, have you been listening to me? Have you learnt anything from the past, and about all the near-misses? And not the least of those came right at the end of our quest, with the hard part over and the dragon dead. You saw with your own eyes how close the free peoples came to destroying each other, dwarves, men and elves, for a moment of hard-headedness.’
‘Nonsense. This time it won’t be like that. It’s not the hoard of a dragon we’re talking about, in which men and elves might want a part as reward. None of our allies, if we need any indeed, will turn against us. These rings belong to us, undisputed. And anyway, it’s not Thranduil I’m talking about as an ally. He has been honourable since Erebor was restored, but in this matter we need someone connected to the Craft-masters of Eregion, where the rings were forged. It’s a Noldo loremaster that I’m looking for. Elrond of Rivendell is the appropriate person to talk to. He will help us and won’t hinder us, as he cares mostly only about his own refuge in the Last Homely House. Besides, what would be the problem with getting the hobbits to help again? They were never a risk anyway. Bilbo even graciously stood out of everyone’s way during the battle. Good for him. If he wasn’t going to be of any use to us, better not make himself a nuisance either, eh?’ Dáin looked towards Glóin hoping to find a knowing chuckle to his in-joke, but he didn’t find one. Glóin had also a sad look in his eyes, and seemed to be more and more convinced by Dwalin’s disheartened talk. That would not do. Dáin steeled his resolve and tone. ‘Anyway, only one hobbit was needed by Thorin, and only one we need now. It’s quite feasible. I don’t see the problem.’
‘Please don’t involve them again, my lord. Thorin would have killed Bilbo if given a chance at one point, when the Arkenstone went missing. There’s no telling what any of us would do if we ever get close to those rings. The halflings don’t deserve to be involved in dark tales and dangerous deeds again, in particular when there’s nothing to be gained for them as a people.’
‘Master Dwalin, I’m beginning to lose my patience! We don’t need feeble excuses here. We need ambition and a spirit of enterprise.’
Dwalin looked at Dáin icily. ‘Ambition like for example that of Balin?’
Dáin returned a burning glance in response. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘It’s me now who doesn’t understand you, sire. You were unwilling to let Balin go to Khazad-dum, but now you are eager to embark in this strange quest. And then first you speak of the rings as ‘such little things’ and right after as heirlooms worth risking our people's future for. Which one is it, sire? Which one is it you?
Dáin hardened his expression even more. ‘Those rings are sorely needed now. You don’t ignore that, Mordor rider or not, danger around us increases day after day. Their power will allow us to crush our enemies. They are our birthright.’
‘I hope they don’t become our bane, sire. In my heart I fear never to see Balin again, but I fear our self-destruction even more.’ Dwalin now stood up. ‘I guess that what I’m saying, my lord, is that we shouldn’t be discussing why and how to go and find the rings: I'm saying we should just forget about them. This kingdom has grown strong without them, and other Ringowners have lost their lives and hoards because of them. Leave them alone. They belong in the past. Don’t go after them, my king.’
‘Enough! I’ll have those rings back or I’ll be sure that no-one does! Mahal smite my bones and throw them into His forge if this doesn’t come to pass! I have spoken!’

All the others gasped at this and stood up if they weren’t already. The name of the Maker of the Dwarves is not mentioned idly by his creatures. Dwarves are always bound by their word, but breaking an oath taken under Aulë’s name -whom the Dwarves call Mahal- means, under their beliefs, to end one’s line forever, hence the smiting and burning of the bones mentioned in the oath. No-one else would ever be born in Dáin’s likeness to receive his name after him if he failed to be true to his word.
After the shock, Himli’s booming voice made everyone start. ‘Lord, I’m yours to command! Himli son of Balin will do whatever his king orders.’ Then he turned towards Dwalin. ‘Shame! I can’t allow talk like yours, not even from an elder of my own house!’
Dwalin made to start against Himli, but Glóin stopped him. ‘Dwalin, my friend, leave him. Our lord has spoken. Now we must work together! Stand down.’ Dwalin moved away, but kept staring at Himli. Then Glóin turned on Himli and stood face to face with him. ‘The shame is on you, Himli, brother-son of Dwalin. I hope Mahal gives you wisdom to match the powers of your Ring if you ever find it. Nothing less will suffice after what I have seen from you today.’ Next he addressed Dáin. ‘So the course of action is decided, my lord. How is this to be achieved then?’
Dáin approached the fire, seemingly in a casual way, and whispered: ‘Oi, come here.’ Then he continued aloud. ‘Master Gimfur, what do you say?’
The others turned towards Gimfur. He was calmly sitting at his chair again. ‘It could work. And the Shire is on my way back home, so it suits me.’
Dáin turned towards Fróin now. ‘I think I know what your counsel is, don’t I, Fróin?’
Fróin was at a loss what Dáin meant. ‘Well, my lord...’
‘No, Fróin. I wasn’t asking. I know what your counsel is.’
Fróin stood as if turned into a statue. No, he didn’t have his uncle that well figured out.
Then there was a soft, even polite, knock at the door. A servant’s knock. Dáin went to open personally. It was Oi.
‘Come in, Oi. Let’s close this matter once and for all. Oi, find a seat and write this down.’ Oi obeyed, trying not to look at anyone in his nervousness. ‘Masters Dwalin and Glóin: you have offered me valuable information and wise counsel. Your names are among the most revered ever in this kingdom and they will remain so for as long as these halls stand. You have done enough for its greatness. You will remain in Erebor, ready to assist me in any matter I deem necessary, in particular as messengers to other peoples. You will.’ Dwalin and Glóin put a hand to their chest and bowed, acknowledging obedience. ‘Master Himli: as heir to the Ringowner of your house in Khazad-dum, it will fall to you to travel to the Shire, find Bilbo the halfling and together with him recover the surviving Three Rings from the grasp of whichever minion of Sauron has them in his possession. You will.’ Now Himli put his hand to his chest, but Gimfur, as he was not one of Dáin’s subjects, didn’t. ‘Master Gimfur, do you agree to my command and therefore to fall under our laws and protection in this matter?’
Gimfur now put his hand to his chest and answered: ‘I do, until your command is fulfilled.’
Dáin now turned to Fróin. ‘Master Fróin: you are not a Ringowner on an heir to one, but you will take Erebor’s place in this quest.’ Fróin was astonished at this. ‘My wish should be enough reason for you, but I will offer you other motives for my choice: even if my own days were less in number than they are, my place is here with my people in this difficult time. Besides, I deem that my son, Thorin, will be needed by my side. His lot of substituting for you and Himli will not be an easy one. This is a great honour being bestowed on you. You will be equal to Himli and Gimfur in this quest and will share the same goals. You will.’ Fróin put his hand to his chest, a bit too quick, and the thump resonated in the room. Not in his own ears, though, as his blood was doing that already. ‘And now, Oi, stand up.’ Everyone stared curiously at the scribe as he stood fearfully. ‘Oi, you are kin of Ori, one of the Quest of Erebor, now with our beloved Balin in Khazad-dum as Chief Scribe and Keeper of Mazarbul. Your family has served in this priceless job for years now. You will accompany the Three Ringseekers in the same record-keeping capacity now.’ Oi had to put a hand to the table to avoid falling from the surprise. Dáin now looked at the Ringseekers as he continued. ‘You, Oi, won’t be burdened with any responsibility about the rings, save to bear any of them if any original member of the quest can’t do so. You will show the appropriate deference to the Ringseekers as your elders, but other than this, they won’t have any privileges over you during this quest, or won’t expect you to share an unequal part of their travails. You ALL will.’ Fróin, Himli and Gimfur again put their hand to their chest. Oi, head still swimming, also did so, although in his case it seemed that he was doing it to stop his heart from popping out of his chest. ‘Finally, Masters Dwalin and Glóin, one year from today, one of you will be sent to Elrond of Rivendell with whatever news we have. Rings or no rings, we need to keep close counsel with the rest of the free peoples, and help each other in these dark times. This is what Dáin II, King Under The Mountain wills today. Forth the Quest of the Rings.’

The Hope of the North: Dwarves 6

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The loud knocks on the door were so unexpected that the four dwarves stayed in their seats for a few moments in silence, stunned. A new blow on the door shook them out of their state. Fróin thought to himself that if anyone was foolish enough to bang his fists against the king’s door, they either wanted their days shortened or they had a very good reason. A look at Dáin’s face confirmed that Fróin was not the only one to feel that way. Dáin looked at him and nodded curtly. Fróin stood up to open the door.

He had just unfastened the bolt, when someone pushed it from the outside unceremoniously, and then shoved Fróin out of the way too. It was Himli. The Ringowner was a big dwarf in his own right, but now his bulk was aggrandised by what he was wearing: a gala armour set, full of ornaments, which was meant to be worn only on exceptional occasions. It was similar to a battle armour, but with magnificent details added on the shoulders, helmet, gauntlets and boots. Obviously, such resplendent gear was not only very expensive, but also very heavy, and although it could be worn in battle if absolutely necessary, that would have been both a hindrance to its wearer and a waste of exquisite craftsmanship. Its most salient feature was that the encrustings in the armour were all done in stone: not precious stones or jewels, but heavy stone quarried by the hard labour of the dwarves, not valuable in bartering price, but made worthy by the graft and sweat it had cost. However, they were not any old stones just picked up from the floor: each of the pieces encrusted all along the arms and shoulders had earned its place on the ensemble for a reason. Some had made it all the way from the Blue Mountains thanks to Gimfur’s people. There was also red laen from the Greenwood dating from the days before it became the Mirkwood. In the centre of the breastplate there was the first stone ever broken by Balin’s folk in their new delvings in Khazad-dum, expressly sent back by a messenger to tell all of Erebor that the Mansion of the Dwarves had been re-entered. And finally, the visor and nose-piece were made from one of the rocks turned into crystal by the fire of Smaug the Golden, a crystal harder than his own scales.

That suit was not worn idly. For long it had lain well kept awaiting the day when Balin would claim that his mastery of the proudest of the dwarf-delves was complete. In it, the heir of Balin’s house was expected to show the pride of his heritage, and Himli certainly looked the part. Two more details contributed to make Himli’s appearance even more awe-inspiring: one was the fiery expression in his face, and the other a great two-bladed battle-ax, which he was carrying crossed in front of him, holding it with both hands. Once inside the room, he began walking towards Dáin’s table with a calculated, slow, stately pace suited to the armour he was wearing.

Behind him came Gimfur, the other Ringowner. He had not changed his clothes, and the expression on his face differed from Himli’s. First he gazed towards Fróin, inquiring with a look if he was all right, and almost asking for an apology. Then, when Fróin gestured that he was fine, Gimfur followed Himli into the room, and stood behind him. His countenance was also firm and serious, but not menacing. Rather, he seemed to be concerned, on his toes, keeping an eye on what Himli did. Fróin walked back towards the table after Himli and Gimfur, unsure of what to do, as he was not supposed to interfere with two important lords like them. At the table, Dwalin and Glóin stood up as they saw Himli approach. Dáin, sitting at the far end of the table, facing the door, as he always did, remained in his chair and sat back, his eyes fixed on Himli’s. Himli finally reached the table, stood by Fróin’s empty chair for a few seconds, staring at Dáin, and then he put down his ax onto the table with a heavy thud. ‘I think we have a right to know what’s being discussed here... my lord.’

That wasn’t exactly apologetic, but the ‘my lord’ at the end seemed to dispel some of the questions that everyone had in their minds about Himli’s intentions. However, there was no mistaking the object of wearing that suit of armour, so Fróin stood by him, to his right, as close as he could be without looking inappropriate, in case something happened. Meanwhile, Gimfur, standing behind Himli, to his left, kept his eyes on him most of the time, except to shoot occasional brief glances at everyone else’s faces. He kept his hands free and his arms hanging at his sides, as if ready for something.

Dáin leaned forward and put a hand on the table. ‘The decision on what anyone should know in my kingdom has always been my prerogative, master Himli. You will be told what you need to know when I deem it necessary.’
Himli almost stepped on Dáin’s sentence. ‘The matter under discussion here involves a prized possession of my house! I think I can spare you the trouble of sending for me and the time to inform me, by listening to the proceedings myself. Master Gimfur is of the same mind.’
Now it was Dwalin who raised his voice: ‘‘My house’? What do you mean by that? How dare you?’ Dwalin approached Himli and stood face to face with him. ‘Is this how you honour your proud heritage? By sizing for you names and possessions you don’t have a right to yet? Your father is the head of your house, and he is in Khazad-dum trying to build an empire that you and your brothers can feel proud of!’
Himli turned to him. ‘Proud? I do feel proud about that glorious undertaking. But my heart is divided. If I am Balin’s faithful kinsman and subject, I am also the son he left behind. He is working for the glory of his folk, or maybe that of all the Children of Mahal, but I very much doubt if he ever thinks of someone he hasn't seen for so long.’
‘He left you here for your safety! He didn’t leave you behind so that you could greedily grab what you want from him when you well please! I won’t allow it, Himli.’
Himli looked towards Dáin, as if expecting him to intervene. The king took a deep breath. ‘Master Dwalin, your brother-son is not here now at my request,’ and now Himli looked away, ‘but earlier today I did call on him to discuss the matter of the Rings, together with Gimfur. In the regrettable absence of Balin, it was my decision to choose him to represent Khazad-dum.’
Dwalin looked at Dáin, astonished. ‘And why, if I may ask?’
‘You must know why already, Dwalin. Whether Balin is still alive and well or not, his hoard, including the Ring, will pass on to his sons after him, not to his brother. Himli has already been looking after Balin’s possessions in Erebor, and quite capably, as you yourself have remarked more than once.’
‘But why wasn’t I called with him? Was I going to be left in the dark then?’
‘You weren’t, Dwalin. I have just been discussing the matter with you too, until we were interrupted.’
‘No, we haven’t! We haven’t mentioned Balin’s hoard, or the Rings at all, except by my own intervention. We’ve been only talking about hobbits. I fail to see how that’s related to the Rings!’

Dáin stood up and put both fists onto the table. He looked at each of the others, taking his time. Just as he had anticipated, all the deference and obedience towards him as king was left aside when house-hoards were mentioned, and he could be addressed as a nosy intruder rather than as an overlord. Anyway, he still had the power to make decisions, and he had just made one. The matter couldn’t be allowed to get out of hand. In any case, the events were upholding that decision rather than complicate it.
‘Fróin, please get two more chairs. And let’s move the table closer to the fire on the corner.’
Glóin was only too eager to obey this. He was famous for being able to make a fire out of almost anything. Rumours said that he had become so good at that because he couldn’t stand the cold. He wouldn’t deny it, but a dwarf doesn’t like to have his weaknesses pointed out to him. He and Gimfur moved the table with not a little effort. However, he didn’t know what the real reason behind Dáin’s request was: the king didn’t want Oi to miss a single word of what was going to be said now. Fróin brought the other two chairs, and everyone sat, except for Himli.
‘I think I’ll stand, my lord.’
Dáin stared at him with annoyance. ‘Master Himli, you are beginning to descend from rude to downright offensive! I have let you into the discussion now. What is the reason for this attitude?’
Himli lowered his gaze, embarrassed. ‘No, my lord, it’s not lack of respect. I’d willingly sit, but... I can’t with this armour on me.’

The Hope of the North: Dwarves 5

‘So, tell me about that Halfling, Bilbo. I hardly had a look at him after the battle, and that was nigh on eighty years ago. Besides, he was unconscious most of the time.’
Dwalin and Glóin looked at each other, as if asking permission to start. Not that they needed a second invitation to recount their tale, a thousand times told. Finally Glóin seemed to think that he was in debt with Dwalin for his tactlessness, and he ceded him the word.
‘I will tell you what I remember, my lord. But didn’t you send your own son to attend some momentous celebration in the Shire a few years back? Surely you can find more recent news from him.’
‘Yes, that is true. Thorin attended Bilbo’s birthday party, at which some remarkable events occurred, if I remember correctly. But I will ask him in due course. However, it’s not the later period in his life that I’m interested about. Tell me all that you remember about him during the Quest of Erebor.’
‘Well, I was the first of our party to arrive at his house. He was a little stiff perhaps, but he seemed a kindly enough chap, for his own people at last. Nice cakes, he had, although it’s a shame they prefer to wash them down with tea instead of beer.’ He and Glóin both chuckled at the recollection. ‘Nice day we had there too. We played some music with Old Gandalf, remember that, eh? Hahaha. Anyway, Bilbo didn’t look like much at first. He seemed to be quite worried at the prospect of going out into the world without his pocket-handkerchief. I had to lend him my spare hooded cloak just to calm him down! They were too large for him, and he looked rather comic. I was quite impatient about him, I think. For most of the trip he didn’t seem to be doing us any benefit to take him along. Although you liked him even less, friend Glóin.’
‘Absolutely. As soon as I clapped eyes on the little fellow bobbing and puffing on the mat of his house, I had my doubts. He looked more like a grocer than a burglar! Yet maybe I think I was the one who changed his mind the most about him. After all was finished, when he told us all ‘may your beards never grow thin’ I almost wanted to embrace the rascal. If they don’t look much, those Hobbits, they learn quick, I’ll give them that. Even the Elves seemed to think that too.’
‘Oh, the Elves, that’s right. They did their bit too all right.’
‘You know what I remember the most about them? That silly song they made up in which your name was mentioned. Remember it?’
‘Oh, yes! Flattering in a way, although I didn’t think that at the time.’
The two dwarves looked at each other and began singing:

‘O! Where are you going
With beards all a-wagging?
No knowing, no knowing
What brings Mister Baggins,
And Balin and Dwalin
down into the valley
in June
ha! ha!’

Then they burst out laughing, patting each other in the back and arms, while Dáin and Fróin looked at them astonished. Fróin was positively embarrassed, while Dáin looked severely at his kinsmen, fists clenched. ‘Now then!’ The tone of his voice made the laughter disappear into thin air. ‘This is not being very helpful, is it?’ He put a hand to his brow, scratching his forehead furiously for a few seconds. ‘All right, listen: I know all the particulars of your journey already, songs and all. But that is not what I want now. I do not need entertainment tonight. What I want to hear from you is very simple: was this Hobbit a reliable burglar, or treasure-hunter, or whatever you want to call him, was he genuinely good at his trade, or was all just dumb luck? I need to know.’
Dwalin composed himself and thought for a few moments. ‘All in all, sire, I would say he was good, yes. His ways and overall composure don’t go with what us dwarves are used to see, but maybe it’s there where the deception lies. In particular, those hobbits have a talent for not being seen if they wish. I doubt that he ever burgled for a living, before or after our Quest, but he undoubtedly has a knack for it.’
Glóin concurred. ‘I agree, my lord. I would even add that the less you came to think of him, the more he surprised you at the end. However, the luck part you also mentioned also applies. He could get lost seemingly at will, but if he has a knack for disappearing, he also has a lucky edge. Not immediately, it would seem, but in the end all seemed to come together nicely for him.’
Dáin sat there, eyes narrowed, taking all this in. ‘Hrmmm. Lucky, is he, eh? That’s always good. My father, when he wanted to appoint a new commander of troops, would always ask the people who knew the candidate about the qualities he had for the job, and then the last question would always be: ‘is he lucky?’. I don’t know if he based his decisions on that, but things didn’t go badly for him. Not a bad thing having fortune on your side. Well, thanks for your assistance, dear friends.’
Glóin seemed quite relieved now. ‘Oh, not at all, sire. We’re just glad to be of help. But may I ask why all the interest in Bilbo? Do you want something stolen? Hahaha.’
Dwalin began laughing with him too, but Fróin started in his chair and opened his eyes and mouth in incredulity. What?? No, that couldn’t be the plan that...
Suddenly, a loud banging on the door shook him even more.

The Hope of the North: Dwarves 4

(Para leer capítulos anteriores, pulsa en 'The Hope of the North', en la columna de la derecha)

Oi left the room and the heavy door closed without a noise behind Dwalin, Glóin and Fróin. Dáin went towards them. 'Come in, my dear friends, welcome.' Dwalin and Glóin obeyed, their faces smiling at the prospect of spending some time with their ruler and friend. However, there was some stiffness in their manner that did not come with a dwarvish nature or with the number of autumns they had seen pass. The occasion was unusual and they all knew it. 'Here, take a seat. No, not at the table. By the fireplace in the corner it will be nicer. One can tell winter is approaching, can't one?'
Glóin chuckled, breaking the icy mood, and took his cloak off. 'I, for one, think it's a great idea. I love this land to the marrow of my bones, but come October I can always use some extra warmth. I always like a good fire.' He rubbed his hands standing by the fireplace. 'The north is too cold for me. Don't they have mountains to mine in the south too, Dwalin?'
Dwalin looked somewhat uncomfortable. 'They do, Master Glóin. But I doubt they are worthier of our attentions than our Kingdom under the Mountain.'
'Oh, but more sun and light would be a blessing indeed. Even the Northmen moved down south to raise their horses in sunnier plains. Nice bit of business they did, if you ask me. And I bet that they and the Dúnedain, whom they got their land from are sitting right above some unexplored wonders.'
The others sat down. Dwalin did not answer and just shook his head. Glóin tried to cheer him up. 'What, friend? Have you lost your spirit of adventure? Our halls under this mountain are a true wonder, but, by my beard, the day the dwarves have to live all their lives underground will be a sad one indeed. May my eyes never see that. I need fresh air from time to time. And my son Gimli is like this too. Speaking of which, we have to find him something to do, my lord. He prowls around all day, impatient like one of those beasts the Men of Dale are so fond of catching and putting in cages.' He stopped rubbing his hands and took his seat. 'Ahh, much better. My, I would bet even Khazad-dum is nicer than this at this time of the year.'
Dáin stared at him with incredulity, and Dwalin's face went from uneasiness at the topic to strong annoyance. 'Don't you ever know when to stop, Glóin?'
The tension returned. Glóin was dismayed at his own foolishness. He swallowed hard. 'Excuse me, Dwalin, I am an old fool indeed. I had forgotten about Balin. No, well, I don't mean 'forgotten', of course your brother is sorely missed, I mean he just wasn't in my mind at the moment, it's only that...'
Dwalin interrupted before he could make it worse. 'That will do, Glóin. Hardly a moment passes by that I don't think about him anyway. Your words haven't made it worse, my friend, don't worry about me, but until tidings of Balin come to us, for me Khazad-dum is not the Mansion of the Dwarves, but 'Moria', the Black Pit, as the Elves call it. I still think it was foolishness to let that shadow of disquiet make him and others think that greater wealth and splendour would be found in a wider world. Lord Dáin, you were not willing to let him go, and in that you demonstrated your wisdom. I can only hope that in these nigh on thirty years Balin has been gone, his own wisdom has increased too. I am grateful for your attempt to make this moment less awkward, Glóin, but our lord has summoned us for something extremely important, if I am not mistaken.'

They all looked at Dáin. All this time, meanwhile, Fróin, on his part, had been just moving his eyes from one figure to the other as if afraid of missing something important if he blinked. What was his uncle's great plan? There was one, to be sure, if he knew Dáin at all, but Glóin and Dwalin were not military leaders anymore, so why call them? Their job now was purely administrative: they were sent in embassies to represent the kingdom, in particular to Dale and Mirkwood, where they had acquaintances going back to the days of the Battle of Five Armies. But surely the help of other peoples was not going to be sought in this matter of the Dwarven Rings! That was purely a Dwarvish matter! In Fróin's mind, summons had been sent, speeches had been made and troops were already moving. What role were these two old and venerable lords destined for, then? Dáin's voice shook him from his thoughts.
'Master Dwalin is right. Time is of the essence, my dear friends, and I need some answers about a matter of your expertise. An important decision has to be made, and your counsel will be deemed decisive.'
Fróin exhaled noisily and folded his arms. Fortunately for him, he did not roll his eyes as he had been about to, because Dáin looked at him precisely in that moment. Then the king turned towards the other two again. That was Dáin's way of dealing with people: instead of making them relax and be at ease, first he made them aware of just how important the matter was with an introduction like that. He just had that way of presenting matters for deliberation that built up extra pressure on proceedings. Fróin had seen many meetings with him made particularly charged because of that. No doubt he did it to know if the people being talked to were up to the task, and this way weed the faint-hearted from the capable, but things became so tiring after a while. Everyone was on their toes already in this matter. More tension was not needed.
Dwalin and Glóin looked at each other and nodded with their heads, mouths slightly open in anticipation. 'What matter is that, sire?'
'It is quite appropriate that Master Glóin was referring just now to your youthful adventures. For it is about them that I need information. You know what I talk about. Hobbits. Halflings. Shirelings. Whatever you call them. Are you aware of what happened earlier tonight?'
Glóin stared at the floor. Dwalin was more resolute. 'Master Glóin was with you at the time, sire, but I have heard nothing but rumours. Apparently you told everyone present not to tell any tales until you had taken counsel, and Glóin has obeyed to the letter. Others might have not been so careful, though. A Black Rider appeared at the Gate and called you to talk about a matter concerning the Rings of our forefathers. That's all I know. I have not heard anywhere about hobbits being involved in the conversation. But... I believe that Moria was actually mentioned?'
'Indeed it was.'
'Then I fail to see how these matters might have a connection with the hobbits. Anyway, I will be glad to find in my old head any details that can be of help. But first I must know, sire. Did that horseman mention anything relating to our kin there?'
'No, Master Dwalin. That Rider did not come from Khazad-dum. It came from Mordor, from the Lord Sauron the Great, as he said.'
Glóin looked up, angry. 'The maker of the Rings himself, can you believe it? What does he want with us? He is the one who has something that belongs to us! We should be the ones knocking at his door.'
Dáin stared at him intently. 'That, my friend, is what this conversation is about.'
Fróin clenched his fists in approval. That was more like it! The more he thought about it, the more he was of Himli's mind: something needed to be done. Gimfur was too calm about it. The dwarves were still strong and could take on anyone!

The Hope of the North: Dwarves 3

Gimfur was from the ruling family of the dwarves of the Blue Mountains, away North-West, beyond even that Shire where the Halfling lived. They were too far away for frequent contact, but the Ered Luin had been the refuge of the exiled dwarves of Erebor after Smaug destroyed their kingdom, and the hospitality they had given to Thorin the Restorer and his father Thráin would never be forgotten. Dáin was three years old only when the Golden Dragon descended, and he was living with his father Náin in the Iron Hills, but all his life he had grown hearing the tale of the beast that everyone hated but no-one had the bravery to confront. Until one day Thorin Oakenshield decided to take his doom into his own hands and recover what was his. And he did it, but that dream was the cause of his death too, and so Dáin had come to be King under the Mountain.

Three of Thorin’s companions, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, were from the Blue Mountains, and all three still lived in Erebor, happy and contented. It was to see them that Gimfur had primarily come. And the Black Rider had appeared just then, this very morning, surely not by chance. The more Dáin thought about this point, the surer he was of that. What twisted design lied behind that visit? Did he want to cause division in his realm with that dramatic appearance in front of his gate?

There was a soft knock at the door. ‘Come in!’ It was Oi. Of course, this time he was using the regular entrance.
‘Masters Gloin and Dwalin are here, my Lord.’
‘Very well, bid them enter.’
‘And also, sire...’ Oi looked doubtful.
Dáin looked at him. ‘Also what?’
‘Master Froin, my Lord. You did not request his presence, but he has insisted to join ‘this sort of conference’, as he himself put it, sire.’
‘Froin. Hrmm. I suppose there is no sense in keeping him out now. All right, bring him in too. And, Oi, I will not be needing you anymore this time.’
Oi was surprised. He looked back at the door he had closed behind him and lowered his voice, even when he knew that no sound would go beyond it. ‘Are you sure, my Lord?’ Dáin stared at him, half annoyed, half amused. Oi recoiled, lowered his head and looked at the floor. ‘My Lord, the Records. They will not be complete if I am not allowed to listen. You know how well this precaution has served you in the past, sire. And this matter seems to be of particular importance.’
Dáin pondered the matter for a few moments. ‘You have overrun your shift today, Oi, haven’t you?’
Oi was as still as if carved of stone. ‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘And you know why I run this system, don’t you?’
‘It’s the will of our king, sire. I do not question it.’
‘I do it so that none of the Scribes has the whole information, Oi. Stop staring at the floor. Look at me now.’ Oi looked at Dáin. The king’s glance was stern and penetrating. ‘Lack of tidings is a great evil indeed in these times, no lesser than lack of weapons. Luckily, the house of Dúrin has wisdom according to its years, and we do not need to worry about the latter. But about the former, some tidings are not intended for all ears, do you understand that?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘I don't think you really do, Oi. By now, not many of my subjects will be ignorant of what has happened today, but not a few will be desiring that they never learned what they have. That, Oi, is my duty: to tell my people only what they need to know, for their own happiness. If you insist on your counsel, before the next dawn you might know more than you should. After that, you will not have to do anything, oh no. Your task will be more difficult than that: to behave as if today had not happened. Are you sure you can bear that burden?’
Oi stood to his full height and looked confidently into his king’s eyes. ‘Yes, my Lord. Dúrin’s is also my line, and if only a small part of the wisdom bequeathed to you is in my blood too, you will not be disappointed.’
Dáin put a hand on Oi’s shoulder. ‘Good lad. Now, if I know those three outside at all, they will not be very happy standing there in the middle of a corridor. Let them in and fulfill your duty.’
‘Aye, sire.’
The three dwarves entered the room.

The Hope of the North: Dwarves 2

(Para leer capítulos anteriores, pulsa en 'The Hope of the North' en la sección 'Cajones', en la columna de la derecha)

Dáin’s companions looked at each other with amazement, but something told them that it would be wise to obey and leave the room. At the end of the day, King Dáin was as venerable as he was venerated. At 250 years old, he looked as fit and straight as any of his subjects half his years. However, he had been known to play the card of his age before when the matters at hand had grown too tiresome for him and wanted to be left alone. However, this did not mean that the matters at hand would not be dealt with. He said he would take counsel with himself and doubtless he would. Besides, that last look in his eyes, still lingering there, promised new developments in the morning. The three dwarven lords abandoned the room, and Dáin was left wondering how it was possible that his mind had decided to tell the others about his idea, but his mouth had gainsayed it. Could it be that wisdom at his age meant that his brain would only get in the way of true counsel if it worked too much?

Anyway, an early night was far from his mind for the moment. Where were we? The Smaug expedition, yes, and Bilbo the halfling. Who was left in Erebor of those? Balin was in Khazad-dum trying to restore that magnificent kingdom, although no news had been heard of them for a long time, which was disquieting. Ori and Oin had gone with him. Fili and Kili and fallen fighting against the Orcs at the Battle of Five Armies. But the remaining seven of Thorin’s companions were still living in Erebor. Of those seven, two were of his own line, the House of Durin.

He stood up, approached one of the columns in the enormous chamber, put his mouth by the capital and spoke in a normal voice, as if someone was there to listen. ‘Oi! Come here.’ Immediately a crack appeared in the wall opposite where Dáin was, a good thirty yards away. Through it came a young dwarf of about seventy years of age. No matter how well known to the old ruler, the tricks of dwarven craft before his days never ceased to amaze him. That was no wizardry, or elven magic, no cumbersome mannish devices either. Just plain old stonework. No-one could hear anything that was spoken in that chamber from outside if they were well inside it, in the middle of the room, but he only had to stand by one of the multiple columns decorating the hall, and the sound would travel to the next room as clear and crisp as the waters of Kheled-zaram. A little tweak in the arrangement of seats so that the guests were closer to the walls and the columns, and he or anyone of his design could learn many useful things indeed without being seen.

‘Oi, I need you to find me Masters Glóin and Dwalin as soon as possible, and bring them here. The matter is very urgent. Go.’ The younger dwarf went in again and closed the hidden door noiselessly. Then, an almost imperceptible thud followed, and the crack in the wall disappeared. ‘Amazing.’

Anyway, he put ancient masonry out of his mind and returned to his thoughts. This was a big test of his quality, indeed. It could be the single most important decision he had ever had to make. He only hoped his wisdom was not too diminished already. The biggest hindrance he faced was that, in this matter, he could not act like the king with undisputed authority that the usually was. The allegiance of the whole kingdom was his to command, and anyone, from the first lord to the last servant, would obey him unflinchingly in any matter he deemed necessary for the good of the realm. But no-one, not even the king, could meddle in the way in which a dwarven lord went about managing and protecting his own private hoard or recovering a possession that was rightfully his. And if he was sure that at a simple whisper Fróin, Himli and Gimfur would send themselves and their whole families to face a horde of dragons without blinking, he could also be assured that putting a foot wrong in this case would earn him, even from his own family, an eternal enmity (was there any other type of enmity, anyway?). And to compound the whole mess, Dáin was also a Ringowner himself, representing Erebor, while Gimfur represented the Ered Luin and Balin would stand for Khazad-dum if his great works begun there went well. And finally, Dáin just did not have the time now for treasure hunts, with disquieting rumours coming from the Men of the East.

Dáin found himself pacing furiously while he waited for his two kinsmen. Whoever that confounded Black Rider was, he had put him in a fine pickle indeed! At least, all this had happened during one of the infrequent visits of Gimfur’s people, so he could be consulted readily. Dáin stopped walking, struck by this sudden thought. The Black Rider and Gimfur! A coincidence? Surely not!