Emissary of the Mark

(Elfhelm’s adventures in the land of Rhûn)

by Soledad Cartwright

Disclaimer: see Introduction, because in this story it’s rather long.

Author’s note: Originally, this would have been the last part of Chapter 5. As it would have made the chapter too long, however, I’ve decided to split them.

The description of the Old Dwarf-road was inspired by the Skocjan Caves in Slovenia. Visit them if you get the chance – they are a marvel.

Strider tells Elfhelm a couple of chapters earlier that Nimwarkinh used to be a city of the BroadBeam Dwarves, while in “The Book of Mazarbul”, there is mentioned that certain Petty Dwarves probably still live there. That seems to be a contradiction; however, it is a fact that Petty Dwarves often got booted out by their more powerful cousins from their dwellings (Nargothrond anyone?).

Beta read by Borys, thanks.

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Chapter Six – The Old Dwarf-Road

As Jouko had foretold, Beryl indeed protested against the road of Ingolf’s choosing in the next morning. This time, however, the young warlord would not back off.

“I hate that road as much as you do,” he admitted. “’Tis perilous, uncomfortable and unpredictable. However, at least it is short and fast. I do not wish to walk through the inhabited halls with these spies. I want them behind lock and under guard as soon as possible, without giving them the opportunity to spy on us any more.”

Beryl shrugged and made a very displeased face.

“You are my commander…’til we reach home,” was alls he said. After that, she spoke no more, neither to her lord nor to the prisoners.

After a meagre breakfast, they took their leave from the family and returned to the rock path from the previous day. They had to climb some more, ere they reached a fork of paths; there they turned to the West, and after having dragged the horses up a long stairway of flat, broken steps with considerable difficulty – Dwarf handiwork if Elfhelm had ever seen any – they finally came to a small rock plateau with its surface cracked in several places. It was not the surest footing for the horses, but they managed somehow, putting one hoof before the other with great care.

Enormously tall, sheer and rough rock walls encircled the plateau, blotting out the Sun itself; yet – right opposite the end of the stairway – a weather-beaten, arched stone door was outlined in the seemingly untouched face of the rock. It had no keyhole, nor a doorknob, nor any visible means, by which it could have been opened, thus Ingolf, gathering his bear-like strength, tore it open with one powerful move.

The ancient, warped stone door gave in with a long screech, and after his first glimpse in the inside, Elfhelm understood why the shieldmaiden had been so reluctant to follow this path. Nonetheless, Ingolf urged them forward, and they led their horses under the earth. Elfhelm had never been more grateful for the fact that the Horses of the Mark followed their masters everywhere, even if frightened out of their minds. Had Hafoc bolted, trying to get away from the horrors of an underground path, he would never been able to find the good animal again.

An enormous cavern lay behind the flat, stone doorstep; so huge that its other end was lost in the shadows, as it stretched endlessly before their stunned eyes. Its high, arched ceiling, too, was obscured by shadows, somewhere high above their heads; only the tips of icicle-like stone formations, hanging from the said ceiling like the petrified strains of frozen rain were visible. Narrow galleries, cut masterfully out of the living rock, framed the walls, one above another, as far as the eye could see. Some of them were half-collapsed, their broken pieces lying around in random heaps, blocking the way.

“These once served as scaffolding for the Dwarven miners to reach the trails of ore everywhere,” explained Strider in a low voice. “They use the same method in the Iron Hills and Erebor. These mines, though, must have been abandoned for a very long time. As a rule, Dwarves keep their shafts in a good shape.”

Ingolf turned back and shot them an angry glare. Strider shrugged and fell in silence. Not that he would have been afraid of the irascible young warrior; he just did not want another meaningless confrontation. They continued their way, keeping to the middle of the road, where it was the least damaged, winding among the broken stones that were too large and heavy to move them out of the path.

Columns of stone rose like the trunks of trees towards the arched ceiling; some of them broken and crumbled, too, so that the four travellers had to feel their way forward with the utmost care. Once the row of galleries came to an end, huge outcroppings sprang forth along the shadowy walls, like some bizarre, petrified flowers; if natural or Dwarf-made, ‘twas hard to tell. Neither were the walls just grey any longer. Threads of scarlet and malachite twisted through luminous shafts of rock, and white tendrils of white crystal curled around jagged walls that gleamed with rivulets of water.

The air was stifling after the icy wind of the surface, and heavy with dust and a musty smell. Strange echoes jumped to and fro in trail of their steps, like flocks of bats, as they made their way forward on the long-abandoned path, stumbling and wavering at times. The Khimmer might use this road when in need to get home faster, but they most certainly did nothing to make it easier to tread.

Still other caverns lay behind the first one, and as they slowly crossed them, Elfhelm caught sight of wide pools, further back on the left and the right, behind silent rows of even more crumbling stone pillars, flat and glistening like mirrors. Some had a dull, greenish glow in the light of the torches, others were pale blue, yet none of them seemed particularly inviting.

“What is this place?” whispered Elfhelm to the Ranger. “Could this have been part of the ancient Dwarf city you have mentioned earlier?”

“Mayhap,” answered Strider quietly, “’tis hard to tell. The Annals of Elves speak very little about the East, and even less about Dwarves, as the two races have some long-held grudges towards each other. Perchance the Dwarves in Erebor can tell more about the adventures of their brethren in these parts. I shall ask them next time I run into one of them, but ‘tis uncertain if I would get an answer or not. Dwarves are a secretive lot.”

“Quiet!” Beryl hissed, pushing him forward, and not too gently. “These caves are unstable and treacherous. Even loud speak can cause the huge stones to fall down upon our heads. Keep your mouths shut and hurry up!”

They left the first cavern in silence and entered the second one. Ingolf lifted the torch above his head to take a look – and their breath caught. The cave was every bit as grand as the previous one… and every bit as damaged. Yet on both sides of the half-collapsed road, sparkling gemstones framed their path: deep blue and translucent green ones, some of a pale, mauve red, some crystal clear, others speckled with gold or silver. Their size varied from that of a dove egg to that of a man’s clenched fist, This must once have been a mine, rich beyond belief… and indeed, part of some forgotten Dwarf-realm, which had been pillaged Ages ago.

“These remains would still count as immeasurable treasure in the eyes of many Men,” Elfhelm commented in a low voice that would not raise Beryl’s ire – or call down the danger of falling stones upon their heads.

“And they could easily be the death of every treasure-hunter,” answered Strider, his voice barely above a whisper. “Dwarves are fiercely jealous of that which they consider theirs, and thus they tend to build lethal traps in their mines to protect their pleasure. Often they do not dismantle those traps, even after abandoning a mine, in the hope that one day they might return.”

“It looks not like they had returned, though,” said Elfhelm, with a sweeping glance at the desolate state of the once doubtlessly splendid halls.

“Nay,” Strider agreed, “which is why we ought to be very careful. Keep an eye on your horses; they are not used to such paths and may panic easily.”

Elfhelm found that a useful piece of advice. More so as the ground suddenly dipped upon entering the third cavern, and they found themselves amid stones that jutted like huge, ragged teeth from the ground. One false step, and either Hafoc or his mare could impale themselves on any of those stone pikes. Thus Elfhelm focused on calming the good beasts and getting them through this evil path unharmed.

Further on the cavern floor rolled and twisted like frozen waves of some enchanted sea, and getting forward had become even more difficult. They had to slow down considerably, as the thudding of hooves could have loosened the already crumbling stones; ‘Twas not an easy walk with the horses already frightened out their minds.

The fourth cavern had massive piles of broken rock, as if it had been mined dry. There, again, were outcroppings along the rock walls; some of them looking like petrified canopies; others had the shape of unmoving clouds. Here Beryl seemed to calm down somewhat, which – hopefully – meant that they must have reached a more stable region.

One of the rock formations particularly caught Elfhelm’s attention. It looked like a cluster of oversized frying pans, growing right out of the living rock in a terraced pattern, up to the ceiling, as far as he could tell. They were three to four foot in diameter, and some of them seemed at least a foot deep, if not deeper. They were filled with water; not the murky water of the pools they had seen before, but water that seemed clean and fresh. Proving this, Ingolf called a break and led the horses to the lowest ‘pan’ to drink.

“What are these things?” asked Elfhelm in awe. “I have never seen anything like this.”

“But I have,” replied Strider, “when I visited the great Dwarf-kingdom under the Lonely Mountain, in the company of Gandalf the Grey. The Dwarves call these stone vessels the Gours, and use them as part of their water distribution system.”

“Are they Dwarf-made, then?” asked Elfhelm. Strider shook his head.

“Nay; they are natural formations. Rain water, and the water of small springs higher up in the Mountains, sinks and drains underground through fissures in the limestone rock, and gets filtered through the process. As a result, the water gathered in the Gours is always fresh, cool and wholesome.”

Elfhelm could test the truth of these words as they, too, were allowed a taste ere continuing their journey. The water was indeed wondrously fresh and sweet. That reminded him of the Glittering Caves at home once again and that he should truly take a closer look at them. Assuming he would get out of Rhûn alive, that is.

“How long, do you think, have we still to go?” he asked the Ranger.

Strider shrugged. “I truly cannot tell. The only time I visited Nimwarkinh I followed the mountain paths. It took me four or five days to reach the seat of the chieftain in the Deep Forges, starting from the East Gate. We are being led along a quick and secret path here, though. One that does not follow the natural twists and turns of the underground caves but cuts through the roots of the Mountains in a straight line, as Dwarf-made mining shafts usually do.”

“Are they not natural caves, then?” Elfhelm was a little confused now.

“They are,” answered Strider, “but I would bet they were not always connected this way. Dwarves have a strong feeling for the stone; they always seem to know where they can make a doorway between caverns and where they cannot.”

“Still, four or five days?” Elfhelm shook his head in awe. Strider nodded.

“This is the largest settlement of Khimmer warriors in the entire Rhûn,” he explained. “Ragnar the Smith dwells near the western border of the Mountains of Nimwarkinh, under the roots of Falùn. From the throne room of his halls, a huge spiral staircase of flat stone steps raises in an unbroken line, up to a rock plateau atop the mountain, where a rebuilt Dwarf watchtower stands. It has been a long time since the watchtowers of Nimwarkinh were last abandoned, or so ‘tis said. Even though the Easterlings kept the broken look on the outside, to mislead their enemies.”

“What enemies can they have in their own land?” asked Elfhelm. “I understand the need to fight off wolves or stray Orcs, but for that, one would not need such fortifications.”

“The greatest enemies of the Easterlings are themselves,” Strider lowered his voice so much that Elfhelm had to strain his ears to understand what was being said. “The various Khimmer tribes are in constant struggle with each other for more power, more booty, and more lands. Every chieftain could, theoretically, achieve overlordship – they only have to slay the current overlord in hand-to-hand combat. The line of Ragnar has held overlordship for the last three or four generations, but ‘tis by no means certain that they will be able to keep it for good. Ruling power is not hereditary in Rhûn; Ragnar might call himself the Prince, but Ingolf, or whichever of his sons he chooses to follow him, will have to fight his way to the throne.”

“They are a barbaric people,” murmured Elfhelm.

“Mayhap so; but their lands are not very kind to them,” answered Strider. “With all that ash being blown over here all the time from the Ered Lithui, growing food is a hard task in Rhûn. ‘Tis part of the reason why they keep raiding the more fortunate countries. Without Mordor’s yoke upon their necks, they might have established good trading relationships with their neighbours – some smaller tribes still trade with Esgaroth and Birka, the merchant towns at the Long Lake – but that is still a long way to go.”

“May that be the reason why Ragnar showed interest in an alliance with the Mark?” asked Elfhelm.

Strider nodded. “Food is an important factor in keeping leadership. As long as he can feed his people, he is seen as a good leader… at least by the Mordvin serfs. The jarls and the simple warriors are a different matter. They live for the fight and their greatest pride is to live in joy, die a heroic dead and have a splendid funeral. To get those used to peace will be a long way to go.”

About ten yards before them, Ingolf suddenly stopped. The light of his torch fell upon a sheer, grey rock wall that seemed to block their way. Ingolf, however, simply handed his torch to Beryl and set his heavy shoulders against the seemingly bare rock. After a moment, it gave way with a grating sound. From the slowly opening door a breeze of fresher, cooler air streamed in, and far away Elfhelm could hear a low, thumping noise, like the fall of huge hammers onto enormous anvils.

“What is that?” he asked in a whisper. “It sounds like a smithy of giants would be at work somewhere before us.”

“You are hearing the sounds of the Deep Forges,” replied Strider. “I suppose we must be somewhere under Grenaar. There, on both sides of the many-miles-long Middle Hall, are countless smithies in side caves.”

In the meantime Ingolf had crossed the doorway and they were pushed forward by Beryl to follow his example. The door was barely high enough for the horses to get through, but after some resistance they managed somehow.

“Take the head, Beryl,” said Ingolf, but the shieldmaiden gave him a scathing look.

“You think I cannot close this wretched door on my own?”

‘Twas no longer even surprising that Ingolf gave in again, leading his horse away from the door. Elfhelm and Strider followed him without being ordered to, for truly, what else could they have done? There was only one way out of the caves: forward. Beryl cajoled her horse through the doorway last, and then, just as Ingolf had done earlier, set her shoulder against the door. She was not as strong as the young warlord – shieldmaiden she might be, but Ingolf had the bulk of a cave bear – but she seemed to know how to deal with it. Inch by inch, the door shut closed. Beryl wiped her sweaty brow with a bare forearm and followed the men wordlessly. Elfhelm wisely refrained from whistling in appreciation, regardless how impressed he was. That would only have earned him a broken nose.

Behind the door, they stopped a throbbing light, changing from deep red to faint rosy rhythmically. Strider nodded to himself.

“Indeed we have come to the Middle Hall of the Deep Forges with their great anvils,” he said. “They lie not very far from the Western Caves, where Ragnar the Smith dwells in his deep halls; about nine hours by foot, if one is well used to long, steady walks. The major part of the journey lies already behind us. Falùn and Grenaar lie fairly close to each other, unlike Skâgen, whose huge arms encircle the Courtyard of Nimwarkinh.

Following their capturers they came into the largest of all caverns yet; it was so huge that its true dimensions could barely be guessed in that strange, throbbing reddish light. Elfhelm had been in the Glittering Caves of Aglarond a few times, but those were mere rabbit-holes compared with the enormity of these halls. Clustered columns of black stone held the high ceiling, marble-smooth and unadorned and flawless as only Dwarven handiwork could be, even after many hundreds of years; their capitals were lost in the shadows above, giving the Middle Hall the look of a colonnade in some strange giant king’s fortress.

The reddish glow came from the long chain of side caves, which also were the source of the thudding of forges and the rhythmic jingle of hammers and anvils. From time to time a short, squat, thick-legged pony trotted out of one or other side cave, pulling a four-wheeled iron cart, filled with coal, ore, raw iron or finished iron- or bronzeworks. These small, very strong and durable ponies were related with the powerful beasts of Dwarves once bred by the StiffBeard Clans. They were blind from birth and would never leave the caves, as they also served as a food source. When they became too old and weak to work, they were slaughtered and eaten, Strider explained. Elfhelm found the custom barbaric (any Rider of the Mark would have), but he knew the Easterlings saw their beasts with a different eye; and besides, they needed to eat.

Armed watchmen came from one of the side passages armed, dressed in the same wolfskin tunics, painted shields and broadswords as the guards of the South Gate, and armed with short, broad-headed spears. Their round bronze helmets bore the sign of a raging bear; that and their scaled harnesses with the shiny brass mountings on their heavy weapons belts revealed them as the chieftain’s own troops. Seeing Ingolf, they raised their spears in greeting, and exchanged hand signs with him, as they would not have understood any spoken words over the loud noise of the Forges.

Finally coming to an agreement, the guards grabbed the captives, and again bound their arms to their backs with raw leather tongs and dragged them away, through the same side passage they had come. As far as Elfhelm could tell, they were taken westwards; and quite far away, too. Then they were dragged down some chipped stone stairway, deeper and deeper… at least four levels below the Middle Hall, if his guess was right. Finally, they were tossed through a narrow door into a windowless little chamber, which, judging by its heavy iron door, must have been the local version of gaol.

In the middle of the stone-paved floor, there was a heavy, rectangular stone plate with a large iron ring in its centre. By this ring, one of the guards yanked up the plate like a trapdoor. Icy cold air and a murky smell streamed from the black hole below. The guards now bound the legs of the prisoners, too, and tossed them carelessly and without a word into the hole and lowered the heavy stone plate in place. ‘Twas so thick and so tightly fitted that they could barely hear the thick iron door thudding close and the grating of the huge bolts above. They were trapped, and doubly so, and had no hope to come free on their own.

Fortunately, while their dungeon was deep and dark, its floor was also padded with half-dried mud, thus they survived the fall without any broken bones. Still, ‘twas a very unpleasant place, even as gaols go, and it considerably lowered Elfhelm’s hopes for a successful meeting with the self-proclaimed Prince of Rhûn.

“They have a truly awful dungeon, the Easterlings do,” he commented, just as the deaf silence became too much. His voice sounded strangely hollow down there.

“This is no ordinary dungeon,” said Strider. “This is the Black Pit of Nimwarkinh, where many enemies of the Tribe of the Bear have vanished without a trace. But it had been here long before the Dwarves had abandoned this place and the Easterlings took over. There are many Dwarven legends about it.”

“What kind of legends?” asked Elfhelm.

“Mostly ominous ones,” replied Strider. “They say that at some time the Pit was inhabited by nameless, blind creatures, older than mankind, mayhap even older than the Dwarves themselves. Creatures that were born of darkness, lived in darkness and spread decay and darkness around them. The great change of the world, after the Second Age, when Númenor was destroyed and the Sea bent, wiped out the hideous inhabitants of the Pit as well. But in the thick mud that remained, other creatures made their dwellings: slimy and spidery things that make one’s stomach turn upside down; and huge rats that build their nests in the cracks of the wall and feed on worms and insects that live in the mud. I fear that we are facing a very unpleasant night; sore so as with our hands and legs bound, we shall have limited means to protect ourselves from the rats.”

“What will happen tomorrow, though?” asked Elfhelm in concern. “They shan’t leave us here to rot, shall they?”

“Of course not,” Strider laughed quietly. “Ingolf Ragnarsson is a spoiled brat and a hothead, but not even he would dare to kill people who have come to see his father. In truth, I fear he will suffer severe punishment; Ragnar the Smith takes great pains to appear civilized – which, in his own way, he truly is. No need to worry, my friend; I assume that it is too late to bother him now, but once we stand before his throne, he will hear us out – and compensate you for your sufferings.”

“If he believes me in the first place,” said Elfhelm darkly. “Otherwise, I see little hope to bring my errand to a successful end.”

“Worry not,” said Strider. “He might not believe you, but he will, without doubt, recognize me; and I shall vouch for you if I have to.”

“And that would be enough? You have not been here since he was a child!”

“True; but his father gave me a token and a secret word, by which his sons would recognize me as a friend. All will be good tomorrow; try to survive the night unharmed.”

‘Twas easier said than done, for the rats soon discovered them and made their stay even more uncomfortable. Adding insult to injury, their limbs went numb from the too-tight bounds after a while, and the mud was not as soft as it had first seemed. But all that was merely annoying, not life-threatening, and the hope to bring his quest to a successful end gave Elfhelm the strength to endure.

He wondered, though, if he would see Beryl again.

~TBC~