The Book of Mazarbul

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author’s note: This chapter continues seamlessly the previous one. The settlement of Danakh-khizdîn (=Green Dwarf-Place) in the Grey Mountains is game canon; so are the Brotherhood of Stone and Narag-gund. Shalakanâm (literally: water of kisses) has been invented by The Dwarrow Scholar.

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

Chapter 16 – Fateful Encounters

It took Hakkon weeks to reach Danakh-khizdîn, the main StoneFoot settlement in the Grey Mountains. He had visited half a dozen small settlements where only a few isolated families of the Clan dwelt first – among them is own birthplace, now barely populated at all, as most Dwarves had harkened to Dáin’s summons and moved to Erebor years ago. Even so, he had found a few adventurous miners among them who were willing to return to Gabil-dûm for the length of time the planned new garrison would stay there. The riches of their old home still lured them there, despite the risks.

The same was true to most other settlements as well. But Danakh-khizdîn, the Green Dwarf-Place, one of the oldest StoneFoot villages – almost as old as Gabil-dûm itself and certainly older than Erebor – was an exception. It had been founded by the Niddînaban, the Brotherhood of Stone, a secretive guild of stone-masons and engineers from Narag-gund that had been the main city of the Clan in the Red Mountains, back in the First Age, before they would migrate westwards.

While the nobles of Narag-gund had settled in Gabil-dûm after the loss of their old home (and went down with it due to the attacks of Orcs and dragons), the Niddînaban carved their own dwelling place into the living rock of the far North and managed to survive there, in spite of their dangerous neighbourhood. Since the Niddînaban had been founded by Sindri, the StoneFoot Father himself in the early First Age, their village had always enjoyed great respect among fellow Clan members; and their village Elder had been the highest authority since the passing of the last StoneFoot King.

The current village Elder was a Dwarf nearing his silver years (meaning he was beyond three hundred years old), yet with his strength still unbroken. A survivor of Azanulbizar by the name of Herger, he had icy blue eyes, an enormous, curly blond beard with barely any silver threads in it, and coarse, straw-blond hair, which he wore in a single, elaborately plaited braid that hung down to his waist.

He welcomed Hakkon with the customary Dwarven hospitality, offering him the usual welcome cup of shalakanâm – a clear, very strong spirit with little odour, made from buckwheat grown on the terraced fields around and above the village. The drink was popular amongst BlackLocks and IronFists as well; some of the latter were even mad enough to hold drinking contests of shalakanâm, which usually ended with most contestants passing out in the shortest time.

StoneFoots were a much more sensible lot, of course; and Hakkon, too, politely refused the second cup that was traditionally offered but seldom accepted. Herger nodded approvingly.

“A wise decision,” he said, grinning. “This year’s brew is particularly potent. Now, tell me what led you to us. ‘Tis rare that the returnees from the Lonely Mountain would pay our modest little village a visit.”

“I have come on behalf of Lord Balin Fundinul, First Advisor to King Dáin the Second,” replied Hakkon formally. “He is looking for people who would join the Quest he is planning; either right away or later, when the rebuilding might begin. Miners and stone-masons from our Clan in particular are much sought for.”

“Hmmm,” Herger hummed thoughtfully. “I would like to hear more about this Quest before I would say aye or nay.”

“So would I,” said a third voice, and a stunningly beautiful Dwarf-dam – perhaps not the youngest but still in her best years – joined them on the porch. She wore the working kirtle of a craftswoman – the tools in her large apron pocket revealed her as a leather-worker – and her great sheaf of honey-blond hair was wrapped around her head in a thick braid like a woven coronet.

“My youngest daughter, Hallveig,” introduced her Herger, and Hakkon hurriedly stood and bowed with deep respect.

“Hakkon Hróáldrsson, at your service; miner and stone-mason, living under the Mountain right now,” he said.

“Welcome to Danakh-khizdîn,” she replied. “Now, tell us about this Quest of yours. I might have an interest to see other places than just our village before I get too old to go on longer journeys.”

For the moment, however, Hakkon was completely tongue-tied, staring at the golden beauty sitting opposite him with his mouth… well, not actually hanging open, but it was a close thing. He knew the longing could hit one quite unexpected, but he had never expected it to happen to him even though he was of the right age for quite some time. Until now, he had believed to be one of those Dwarves who found their fulfilment in their craft and never wanted more from his life.

Yet now, as he was looking at Hallveig Hergersdóttir, at least a decade or two his senior, he felt completely lost… as if hit by a spell.  It felt like liquid fire cruising through his veins and it was hard to breathe. All of a sudden he felt embarrassingly flushed, and it took all his considerable craft of will to put his feelings aside – at least for the time being – and give the object of his desire a coherent answer. Or as coherent as he was currently able to.

“’Tis not my Quest,” he replied; “although I might consider joining it, at least the first leg of the campaign; and a few of our clansmen consented to do the same.”

And he gave Herger and that beautiful daughter of his a report of detailed accuracy about Balin’s Quest and what had been done so far. They listened to him with shocked surprise (Herger) and cautious excitement (Hallveig).

“That is certainly a noble goal,” Herger finally said,” but also a foolhardy one. Lord Balin might end up commanding five mines and a pit(1). We have already tried to re-claim Khazad-dûm; and failed spectacularly. He was there; and so was I. I shall not allow our Brotherhood to have any part of it. But a few who want to enter the mines of Gabil-dûm again may do so, as soon as the garrison is established. And should Lord Balin succeed, against all odds, we shall offer our help with the rebuilding of the Dwarrowdelf. This I promise as Mahal may hear me.”

“And I shall go with those who return to Gabil-dûm,” announced Hallveig; then, to the utter shock of her father, she added; “and I shall follow Lord Balin to see the wonders of Khazad-dûm.”

“My jewel, that is madness!” protested Herger.

“Perhaps,” she allowed. “But I hear the call in my heart to see Durin’s Throne; a call too strong to resist, even if it means my untimely demise.”

“Which is likely to happen,” said Herger wretchedly. “I cannot condone this, my heart. Living so close to Gundabad is dangerous enough; but entering the biggest Orc-den in Middle-earth is folly, plain and simple.”

“That may be so,” she returned, “but my mind is made up; and I would thank you if you gave your blessing, ‘adad – if for naught else, then for good luck.”

Herger shook his head in despair. “I could never deny you anything, my golden bird. But I do have one condition.”

“Name it,” she prompted.

Herger’s eyes flickered in Hakkon’s direction. “I do not want you to go alone.”

Hallveig followed the direction of his look; and she frowned. “I have no interest in him,” she stated.

“But he certainly has an interest in you,” returned Herger. “Look at him: he displays the clear signs of the longing, albeit the two of you have just met. He is yours to the end of his life and beyond.”

She tossed her golden head defiantly. “I do not want him.”

“You will accept his courtship; and you will marry him in due time, unless you find your one in somebody else,” Herger declared forcefully. “Or you will stay home, at safe distance from any foolish adventure; ‘tis your choice.”

“You cannot make me,” she protested, but her father interrupted her.

“Oh aye, I can. I am your father and I am your village Elder. I have double authority. Your mother transferred her authority to me on her deathbed, in front of seven witnesses, to make sure you are suitably protected.”

“I was but twenty at the time!” she snapped.

“And you do not show more maturity now, when you are five times that age,” her father returned coldly. “You had some training with weapons but you are no warrior. I shan’t allow you to walk into a death trap without proper protection.” He looked at Hakkon. “If she goes, you will protect her.”

It wasn’t truly a question but Hakkon nodded nevertheless. “With my life, if needs must be.”

“I fear that will be the case,” Herger sighed; then he turned back to his daughter. “Well, daughter? What say you?”

Hallveig gave their visitor a reluctant glare but she had to admit that while she was loath to accept a mate not of her own choosing, she could have done worse. Hakkon was quite handsome, even in StoneFoot terms, with his elaborately braided honey-gold hair and beard and seemed immensely strong, even for a Dwarf. Miners and stone-masons usually were, and he had been trained as both.

Beyond that, he was apparently willing to accompany her on the greatest adventure of the Age, so that spoke for him, too.

“Well, I guess he is better than some of the others you have tried to foist upon me during the last hundred years or so,” she said tartly. “But I make no promises. I may find my One yet.”

Somewhat reassured now that he had at least her father’s blessing, Hakkon grinned at her. “I can wait, lady mine. We who work with stone have the patience of stone as well.”

“You will need it,” she replied and stood. “Now, unlike some males who can afford to while the day away with ale and pipeweed, I have work to do.”

She left them without as much as a backward glance. Herger shook his head with fond exasperation.

“I fear her mother and I have spoiled her terribly,” he admitted ruefully. “She was our only girl-child; and a late-born one at that, when we had given up all hope for any children after two sickly babes that had not seen more than one year, either.”

Hakkon nodded in understanding. Dwarflings had always been few and precious, especially girls; and life thus far in the North was perilous. He did not find Hallveig spoiled, though, just headstrong. But then all Dwarf-dams were. He said so and Herger laughed.

“True enough. Hrera, her mother, was the most stubborn creature that ever walked the earth… something we both should be grateful for. Because it was her who insisted on trying for another child after we had lost two babes. Without her persistence I would not have a daughter now – and you would not have a wife.”

“If she will ever be willing to bond with me,” said Hakkon, not all that certain about that.

Herger laughed again. “Oh, she would have kicked up a lot more stink if she had any true objections against your person, trust me on that,” he refilled their tankards. “Well, son of Hróáldr, tell me about yourself. As Mahal apparently wants us to become family, I wish to know whom I am taking in. I seem to remember a valiant Dwarf named Hróáldr who led a small group of StoneFoot warriors to the Battle of Azanulbizar. They rode huge battle-rams and had sturdy bows, if memory serves me well.”

Hakkon nodded. “Aye, that was my father; one of the only eight Dwarves from our small village who made it back… though a leg shorter. He recovered eventually and served as the village head for decades afterward, as he could not return to the mines due to his injury.”

“Is he still alive?” asked Herger. Hakkon shook his head.

“No; he fell in a skirmish with marauding Orcs many years ago. He could still wield the axe well enough. My mother took over the leading of our village from him; not that there would be more than a dozen or so families left. Most of us moved to Erebor.”

“That is a shame, though I can understand the reasons,” said Herger. “Now tell me more about you.”

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

Standing in front of Dáin’s chair in the Lesser Hall under the Mountain, Balin quietly congratulated himself to the foresight of having asked the King for a private audience. Well… as private as an audience with one’s cousin could be while at least two dozen Dwarves, all of them high-born or having key positions at court (or both) were present. At least most of these witnesses were in favour of his plea; a support that he sorely needed.

For saying that Dáin was whole-heartedly against the idea of anyone setting foot in Khazad-dûm ever again would have been the understatement of the Age. He was positively fuming and did not hesitate to call Balin seven kinds of fool in his face.

“Clearly, advanced age has addled your brain, Cousin,” he said, shaking his massive head. “Why else would you even consider walking into a death trap with your eyes wide open? You cannot fathom the horrors that await you in the darkness of Khazad-dûm.”

“Oh, I believe we can; no thanks to you, though,” returned Balin. “You have never been forthcoming with answers whenever asked what it was you saw behind the front gate.”

“Nay, I have not; for some secrets better remain unveiled,” said Dáin, his ever-sharp eyes clouding with remembered terror. “You cannot fight Durin’s Bane; no-one of us can. Axes are no use against…”

“Against a fire-demon of the Elder Days,” finished Balin when the King trailed off. “Aye, we know, Cousin. We spoke to the only Dwarf that has ever been able to face the demon, even if only for a short time. He was young back then, when Khazad-dûm fell, young and terrified. He is old and strong now… and willing to come with us.”

“And who, pray tell, would this Dwarf be?” asked Dáin sceptically.

“He is named Eikinskialdi; and he is the last of the Fire-mages,” replied Balin simply. “And he is wearing the Drakkon, the Dragon-ring of Khazad-dûm, forged by Khelebrimbur himself as a gift for his friend Narvi.”

Unlike most Dwarves, everyone even remotely related to Durin’s line knew who – what – Fire-mages were. The tale of them escaping from the drowning of Tumunzahar and finding refuge in Khazad-dûm was part of the family legendarium.

And nearly every Dwarf knew of the Drakkon, of course, the famous Dragon-ring, given to Master Narvi by the fiery Elf-smith as a sign of their legendary and highly unusual friendship. Of the lengths an Elf born in the High West was willing to go to keep his mortal friend with him just a little longer. The Drakkon might have been one of the Lesser Rings, but it still provided its bearer with a long life and considerable power.

Still, even these unexpected tidings were not enough to persuade Dáin about the feasibility of Balin’s quest.

“That may be good for the mage, but the rest of you would still be cooked alive in your armour when the demon unleashes its dark fire,” he said.

“Not if we have armour made of a dragon’s hide,” Lady Yngvildr interfered.

Dáin gave her a midget eye. “What have you to do with this madness?”

“I intend to take part in it,” replied the Raven Lady calmly. “My mate and I wish to ask for the boon we are owed, my liege.”

The latter was said in the time-honoured manner of a vassal asking their liege for a boon. Both Forge Guards lowered themselves to one knee, fists pressed against their chests – the gesture of deepest respect required when making such a request.

Very few things could still shock Dáin Ironfoot after all that he had seen and done in his long life. Yet now he was staring at Frár and Yngvildr in mute horror.

“Have you both lost your minds?” he finally asked. “You will be slaughtered, all of you. No-one can face that… thing and live to tell the tale.”

“You have,” reminded him Yngvildr.

Dáin snorted. “Aye, because I ran like a frightened animal, with my tail between my legs, too scared to even look back,” he said. “And what is this business about a dragon’s hide? Do you want to fish Smaug’s carcass out of the Long Lake? That would do you no good.”

“Nay, it would not,” allowed Balin. “But in the Steel Hall of the Far North the remains of Glórund, last of the cold-drakes of Gabil-dûm still lie. Its scales have merged with bronze, became harder than steel and are capable of withstanding even dragonfire. That is what we shall have our armour made from.”

“You’d need a spellsmith for that; one much older and more knowledgeable than your son,” Queen Burkdís gave Burin an apologetic look. “No offence, youngling.”

“None taken, my lady,” replied Burin respectfully. “I know I shan’t be smith enough for such a gargantuan work alone. But Miödvitnir, the Rune-smith, offered me his help; and that of the old FireBeard smiths of Thafar’abbad.”

Glóin, one of the few nobles present who were not part of the planned campaign – and a skilled weaponsmith himself – shook his head. He might be in charge of the Royal Treasure in these days but he had not forgotten his troubled youth and the dangers of the Road they had faced before settling in Uruktharbun.

“And how are you planning to drag the carcass of a long-gone dragon down all the way from Gabil-dûm?” he asked. “Those roads are constantly endangered by the Gundabad Orcs, even in these days.”

“We do not,” said Balin. “Lady Yngvildr suggested establishing a small garrison of warriors and scouts in Gabil-dûm itself; to keep an eye on Orc movements, should there be any, and to protect the smiths working in the Steel Hall. We shall gradually move those who are willing to join us to Gabil-dûm, fit them out with weapons and armour, stock up on reserves and launch our campaign directly from there.”

“And how do you intend to get those supplies?” demanded Glóin. “There is nothing up there; not even game!”

“There are fish enough in the rivers; and if needs must be we can revive the terraced gardens of Gabil-dûm,” his brother answered. “As for the rest…”

“We shall take care of the rest,” Niping, invited to this audience by Óin, interrupted. “We can divide our caravan and use the old, massive wagons to provide the garrison with all necessities. Some of our people – those who are used to living on the Road – declared themselves willing to go as far as the Vale of Azanulbizar, even if not any further. And we have the storage room here to stock up on supplies and bring them to Lord Balin’s company on their way to the South.”

“I see you have it all planned out already,” growled Dwalin.

Niping shook his head. “On the contrary. This will need a great deal of careful planning yet and preparations may take several years; even if only a few dozen Dwarves join Lord Balin’s quest.”

“Years that the smiths will need to forge the armour for everyone,” added Balin. “Fortunately for us, Ori Orinul has taken upon himself the task of coordinating all our efforts; and Lofar has taught him well.”

The beautiful Dwarf with the kohl-rimmed indigo eyes nodded in agreement.

“That he has. And I have not had a good challenge since the re-taking of the Mountain, so I am grateful for the chance.”

“I am surprised that the Lady Ai would let you go,” said the Queen; “seeing as none of your brothers would want to.”

Ori shrugged. “She is the BlackLock matriarch, aye; but I am also a Durin on my father’s side. She does not have the authority to hold me back from fulfilling a family obligation.”

“Gadra allâkh; Mahal hefsu binhas,(2)” Glóin muttered angrily.

“Durin zabukuna,(3)” Dwalin agreed whole-heartedly.

Dáin shook his head in sorrow. “Tell me, Cousin, what is the true reason for this madness? Upon Thorin’s death you could have taken up kingship; I might have been closer to him in blood but you have always been closer in spirit. Yet you did not want the throne then, even though it would have been a kindness towards me. What made you change your mind?”

“My family has an ages-long obligation towards Durin’s House,” answered Balin simply. “And Durin’s throne has always stood in Khazad-dûm; not under the Mountain.”

The impact of that simple truth silenced everyone in the Lesser Hall. Even Dáin needed an endless moment to recover.

“You will go to certain death for the honour of your line,” he then said, his sorrow evident.

Balin inclined his silver head. “That may be so. But of all possible times this is the one we may have the slightest chance to succeed. I cannot let it slip through my fingers.”

Dáin sighed heavily, for Balin was right and he knew it. With the Gundabad Legion all but wiped out and the Orcs of the Misty Mountains greatly decimated, they might have a chance, in the purely military sense of it. And if the Fire-mage could face Durin’s Bane – which Dáin seriously doubted – a great evil would be purged from Middle-earth, to everyone’s relief.

Besides, he couldn’t stop Balin if Balin wanted to go; and he did owe Frár and Yngvildr their boon for centuries of faithful service, much as he was loath to see them go.

“I still believe ‘tis utter madness,” he finally said. “But if this is where your heart calls you, I do nit wish to stand in the way of your destiny. You may go; and all those who want to join you. Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi astû,(4)” he added the traditional blessing in Khuzdul.

And with that the audience was adjourned.

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

After having escorted Eikinskialdi back to his caves, Miödvitnir, the Rune-smith, headed to the North again, intent to visit the ancient FireBeard settlements in Thafar’abbad. His last stop was the small, nameless settlement under the farthest north-eastern outskirts of the Grey Mountains where he had met Óin for the first times.

At least the place was nameless now; if it had a name to begin with, that had long faded even from Dwarven memory. The very few Dwarves who knew about its existence at all simply called it ‘Mother Thekhla’s village’, after the venerable matriarch of at least three hundred years who led the small and rather poor clan inhabiting it.

The mostly older Dwarves that refused to leave their birthplace for the plentiful life in Uruktharbun, Erebor or the Iron Hills, welcomed Miödvitnir gladly, for he was a regular – though infrequent – visitor who provided them with tidings about the rest of the world. Tidings that they would not get otherwise, as even the ravens came rarely this far.

He was directed to the caves of Old Hreidarr – the healer of the village – at once. Hreidarr was fairly old indeed, seconded only be Mother Thekhla herself: he had turned two hundred and seventy shortly before Durin’s Day. He was also an old friend of the Rune-smith and had willingly shared his knowledge about healing stones – an art known only among FireBeard healers – with Óin when the latter had been visiting the small FireBeard dwellings in the remote Grey Mountains in the previous years.

Hreidarr did not live alone in his spacious and comfortable caves. Though he never married and thus had no family of his own, he took in gladly his great-nephew Svávarr, the grandson of his brother (another victim of Azanulbizar where Hreidarr, too, had fought), Svávarr’s wife Eydís and her brother Eivindr. For a while anyway, as Svávarr and Eydís moved to Erebor shortly after the Mountain had been re-claimed.

Only Eivindr stayed with Hreidarr, even though they were not related by blood. But Eivindr had no other family, either, and the two became as close as father and son – or rather grandfather and grandson – during the long years spent under the same roof.

Eivindr was the reason for Miödvitnir’s visit, despite his centuries-long acquaintance with the old healer. The young FireBeard was a bronzesmith of considerable skill and always eager to learn more of his craft. And though his fire was not strong enough to become a true spellsmith, he was not far from it, either. Miödvitnir, always willing to nurture any true gift he might encounter on his journeys, taught him everything that could be learned without the use of earth magic during his infrequent visits, and Eivindr proved to be an outstanding student. He even managed to work simple spells and runes into his forging; not quite an arcane smith, not without the rare and special gift of Durin’s line, but the closest thing to it there was.

He was wasted in Mother Thekhla’s village, and Miödvitnir was here to change that. Eivindr might not be interested in the re-taking of Khazad-dûm, but he could be a great help for Burin Balinul in working with the dragon’s hide… if Miödvitnir could persuade him to do so.

Both solitary Dwarves were working in their respective workshops when Miödvitnir arrived: Eivindr in his smithy and Hreidarr in the small side cave he used for cutting his healing stones. Often a particular cut could increase the potential of a stone and thus he had trained as a crystal-cutter, too, in order to be able to use them at the greatest efficiency; even though he was a healer first and foremost.

He looked up from his work in delight when Miödvitnir entered  his workshop, removing the bronze-encased magnifying glass from his eye socket; while his hands were still rock steady, his eyesight was slowly weakening due to advanced age. His magnificent beard was all silver now, and he wore his silver hair pulled into a tight knot on the nape of his neck.

“Miödvitnir, my friend,” he greeted his guest jovially and rose from his work-bench to deliver the customary head-butt. “What brings you back to us so soon? Not that you weren’t welcome any time,” he added hurriedly, “but it usually takes you much longer to return.”

“’Tis a long story,” replied the Rune-smith; “one best told over a good meal and a stiff drink.”

“Both of which we can and will gladly provide,” said Hreidarr agreeably. “My work can wait. Let us go to the dining hall and talk, shall we?”

The dining hall was the largest of his caves, in a central position, as all family members would meet there. Hreidarr served a simple meal of cold meats and dark bread, with some eggs and mushrooms; they could not win much more out of these harsh mountains. When he brought forth the webanshalk – a brandy liquor made of hawthorn berries and petals that every family brewed differently – Eivindr joined them, too.

The bronzesmith was young in Dwarven terms yet, just passed his first century, and very obviously of pure FireBeard descent. His hair, a pale reddish gold, was pulled back from his face in a simple working braid, while his beard – a flaming copper red, much darker than his hair – was elaborately plaited and decorated with beads of his own making. He had hazel eyes and thick, dark eyebrows – all in all, an interesting palette of colours on the same face.

He, too, greeted the Rune-smith respectfully, and then both he and Hreidarr listened to the news with great interest.

“I am on errantry,” Miödvitnir began. “Lord Balin of Durin’s line has decided to make another attempt to re-claim Khazad-dûm and cleanse it from the Orc scum that has infested it for too long. I have offered to join his quest; and to find smiths skilled enough to forge armour for his flowers from a dragon’s hide,” he looked at Eivindr. “Not any smith could do that. But I have taught you enough to work with the last spellsmith of Durin’s blood.”

Eivindr did not answer at once. Hreidarr, though, shook his head.

“That is a fool’s errand,” he said. “We have already tried it… and failed. I was there; I saw the carnage and the countless dead, my only brother one of them. So much death; and it brought us nothing, just endless sorrow.”

“True enough,” allowed the Rune-smith. “Yet I do not want to talk you into the quest itself. We need good smiths to work on weapons and armour; FireBeard smiths who still harbour some of the lost skills of Tumunzahar. I have visited every settlement between here and Eikinskialdi’s caves, and a few old smiths already agreed to help us.”

“I do not wish to move to Erebor,” said Eivindr dismissively. “This village has been founded back in the First Age, by refugees after the drowning of Tumunzahar. This is my home, not Erebor; not even Uruktharbun.”

“I am not asking you to move to either of those places,” replied Miödvitnir. “The great work will be done among the ruins of Gabil-dûm, in the Steel Hall itself.”

“Which is every bit the death trap Khazad-dûm would be,” pointed out Hreidarr. “Gabil-dûm is dangerously close to Gundabad. You cannot hope your presence to go unnoticed.”

“Perhaps not,” agreed Miödvitnir. “But if everything goes according to Lord Balin’s plan, a small garrison of warrior Dwarves will be established in Gabil-dûm: to protect the smiths and to keep an eye on the Gundabad Orcs.”

“That is long overdue,” said Hreidarr,” Erebor cannot afford another unprotected attack.”

“Exactly,” said Miödvitnir. “That way we shall kill two birds with the same stone: King Dáin will have reliable reports about the movements in Gundabad and we will have our protection and can work on the dragon’s hide undisturbed,” he looked at Eywindr shrewdly. “If you are up to the challenge, that is.”

“I am, and you know that,” replied Eywindr in a flat voice. “And I’d love to take part of that great work… and to see the wonders of Gabil-dûm with my own eyes. But I cannot leave Old Hreidarr alone; not after the rest of the family has left. I have an obligation.”

“If that is the only thing holding you back, then you need not to stay,” said the old healer. “I, too, would love to see Gabil-dûm while my eyes can still serve me. If we are indeed protested there, I shall go with you.”

The Rune-smith stared at him in surprise. “Are you certain? A moment ago you called it a fool’s errand.”

“And it would be without proper protection,” returned Hreidarr. “But if it is reasonably safe, then I am all for it. I have come into my silver years; I shan’t be around much longer anyway. Seeing something wondrous before I would join my long fathers in the Halls of Waiting is a gift I cannot, will not refuse. And besides,” he added with a mischievous wink,”all those eager young people might need a healer who patches them up from time to time.”

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

It happened several days later, back in Erebor, that Svávarr, the great-nephew of Old Hreidarr (also a bronzesmith of considerable skill) returned home much later than usual. His wife, Eydís, the best whitesmith under the Mountain (meaning that she worked with both, silver and gold, and was also the only one who still know how to make stargold) glared at him in annoyance. Not so much out of jealousy (Svávarr had been hopelessly fallen for her since the day they first met some sixty or so years previously); just because she liked to spend her day in a well-ordered manner.

“Where have you been?” She demanded. “We were supposed to eat hours ago!”

Like most childless couples who worked long hours in their craft, they usually ate in the Guild Hall of the smiths, but at such a late time all they could hope for would have been leftovers… not something fairly young Dwarves with a healthy appetite would appreciate.

Svávarr had the mother wit to appear contrite.

“Birashagami,(5)” he said in Khuzdul; he knew the fiery temper of his beautiful wife all too well. “I was summoned by Lord Balin. He is looking for bronzesmiths from our Clan to work with his son and wanted to know if I would be interested.”

“I hope you said yes,” replied Eydís. “Working with Burin Balinul is a great honour; and a great chance.”

“’Tis not so simple,” Svávarr sighed. “The project would take years to finish; and I’d have to go to Thafar’abbad with the others, to work in the Steel Hall of Gabil-dûm itself.”

“Oh!” Eydís, having lived in Mother Thekhla’s village in her youth, did not want to leave the safety and comfort of Erebor behind to return to the lonely and dangerous Grey Mountains. “Why would they want to go there?”

“Apparently, they have rediscovered the remains of a long-dead cold-drake,” answered Svávarr.” There is only its hide left, but Lord Balin wants armour made of the dragon’s scales. It is supposed to be harder than anything our ironsmiths might forge on their own.”

“And he wants bronzesmiths to do it?” She clearly did not understand the reason for that.

“It seems that the dragon’s scales got fused with bronze, the same way Smaug’s were fused with gold,” explained her husband. “We shan’t be able to work on it without spellsmiths helping us, but that is what Burin Balinul will be there for. And Miödvitnir.”

“He will be there?” Eydís knew the enigmatic Rune-smith from her youth, of course, but had not seen him since they moved to Erebor. Svávarr nodded.

“Everyone with the fire-touch will be needed. Your brother followed the summons, too. And Old Hreidarr chose to go with him. For them, it will be a fairly short journey.”

“Short… and perchance deadly,” muttered Eydís. “There is a reason why Gabil-dûm has been abandoned for centuries.”

“Not much longer, though,” said Svávarr. “There will be an outpost with a small garrison again, soon. And some of the StoneFoot masons will be returning to the mansion of their forefather, at least for a while. As long as the work on the dragon’s hide will take.”

“I see,” Eydís pondered over these tidings for a while; then she looked at her husband in understanding. “You want to go.”

It wasn’t a question, but Svávarr nodded nonetheless. “As you said: ‘tis the choice of a lifetime.”

“Then I shall go with you,” she announced.

He tried to protest, but she silenced him with a raised hand.

“Nay, husband. “I shall not be denied. As Mahal chose not to bless our bond with children, you are all that I have. I shall not be parted from you. At least this way I can see my brother and Old Hreidarr again. It has been too long.”

~TBC~

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(1) Dwarven idiomatic expression meaning that someone might bite off more than he can chew.

(2) Against stupidity; Mahal Himself is helpless.

(3) As Durin will awake (That is very true; expression of wholehearted agreement.

(4) May Mahal's hammer shield you (Safe travels)

(5) I am sorry (literally: I regret)