If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit

by Soledad

Disclaimer: The main characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the unknown characters belong to me.

Rating: may go beyond PG-13 in later chapters, for the horrors of war.

Series: The Mazarbul Chronicles – a series of independent stories, featuring various Dwarves.

Summary: As mentioned in “The Book of Mazarbul”, Bifur and Óin had always been close. So, why did they never court? Possibly because Bifur’s interest was elsewhere?

Don’t let the title mislead you. This is a non-slash, one hundred per cent canon, bookverse story. Well, 99 per cent canon anyway, seeing that Bifur is a bit different here. *g*

Dedication: This is a birthday fic for my good friend and fellow “Hobbit” fan, the_wild_iris.

My heartfelt thanks to Glîrnardir, my generous canon beta, for fact-checking and proofreading.

Chapter 01 – A Brief Respite On The Road

The small merchant caravan of BroadBeam Dwarves reached the Forsaken Inn in the early days of Spring in the year 2941 of the Third Age. It was a fairly modest one as Dwarven caravans go, consisting of six wagons only, arranged in a defensive horseshoe shape during their rests, with a large campfire in the centre. This formation had proved to be the one easiest to defend for travelling traders who spent most of their lives on the Road where dangers were numerous and often unexpected.

The Forsaken Inn, however, was one of the safest resting places on the regular route of this particular caravan. Built on a small, flat hillock overlooking the Road, it was a rather unremarkable, two-storey building, with a few trees on one side, weatherworn to the point of slowly falling apart, and clearly in desperate need of a new roof. But one could still sleep in what once had been the Common Room without getting drenched, should a quick shower of rain sweep over the Road, therefore it was a much sought-after place by weary travellers.

The caravan had a long way behind them. They had been on the Road for nearly a year and a half by now, having travelled from the Blue Mountains to the Iron Hills and back.

Well, almost back. They still had the last leg of their journey before them, which meant many leagues to go ere they would reach the major Dwarven settlement in the south of the Blue Mountains, just outside the small country of the Halflings: the deep halls of Thorin Oakenshield, crownless King of Durin’s Folk, the LongBeard Dwarves.

They had started their long journey back from the Iron Hills on the far North-east more than seven months ago, travelling the Wilderland along the Long Lake and the River Running. Then they crossed Mirkwood via the Old Dwarf Road, upon which once their ancestors had marched from Khazad-dûm to the northern settlements of the StoneFoot Clans in the Grey Mountains. Settlements most of which had been abandoned for a very long time.

They had enjoyed a short rest on the western edge of the forest, in the company of some friendly – well, mostly friendly – Northmen; then they crossed the Great River at the Old Ford and braved the High Pass, despite the winter, to get on the other side of the Misty Mountains as soon as possible. Lingering on the eastern slopes of the Mountains could be perilous, as the Wargs had grown in numbers, cunning and hostility in the recent years.

They had another brief respite in the Angle, where the descendants of the Men once populating the North-kingdom always welcomed them in their small, fortified homesteads. Then they had crossed the Last Bridge and headed straight to the Forsaken Inn, which they were glad to find empty. No-one of them felt like competing with other travellers for the best places.

“Arrange the wagons so that they would protect the front door of the Inn,” ordered the leader of the caravan, a small, rotund but powerful Dwarf-dam, the males who drove the sturdy hill ponies pulling the wagons. “That way we can make good use of the kitchen and the hearth, without attracting any wolves… or worse creatures.”

In spite of her relative youth – she was not yet one hundred and fifty – she had led the caravan for nearly sixty years by now… ever since their wise-woman, the wife of her much older cousin, died from the lung fever. As it was custom among Mahal’s Children, she travelled in the disguise of a male, of course; complete with male clothing and a fake beard that she had glued to her face with heated tree gum. That was not the most pleasant way to fasten a false beard, but at least so she did not have to glue it back every morning. The tree gum held for several moons, keeping up the disguise effortlessly.

No-one save her family and a very small handful of friends knew Sigrún Kuonisdóttir for who – or what – she truly was. For everyone else she was simply known as Bifur the toymaker.

Men or Elves would not find her remarkable; not even if they knew she was female and could see her without the facial fur that concealed many of her finer features. In the eyes of Dwarven males, however, she counted as more than comely, with her round, freckled face, cat-like beetle-black eyes, plump lips and thick, ink-black hair.

Her hair was her best feature anyway; a rare colour among the BroadBeams who were more on the ginger side of brunet as a rule. She wore it in male fashion, in one thick braid – thicker than her arm – and adorned with small, colourful glass beads. It caught the eyes of almost everyone at once, which was why she had it doubled over and hidden under her yellow hood.

Drawing too much attention could be dangerous for someone who lived on the Road.

Right now, however, she was among her own kind and thus could afford to let her hair down – both proverbially and literally. And so she did with great relish, removing even her fake beard, so that the skin of her face could breathe freely. Tree gum was not truly good for one’s skin. Fortunately, her mother had taught her how to make a poultice that would heal the damage quickly.

She made a mental note to make some for Inga, too. It would not do to ruin the beauty of such a young one, just to keep her safe.

“We will stay here and rest for a while,” she said to the younger one of her cousins, Bofur. “We are beyond weary and need to regain our strength before entering Bree.”

Bofur nodded in agreement.

“We need to make inventory of all the things we traded for in the Angle,” he said. “And while there are no mines in the Breelands, perhaps Dagrún, Fródi, Veig or Egill can find some wood- or leatherwork in one of the villages – in case the Men of Bree have no interest for our wares. We need some real coin badly.”

“When do we not?” replied Bifur with a weary sigh, for things had not gone exactly well lately. As a rule, they traded in animal hides, small gemstones, amber, wine and honey, mostly, eking out a modest living the same way her parents, the founders and original leaders of the caravan had done.

Unfortunately, the Road had become increasingly dangerous in the recent years, which meant painful losses for the small traders. Mannish merchants travelled in big, well-guarded caravans – or with entire merchant fleets upon the rivers – from one great fair to the other, and the Hanse of Lebennin practically owned every market in Gondor. No Dwarf traders dared to go south any longer – not farther than Dunland, that is, and the Dunlendings traded almost exclusively with the LongBeards, due to their long acquaintance with Thorin Oakenshield and his House.

That left for the small traders like Bifur and her companions the meagre markets in the Wilderland – and even there, the Merchant Guild of Laketown was a hard competition – the Breelands and the small farmsteads in Eriador, scattered between the Greyflood and the Blue Mountains. They could call themselves fortunate if they happened upon a fair in the Shire; a far too rare occasion for Bifur’s taste.

They had been hurrying as much as they could to be in Michel Delving for the Spring Fair, when the good-natured Halflings always generously spent their coin, but she knew they would not manage to get there in time. Their wagons, albeit safer and sturdier than Man-made carts, were also much heavier, as their walls as well as their roof were made of strong wooden planks rather than of canvas, and the additional weight slowed them down considerably.

They were built for endurance, not for speed – just like the Dwarves who had built them.

Not that Mahal’s Children would have been slow or clumsy – they were not. They were highly skilled and could move with alarming speed if they had to. But they still could not compare themselves with Elves – or even Halflings – when it came to moving along quickly and light-footed for an extended length of time, Bifur admitted bitterly. And that fact could prove fatal for them.

Missing the fair in Michel Delving would not only mean the immediate loss of opportunity. The Halflings would not be interested in buying things for a while after their greatest fair, either. Not after having spent all the coin they had saved for such purposes.

“I suppose we can go on straight for Thorin’s halls, once we have left the Breelands,” she said glumly. “No use lingering in the Shire. They would not want our wares, not now.”

“Afraid so,” Bofur agreed. “The more pressing it is, then, that the ones of us who can find some work in Bree, at least for a while. You could try to sell some of your toys in the smaller villages, too. They have no-one who could even come close to your skills.”

Bifur glanced down at her own hands dejectedly.

“I doubt that I would be able to use my finer tools any time soon,” she said. “Ever since I was injured in the fight with those footpads near the Angle my fingers seem to have lost much of their nimbleness. The lady healer of the Rangers did what she could; at least she stopped the infection from spreading and saved my hand. But I fear I may never be able to work in my craft properly again.”

“We have not had a proper leech among us since Old Tyrfingr chose to settle down in Balin’s mansion,” growled Bofur angrily. “He abandoned us for a life in plenty, and him being our mothers’ kin and all!”

“He is but a remote cousin of our granddam,” said Bifur with a shrug, “and he is old. He was already a battle healer at Azanulbizar; and not a young one at that. You cannot blame him for growing tired of the Road.”

“I can and I do,” growled Bofur. “We needed him and he left us, the only kin he still has, to grow fat in the safety of Balin’s home. There is no excuse for that. If our own kin abandons us, on whom can we still count?”

“On each other; and each other is all that we need,” replied Bifur firmly. “Now, why don’t you go and set up the watches for tonight while I see into the matter of supper? Perhaps we can persuade Bombur to allow Jörundr to cook today; then we might get something to eat before midnight.”

Bofur rolled his dark eyes in exasperation. “Good luck with that,” he said but then went to do as he had been asked.

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

Fortunately for them, the long journey had taken its toll on Bombur and he agreed without a fight to let Jörundr do the cooking. That was unusual; as a rule he was very proud of his cooking (and rightly so) and would not bear that little upstart usurp his position as the cook of the caravan.

Even though said little upstart had once been his apprentice whom he had taught every trick and secret and time-honoured recipe that he knew.

Today, however, he seemed more biddable than usually.

“I would not mind to let the lad slave over the hot oven tonight,” he confessed with a sigh. “The truth is, I am old, Sigrún… and I am beginning to feel the true weight of my age.”

“That is foolish talk and unworthy of you,” said Bifur sternly. “You are not that old.”

But as she was secretly watching her cousin she had to admit that Bombur did look old. The wrinkles that had just appeared after the death of his wife, Maren, had deepened and multiplied in the recent years, without anyone noticing it. His once thick russet hair appeared to be thinning on his crown – a highly unusual trait by Dwarves albeit not entirely unheard of among BroadBeams – and when she looked a bit more closely, she could spot the one or other thread of iron among all the russet.

“I feel old,” he replied to Bifur’s protests. “I feel like I have lost purpose. My beloved Maren is gone, most of my children are scattered all across Middle-earth – those who are still alive, that is. Only Bávor, Inga and Gellir are still with me. What true reason do I still have to keep going on?”

“You said it yourself: you still have three of your children with you,” reminded him Bifur. “And your daughter is being courted and will marry in a year’s time. Her children will need their grandsire. And Bofur will need his brother; and I will need my older cousin on whose wisdom I greatly depend. So dare you not to give up on us just yet, you hear me?”

But Bombur just blinked tiredly with those small, round beetle-black eyes of his.

“’Tis not so that I would want to, you know,” he said. “’Tis just… it has been a long time since I last had something to fight for. Since I had aught else to do than to drag myself forward from one day to the next one. There should be more to life than just going on for another day.”

To that Bifur could give no answer, for she had been plagued by similar thoughts for quite some time. Life seemed so meaningless, and all their struggles and labours led to nothing. There were days when she came dangerously close to giving up herself.

But that was something she could not afford. She was the leader of their caravan; the others depended on her strength. She had to be strong, for their sake. She just no longer knew where to take that strength from.

Ere the silence between them could grow uncomfortable, Bombur’s daughter Inga – a pretty, ginger-haired young Dwarf-dam with a great likeness to her father – opened the door of the wagon and looked in.

“Stop brooding, you two,” she said. “Jörundr says supper will be ready in half a mark. Come to the Inn, the others are already waiting.”

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

Following her young cousin to what had once been the Common Room of the Forsaken Inn, Bifur saw with satisfaction that the other members of their caravan had been busy since their arrival. A merry fire was burning in the great stone hearth – a heart large enough to crouch in – trestle tables had been set up with the help of sawed-up trunks of fallen trees, and Jörundr, their young cook, was already ladling the excellent rabbit stew into the hand-held wooden bowls no self-respecting Dwarf would travel without.

“Let it cool down a bit first, or else you will burn your mouths,” he scolded his travelling companions who seemed hard-pressed to hold their ravenous hunger under control.

“’Tis your fault for cooking so well,” replied Gellir, Bombur’s youngest – a mere stripling of forty-something, whose ginger beard was still too short to be properly braided.

He dug into the scalding hot stew with relish and then belched to show his appreciation – only to be backhanded by his sister for his efforts.

“Manners, stripling!” said Inga sternly. “You are not in the sole company of your friends.”

“And you are not back in the Iron Hills, in the posh mansion of the family of that pretentious mate of yours,” groused the youngling. “Stop behaving as you were my mother!”

“Stop behaving like the little pig you are and I shan’t have no reason to do so,” replied Inga coldly.

Being a late-born child, coming at a time when his parents no longer expected to breed, Gellir had been considered a gift of Mahal and thus terribly spoiled while their mother had still been around. No male Dwarf would have the cheek to talk to his sister the way he dared to do, and Inga was beginning to grow truly impatient with him.

Not only was she older and the only daughter of Bombur’s twelve children, which alone would put her way above her brothers in rank and importance; she was also betrothed to Nár son of Frár of the Iron Hills.

Nár’s mother, Yngvildr – also known as the Raven Lady – was a hero of the Battle of Azanulbizar and one of King Dáin Ironfoot’s Forge Guards: the closest thing Dwarves had to knighthood. And although Nár did not follow his parents on the path of the warriors, he was a bronzesmith, a talented and most respected artisan, who – unlike his brother – chose to be counted as a member of the BroadBeam Clans.

With his mother counting back her ancestors to King Azaghâl of Gabilgathol, the greatest hero of the First Age, Nár’s family counted as royalty, even though they no longer had their realm. No BroadBeam dam could look any higher when choosing her life-mate, and Inga could rightly expect from her clansmen to be treated with proper respect.

Even by her spoiled little brat of a brother.

More so as Gellir was still but an apprentice toy-maker, learning the intricacies of his craft under the stern tutelage of Bifur, while Inga was a skilled bronzesmith who had learned her craft from the best masters of the Iron Hills – which was how she had met Nár in the first place.

Gellir knew that, of course, but he was used to get away with just about everything, as he had always been the babe of the family and the apple of his father’s eye. Thus, instead of bowing to his sister and apologising properly, he kept muttering under his breath, giving her wounded looks.

By then, though, Bifur had had enough.

“Back off, Gellir, and behave,” she growled, “or by Mahal’s beard, I shall have you stripped and whipped in the middle of our camp, to everyone’s amusement. I have had it with you and your insolent ways!”

Gellir had the mother wit to duck out of her eyesight at once. She was the leader of their caravan for a reason, despite being the youngest of the three females by far. Even as the Lady Maren, Bombur’s wife, had still been among them, Bifur had taken care of the practical aspects of their daily lives; for she had inherited leadership from her parents, was good with numbers and deadly with her battle-axe.

After Maren’s demise she had also become the matriarch of the family, and neither Dagrún nor Frán had even questioned her authority. Despite the fact that they both had grown sons just a little younger than she was.

Besides, she was also the craft-master of Gellir; the one who taught him everything he needed to know to become successful in his chosen trade. Making her mad at him would not bode well for the little brat, for various very good reasons.

Bofur grinned at her from the other side of the table.

“No-one can put the brat in his place like you,” he said with honest admiration. “I certainly never could, though I am his uncle.”

“You are a very good uncle,” replied Bifur gently. “You have always done your best to help Bombur raise his get after Maren was gone. ‘Tis not your fault that she had spoiled her nestling so much.”

“And Bombur could never bring it over his heart to be heavy-handed enough with the brat,” added Bofur, giving his older brother, who was sitting at the other end of the table, staring listlessly into his bowl, a worried look. “I am concerned about him, you know. He has been… out of sorts lately. Even his appetite has suffered, as little as one may believe that. I do not like it.”

“I fear he has grown weary of the Road,” said Bifur in a low voice, “and can you blame him? We all have, one way or another. I wish he had accepted the Lady Yngvildr’s offer and stayed in the Iron Hills as soon-to-be-kin. ‘Twould have been better for him.”

“Would it truly?” asked Bofur quietly. “Would you do so? We may be simple merchants, miners and craftspeople, but would any of us like to live off the mercy of others, even though they were to become kin and could afford it?”

Bifur shrugged. “Perhaps not; although it would depend.”

“Depend on what?” Bofur’s eyes grew huge like saucers in surprise.

“On the person offering us a place to live,” replied Bifur. “I would not like to dwell in the Iron Hills as the near-penniless kin of the Raven Lady; that would be humiliating beyond what I could bear. But I would not mind living under the rule of Thorin Oakenshield; whether in the Blue Mountains or elsewhere. Our ancestors accepted his as their Kings; and if half of what they tell about him is true, I could accept him as mine.”

“So could I,” agreed Bofur, “though I doubt he would ever call upon us… any of us.”

“Why not?” the challenge was sharp in Bifur’s voice. “Our parents bled in the war against the Orcs; a war of vengeance for his grandsire Thrór. Your parents perished in the great battle of Azanulbizar; and my father came back missing an arm. We are as entitled to respect as anyone else. Bombur even was there at Azanulbizar, though barely old enough to wield the axe.”

“He was helping the cooks,” reminded her Bofur with a wry grin. Bifur shrugged.

“So he was. He still slew his fair share of Orcs nonetheless. I am not ashamed of my family; and neither should you.”

“I am not,” replied Bofur defensively. “All I say is that many others would not appreciate Bombur’s deeds – or indeed our struggle to survive – as much as we might deserve. Most of our own people look down their nose at homeless Wanderers like us.”

“They should be careful with that,” said Bifur, her voice turning to ice, “or they might not have a nose left to do so a second time. My hand may be too damaged for handling my finer tools, but it is still good enough for putting the battle-axe to anyone who insults my family.”

“Aye, for that went so well last time you crossed axes with Lady Dís,” commented Bofur. “We got expelled from Thorin’s halls for a decade or so.”

“Dís Thráinsdóttir is a vengeful, contemptuous bitch,” declared Bifur with an angry scowl. “She did nothing to achieve her wealth and rank among her people. She would be nothing, were she not the younger sister of their King. And her two sons are spoiled brats, even worse than Gellir.”

“Oh aye, and telling her that in front of several hundred witnesses was such a wise thing to do, too,” returned Bofur dryly. “It landed us on the Road permanently, which is such a wonderful way to live.”

“If you hate it so much why did you not stay in the Blue Mountains, licking Thorin’s boots?” asked Niping, one of the older members of their caravan; a merchant by trade who had already travelled with Bifur’s parents.

“Living on the Road has always been good enough for us,” added Dagrún, his wife and the mother of their two grown sons. “You can always go back to mining coal for Men who spit on you in contempt if you feel too fine for the wagon.”

“I did not say that,” protested Bofur.

“Then leave your cousin alone,” snapped Dagrún. “Bifur has always led us well – better than anybody could have expected from such a young one. Do not let your cousin to tell you otherwise,” she added, looking at Bifur, who blushed just a little bit.

That was not what Bofur had tried to say, of course, but he wisely shut up. Arguing with a Dwarf-dam who could have been his mother age-wise – and one who could wield the axe with the skill of a trained warrior – would have been asking for trouble. A great lot of trouble.

Dagrún’s own sons – big, burly lads as BroadBeams go – tried their best to become invisible. Their mother had a fearsome temper; the last thing they wanted was to draw her attention when she got in a foul mood. Even their uncle Draupnír made attempts to shrink where he was sitting and thus offer the smallest possible target. Dagrún might have been his only sister buts he was also their family matriarch; one that knew how to keep his males on a short leash. All four of them.

Fortunately for everyone, ere Dagrún could fully unleash her temper Tyrgg, who had taken first watch, came in breathlessly.

“We have company,” he said. “I could hear a rider coming down to the Road from the North, approaching quickly.”

“Riding a horse or a pony?” asked Bifur in concern.

“A horse, based on its heavy gait,” replied Tyrgg. “Unless it is another Dwarf, riding a hill pony, that is. That would make about the same sound.”

Bifur shook her head. “Our kinsmen do not travel alone in the empty lands of Eriador. Not anymore.”

“Neither do Men, unless they mean something bad,” said Bombur, shaking off his moodiness in the face of imminent peril. “Whoever it is, they must come down from the Weather Hills; and no honest people have lived there for many lives of Men. This rider may be but the scout for an entire band of robbers and pillagers. We better prepare ourselves to deal with him swiftly, lest he calls his fellows upon us.”

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

The other Dwarves nodded in grim agreement. The memory of their recent skirmish with a large band of footpads – the very fight that resulted in Bifur’s damaged hand – was still fresh on their minds and weighed heavily upon their hearts. They had lost Skeggi and Órn in that fight, reducing their numbers to a mere twenty; and Draupnír was still limping from the leg wound he had received from a spear.

They could not afford any more losses; not on this tour. Not ere they could fill up their ranks – assuming they could find any more clansmen ready to brave the less than profitable perils of the Road.

“’Tis a good thing that we have no fire outside, between the wagons,” said Bofur. “The darkness will serve to our advantage.”

Which was the understatement of the Age, of course. Having adapted to a life under rock and stone for millennia, Dwarves could see better in the night than any other creature, save perhaps the Avari, the elusive Dark Elves of Mirkwood, who were said to have the best night eyes in Middle-earth. And it was highly unlikely that one of that secretive lot would ride across open territory alone. They never crossed the Misty Mountains, or so it was said, and did their best to avoid any contact even with other Elves, save alone Dwarves or Men.

Supper forgotten, the BroadBeams quickly grabbed their axes, war-hammers or swords, each his or her own choice weapon, and took up their usual positions at the wagons. Other heaved the copper and iron cauldrons found in the kitchen of the Inn, placed them close to the wagons and filled them with what water they could find in the cistern behind the weatherworn building.

Should the newcomer try to set fire on the wagons, that would at least give them a chance to put it out quickly. They could not afford to lose the only home they had.

“I wish we could use our bows,” muttered Egill, one of the youngest among them; a woodworker and bowmaker by trade, and a good one at that.

“So do I,” replied Bofur,” but we cannot simply shoot at whoever is coming. We must make sure first that they are actually an enemy or not.”

Frán, the oldest of the four Dwarf-dams in the caravan, gave a half-amused, half-annoyed snort. She was a trained warrior of considerable skill – one of the few BroadBeam dams who had fought at Azanulbizar and lived to tell the tale – and she always found it silly how much males appeared to need to talk ere they would actually engage in a fight.

In a battle, she corrected herself. Drunken fights in roadside inns happened with little to no provocation, as a rule.

“We need not to worry about that if the two of you keep chattering like Halflings,” she said. “Whoever it is, they will hear you and turn away, should they have any mean intentions.”

“In most cases you would be right,” agreed Bifur who had come out to them, theirs being the only vantage point from where the northern branch of the Road was visible. “This one, though, seems desperate to spend the night under the roof of the Inn – what is still there of it. Not that I would blame them for that… if only we could be sure that they are friendly.”

“And, pray tell, how many friendly ones have we met lately, be them Elves or Men?” grumbled Egill, still nursing a knife wound he had got in a drunken fight with an enraged Northman ere they crossed Mirkwood.

“You never met a single Elf in your whole life,” Jörundr, who shared a wagon with him, reminded him grinning.

Egill snorted. “And if I never see one it would still be too soon! ‘Tis enough to have Men treat us like dirt.”

“Now you are being a fool who talks foolishly,” said Jörundr. “The people of the Angle were more than generous to us: they shared their food, dressed our wounds and generally treated us with nought but respect. ‘Tis not their fault that you got chased around by an angry – and very drunk – Northman with the biggest knife ever forged in the Wilderland. Which, by the way, you deserved; that poor Man had just caught you in the haystack with his daughter.”

“I was wondering how a girl, even if just the daughter of some Northern brute, could have picked the ugliest of us all,” commented Bofur, his eyes glowing in the dark with amusement. “Now I understand; it must have been very dark in that haystack.”

Egill, very young (for a Dwarf) and foolishly proud of his conquest, was about to give an answer he would most definitely regret later, but Frán hissed at them to shut up, The mysterious traveller was coming into earshot. They could all hear the thunderous clattering of hooves on the dirt road. It sounded like the trod of a big horse indeed; but again, Tyrgg rarely erred in such matters.

“‘Tis not some slow, cold-blooded beast, used to pull carts or carry burdens,” whispered Mötsognir, Jörundr’s brother. As an ironsmith, he knew a great deal about horses and ponies, having shoed quite a number of both in his life. “It might tread heavily, but at considerable speed.”

“A war-horse?” guessed Frán. “But we never heard of mounted warriors in these lands, save for the Rangers; and those do not travel at night if they can avoid it. They lack the night-eyes of our people.”

“Perhaps this one has been sent on errantry that could not be delayed,” said Bofur grimly. “Or perhaps it is not a Ranger at all – not even a Man. Look!”

They were just a little after a full moon; Zigilnâd⁽¹⁾, as the Dwarves called it, just begun waning, its silver light still shining brightly. And in that silver moonlight they all could see now a dark shape appear at the end of the northern road – or rather the end of how much they could see of it. Not even Dwarven eyesight could penetrate the solid shape of the hills or other landmarks.

It was a rider all night. But not one they had expected. It was most definitely not a man upon a horse. Both he and his beast were too short and too broad for that, albeit his steed looked way too large and powerful for a mere pony.

“Rakhâs⁽²⁾?” asked Bifur in a voice too low for anyone but another Dwarf to hear.

Frán shook her head. “No lone Orc would dare to come so close to the Angle… or to Bree, for that matter. They are way too cowardly for that. And a scout for a larger band would never travel openly. Nay; ‘tis no Orc.”

“What is it then?” asked Bifur. “’Tis too large for a Bree Hobbit, yet too short for a Man of Bree.”

“We shall see it soon enough,” Frán tooted twice as a night-owl, summoning her mate and their son. “Take Fródi and Veig with you and hide on the other side of those bushes,” she said. “Get torches. At my mark, light them; we shall do the same here. And you, Egill, have that bow of yours ready, just in case.”

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

The others obeyed quickly and without delay. For whenever they got into a fight – or expected to get into one – Frán was the one to give the orders. That was her appointed task within their caravan, being the only warrior among them… and a female one at that. Without her experience in battles and the sharpness of her tactical mind they would have fared much worse on their long, perilous journeys.

Less than half a mark⁽³⁾ later, when the lone rider came up close enough to the defensive arrangement of wagons to recognise them for what they were – a small but effective mobile fortress – the trap had already been set. Frán tooted like a night-owl again, this time thrice, and at her mark half a dozen torches were lit all around, all at the same time, and three bows were aimed at the newcomer, with their heavy, iron-tipped arrows at the ready.

She had trained her fellow Dwarves well.

“Hold on, stranger!” she called out in her deep voice that only another Dwarf would have recognised as a female one. “State your intentions and be warned: our archers have aimed their arrows at you, and they are very good at what they do.”

“Who are you, lady, to threaten weary travellers?” asked the newcomer indignantly, his voice every bit as deep and rough as hers. “I owe no answer to anyone but my lord, on whose behalf I am travelling all across the empty lands.”

“Are you now,” said Frán, not the least mellowed; the fact that he had recognised her as a female only strengthened her suspicions, for what was a Dwarf doing, travelling alone in the wilderness? “Who is that lord of yours and what is your errand then?”

“I would be a most untrustworthy errand rider, would I give the name of my lord to any strangers,” replied the unknown Dwarf. “As for my errand, I am looking for the caravan of Bifur the toy-maker. I was told they would be due to return to Eriador this way, and that soon.”

“Told by whom?” demanded Frán who was no more willing to give away Bifur’s presence than the newcomer would tell anything about his mysterious lord.

“Why, by Tharkûn the Grey Wizard, of course,” he replied a bit more readily now. “And ere you ask me how he could tell me where to look for Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, then all I can say is: I don’t know! Wizards are odd people: they come and go as they please, know things they ain’t supposed to know and meddle in affairs that are nowhere near their business. What I do know, though, is that their tidings are usually reliable.”

“Perhaps so,” allowed Frán. “That still does not tell me who you are and why should I trust you.”

“I am Óin son of Gróin, from Durin’s own line,” answered the stranger with authority in his voice that had not been there a moment ago. “My mother, may her glorious memory never fade, was the Lady Frey of the FireBeard Clans. I am a jewel-smith and a lore-master; and I dwell in the Blue Mountains with Thorin Oakenshield’s people.”

“So you say,” returned Frán, still not persuaded that she was not being lied to. “Yet if you are such an important person, why would you seek out humble Wanderers like Bifur, Bofur and Bombur?”

“He seeks us out for he is an old friend,” Bifur stepped out from behind a wagon and into the light of the torches, so that the newcomer could recognise her. “Welcome to our humble camp, Óin Gróinsson. It has been a long time since our paths last crossed.”

“Too long,” agreed the newcomer – obviously the very Dwarf he had stated to be.

Then, to the shocked surprise of the entire caravan – with the likely exception of Bofur and Bombur – he dismounted and enveloped Bifur in a bear hug that would have bruised the ribs of a strong Man.

~TBC~

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

Endnotes:

(1) Zigilnâd was a rejected name for the Celebdil (Silverlode). Tolkien later decided to go with Kibil-nâla. I just needed a Dwarvish-sounding name for the Moon.

(2) Rakhâs means simply Orc in Khuzdul.

(3) With “mark” I mean the equivalent of an hour, assuming that the Wanderers used marked candles to measure time. It is of no true significance, I just wanted a somewhat old-fashioned expression.