Chapter One

The Reluctant Messenger

Blákári urged his pony to greater speed, while bouncing along, his armor jingling, and feeling like a piece of misused baggage. He had never been very fond of riding and preferred to walk on his own two feet. Since that was not an option, he gritted his teeth (to prevent them being jarred together or coming down on his tongue…again) and hoped the brown beast he rode would settle into a pace that would not bruise parts of his anatomy he would rather have uninjured. As if sensing his thoughts, the pony leveled out into a gallop.

Blákári let his pony run for a short time, then pulled him back down to a ground eating canter. He might not be used to riding, but the pony keeper had made it clear that the beast could not run from the Mountain all the way to Mirkwood. He could, however, go for long periods alternating between a canter and a trot. Blákári much preferred the canter. It would take several hours to reach the forest, and already the sun was sinking towards the tree line. It would be dark before he made it to his destination. With time on his hands, and nothing to fill it but his thoughts, he began to ruminate on what terrible luck he had.

Out of all the duties to be taken up before the coming battle, this was not the one he would have chosen. A great battle would commence on the slopes of the Mountain, perhaps even now, the enemy had reached the Mountain's feet! And would he get to fight? Oh, no. Once again, he was given some menial task while others got to experience adventure and prove their honor!  Even passing out armor and weapons to the warriors and bringing new weapons to the rear ranks to be passed forward would be more bearable than being sent off on a pony as messenger boy.

He sighed. Even his friend Gimli had been given the opportunity to prove his worth. Glóin's son had traveled to Rivendell with the contingent from the Mountain to seek Lord Elrond's counsel. Blákári had learned from Glóin upon his return that Gimli had also been granted a place on some clandestine mission to the south. No amount of begging had convinced Glóin to divulge the secret, and eventually he had given up in the face of his elder's stern refusal.

Blákári frowned as he remembered. He had not even been allowed to go to Rivendell with his friend. "You're too young yet," his father, Bifur, had told him, even though Glóin had shown a rare mellow moment, offering to let Blákári accompany the delegation and to keep an eye on him. But Bifur had refused, stating Blákári would be nothing but trouble in his youth. It was true that Gimli was his senior by many years, but at ninety-seven, Blákári felt it was past time for his father to start treating him as an adult. Was not his axe sharp and his skill long honed?

And now, look at him. Sent off on some dull mission to give a warning to some elves and hope in turn they might lend aid. Why, he bet the elves would not even allow him into their realm! Blákári did not have a very high opinion of elves. From his childhood, he had heard the old stories, and Bifur and Glóin had often divulged the tale of how Thorin Oakenshield and his band had outsmarted the old Elvenking by floating away from his caves in barrels.

Bah! Let the elves find out themselves that evil was afoot! It was not as if they would ever return the favor should circumstances be reversed. Why, from what he recalled of the stories of the last big battle, the elves had been against the dwarves at first! It was only after the orcs and wargs had come that the elves, dwarves and men had fought side by side. He just could not believe the elves would lend any aid to his people and that warning them was a waste of all their time.

What he thought did not matter, however. King Dain had spoken, and Blákári had ridden off as bidden, the dutiful son of a hero of their people. All thirteen of the dwarves who had set out on the Quest for Erebor had been honored, even those who had not survived. Bifur took great pleasure in reminding his son frequently of the importance of upholding the family honor and not losing face before his elders.

So, here he rode, bouncing along on the back of a pony that was determined to make certain he never sired sons of his own.

–

The sun had long sunk beyond the horizon when Blákári reached the tree line. He peered into the blackness, fearful of what awaited him beneath the twisted boughs of Mirkwood. His pony gasped for air and threatened to balk, but he had been told by King Dain himself to go with all haste and to push his mount until it dropped if need be. His knees rose and fell as the pony's ribs expanded like a bellows, and feeling sorry for the beast, Blákári let his mount have a short rest. It was probably due more to his hesitation to entering the forest, but he would not admit that even to himself.

But King Dain's words and Blákári's sense of duty would not allow him to put off his mission for more than a few minutes. He urged his pony on, wishing now he had asked for the beast's name before setting out. "Well, come on now, whatever your name is. We must travel a little further." The pony's head turned so that Blákári could see a dark eye reflecting the moonlight. If he did not know better, he would say the beast glared at him. He clucked and touched his heels to the pony's heaving sides, earning him a slight buck and a snort. "I didn't have to let you stop at all, you fool creature! Now come, we must be off! We have the King's business to attend!"

From beneath the dark boughs came a noise that sounded suspiciously like muted laughter. By Mahal's Hammer! It would be his luck to have the elves see this. Then a musical voice called out in amused tones, "Look, Tathar! Here is a rare thing: a dwarf that talks to beasts like an elf!"

Blákári's beard bristled at the words, and he strained his eyes to see the speaker. But not even a dwarf's eyes could pierce the darkness of Mirkwood. A sudden movement caught his eye in the moonlight, and Blákári found himself looking at a tall, dark-haired elf, dressed in the greens and browns of the Elvenking's patrols, who had dropped from the trees. There was nothing for it now. He would not even be allowed to enter the forest most likely.

"Who are you and what is your business here?" the elf asked suspiciously, peering into the darkness behind Blákári. It was not the voice of the one who had jested at Blákári's expense.

"I am Blákári Bifur's son," he replied, then added helpfully, "I travel alone, and my business is with the Elvenking." His eyes widened at the look of surprise that crossed the elf's face at his words, then his stomach dropped when the look became a sneer.

"No dwarf has business with my lord. None would be so foolish!" The sound of snickers came from the trees, alerting Blákári to the presence of more elves in the darkness. He most likely had a number of arrows aimed at his heart! His fingers itched for his axe, but Dain's words rang through his mind.

"Do nothing to provoke any guards. Speak politely, tell them your errand and whatever you do, keep your hands away from your axe!"

"I bring an urgent message from the King under the Mountain. It is imperative I give it to your lord immediately." He sounded arrogant to his own ears, but it was the best he could manage in the way of politeness. He had never met with elves before, and the thought of becoming target practice for elven archers made him nervous and uncertain. For the first time, he felt his youth and wondered if an older and wiser dwarf might have been better suited for this mission.

The elf stepped closer, and Blákári could see curiosity had replaced the earlier suspicion, though there yet remained caution in the elf's movements. "What message?" he asked, his bright eyes glittering in the moonlight.

Blákári shook his head. "I can give it to none other than the Elvenking," he rumbled in reply. Dain should have allowed him to give the message to he first patrol came across. There was simply no way he would be allowed to see the infamous King of the Elves. He swallowed hard at that thought. In truth, he feared being made a prisoner, even as had his father eighty years prior.

Blákári was surprised when the elf inclined his head. "Very well, we will escort you to the Halls." Then the elf smirked. "One so young can surely cause little harm. It shall be humorous to see what the King decides to do with you, naugrim."

The double insult was more than Blákári could handle. His hand closed over the haft of his axe. "Why you pointy-eared—" His voice cut off as a dozen elves dropped into sight, and as he had thought, their bows were drawn, arrows pointed at his heart. A shudder went through him, but he tried to hide his fear. Gimli would never cower before a passel of elves! He straightened himself in the saddle and met each set of glittering eyes with a defiant look that he hoped gave no sign of his trepidation.

"Your pony has traveled far enough for one night," the leader stated, stepping forward. His voice was softer as he reached out to pat the beast's sweaty neck. "One of my men shall stay with him until he is rested enough to make the rest of the journey." The elf eyed Blákári with a disdainful look. "You shall come with us." He signaled to those behind him, who eased their holds on bowstrings and replaced their arrows into quivers.

Blákári eyed the party suspiciously for a moment, but in the end, had to concede. It was why he had been sent. "And who are you?" he deigned to ask, meeting the leader's eyes.

"I am Tathar, son of Lord Ferlim, and in the absence of this patrol's leader, I am in command." He turned and led the way into the darkness. Blákári fell in behind him, mindful of the bows that could be drawn in an instant.

–

Blákári's legs, which had nearly crumpled beneath him after sliding off the pony, were wobbly and the insides of his knees (as well as his backside) were sore. He actually felt grateful to leave the pony behind and be back on his own two feet, but time was short. He had been instructed to make all haste, and in the company of elves, he had no assurance of that.

Having been escorted into the darkness of the wood, he found his eyes adjusted quickly enough to make out the path. He followed the elf named Tathar under the boughs, feeling a strange sense of heaviness that grew with each step and made his heart quail. The wood seemed to groan, and he swore he could almost hear whispers as a gust of wind sent the evergreen needles to rustling and the bare branches creaking. Some doom lie ahead, some evil approached. How he knew this, he did not understand, but he could feel it approaching.

"You sense it as well."

Blákári nearly jumped at the voice from beside him. It was the one who had spoken of him speaking to animals as did elves. Blákári turned and glared upwards at the fair-haired elf. The elf smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Evil comes for us from the south. The Shadow approaches. The trees send warning."

"Maithon!"

Tathar's sharp voice brought a sheepish expression to the face of the one who had spoken, reminding Blákári of the times he had spoken out of turn and been corrected by his elders. He wondered if this Maithon was young for one of his people. That was the trouble with elves. He had heard they did not show their age, being the strange immortal creatures they were, but surely they had youths among them as well? Blákári grinned reassuringly at Maithon. Elves might be strange, but they were also fallible. The attempt at conversation had eased his fears and boosted his confidence.

His relief of being off the pony's back lasted all of ten minutes. Tathar slowed his pace, and when Blákári peered ahead of him, he saw several tall horses waiting. His spirits drooped at the thought of being hoisted up on one of those backs.  

"Can we not walk?" he asked, eyeing the mounts that appeared silver in the faint moonlight that penetrated the gnarled branches. He knew further from the Elvenking's lands that the wood grew so tangled that no light reached the forest floor even in broad daylight but he was glad that here, nearer the edge of the wood, he could see.

Tathar raised a brow at him. "I would have thought your mission was one of haste, judging by your pony's condition."

Blákári winced. "So it is, but I do not feel comfortable on beasts so high from the ground." He grimaced as soon as the admission left his lips, and he felt heat rush to his face and ears. Perhaps his father was correct and he was yet too young to leave the Mountain. One did not reveal their weaknesses willingly!

The elf, Maithon, grinned at him, then walked over to the horses, running a hand down a long, grey neck. "It is no different than riding your pony," he said. Blákári snorted.

"I hold it shall be safer," Tathar added. The leader's brow furrowed a moment, then he seemed to come to a decision. "Maithon, the dwarf shall ride with you." Then he turned away and spoke to another horse, his own, Blákári thought, judging from the soft nickering sound the beast made.

"Come," Maithon called, "Elhíl shall not let you fall."

Blákári moved to the horse's side, gazing up – way up – and feeling more than apprehensive about mounting such a beast. He had never ridden anything of such size before, and had the feeling it would not be a sedate stroll up the path. There was no saddle, and he wondered how he was supposed to mount.

Maithon solved his problem by urging Elhíl over to a large fallen log near the path. Blákári nodded once in thanks, then clambered up on the log and from there, to the horse's back. His heart plummeted as he looked down and he nearly slipped off, but the elf mounted quickly before him, giving Blákári something to hold on to. He had no qualms about taking hold of the elf's tunic to keep his balance.

The horses leapt forward into an easy canter, and Blákári felt his stomach turn over. He was going to fall, slip from the horse and meet his death in the dark of Mirkwood when he should be fighting at the Mountain like a true dwarf!

"Hold tight to me," Maithon called back, flashing a grin over his shoulder before urging the horse into a run.

Blákári would have felt awkward with his arms wrapped around the elf's waist, but he was too busy holding on for dear life. The ground disappeared beneath them at an alarming rate. Never had he traveled so quickly, and after a few minutes, his fears subsided as he began to feel more secure on Elhíl's back and he was able to appreciate the horse's movements. There was little noise, for under the trees, the path was cushioned in a deep blanket of leaves that muffled the sound of the galloping horses. He could not even be certain whether Elhíl's hooves touched the ground, so smooth was his pace. Unlike his pony, this beast glided with a sheer grace, nearly floating, and Blakari wondered if this was how the eagles felt when riding upon the wind.

It seemed a very short time later the horses slowed as they approached a lane lined with rows of sleeping beeches, their bare, white branches glowing eerily in the moonlight. Beyond, a stone bridge spanned a glittering river, its happy gurgling the only sound in the night, and on the other bank, torches could be seen burning before open gates where many elves gathered. Blákári swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. Soon he would be brought before the Elvenking and then what would become of him?

He felt Maithon stiffen and cast a glance to Tathar, who held up a hand signaling his men. They moved closer into formation and trotted across the bridge and then all was chaos.

Elf men and women rushed to and fro, gathering supplies and handing out weapons. Some hugged their loved ones and then disappeared into the night, while others barked orders out. From inside the caverns, Blákári could hear the crying of young ones. Sadly, he had seen a similar situation – had it only been this morning? It seemed a lifetime ago he had left the Mountain and their preparations for battle. Now it seemed he had not escaped after all. His axe might yet sever a few heads!

— o —

Tathar's sense of unease, which had plagued him for two days, grew to grave concern as he realized that in his absence, his fears had come true. The army was being mustered, and more than that, it appeared all capable of fighting were being outfitted for war, even many of the women. In the midst of the clamor, his eyes were drawn to a tall, familiar figure dressed in attire Tathar had rarely seen him wear: the green and brown clothing of a King's warrior, complete with armor glinting under the moon and the insignia of a commander on his collar.

"Father!" he called out. "What has happened? Are we under attack?"

"Tathar!" Ferlim's gaze came to rest upon him, and those ancient eyes glistened with a sheen of moisture. "Thank the Star Kindler!" His father rushed forward and pulled him from his horse's back and embraced him. "We feared you had fallen when you did not report yesterday." Ferlim's eyes scanned over him, his shoulders sagging with relief to see him unscathed.

"Nay, I felt drawn to the eastern edge of the forest, and there we–"

"No time for reports now; you must arm yourselves for a long battle, and armor is required. Dol Guldur marches upon us!"

The blood drained from Tathar's face at that news. He had been close to that accursed place many times, though now they avoided it, so orc infested it had become. Something else resided in that dark tower – dark riders, servants of the Necromancer. Too many of his fellows had been lost in skirmishes with the servants of the one who held Dol Guldur. Now it seemed many more would be claimed if battle was imminent.

He turned to immediately order his men, his eyes instead coming to rest upon the dwarf, and he was reminded of the naugrim's message for the king. Could it have ought to do with the coming battle? Or could it be as Thranduil and his advisors feared: that battle would come to Elves, Dwarves and Men on all sides?

If Dain had sent this youth seeking aid, Tathar feared there would be none to offer. Looking about and seeing even those who had only just attained their majority arming for battle, he knew they would have naught to spare to send to Dain.

"Father?" He turned back, noting that Ferlim's eyes now rested on the dwarf and his face was contorted in a look of both shock and revulsion. "Father," he repeated, taking Ferlim's arm. "Where is the king? I have a messenger for him."

Ferlim paled and his gaze flew to Tathar's at that statement. "Thranduil has already led a large contingent south. We shall rendezvous with him before morning." Ferlim's eyes moved back to the dwarf. "Is that your messenger?" His tone was hard and unforgiving, reminding Tathar that his father had been one of those who had escaped Doriath and who had witnessed the treachery of the dwarves.

But Tathar could not rouse his usual dislike for the naugrim, despite his upbringing. He glanced back at the dwarf, who eyed them suspiciously as they spoke in their native tongue. Then Maithon said something that caused the dwarf's lips to twitch and his eyes to sparkle. He answered, and though Tathar could not hear the words, he saw his men chuckle and Maithon laughed brightly.

Something about the young dwarf spoke to him. Perhaps it was some sense of fate, or maybe it was simply the fact that for all his dark hair and bushy, black beard, the dwarf reminded him of the golden-haired Maithon: young, quick to speak his mind, stubborn to a fault and carrying a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Aye, that would be the messenger, and he will speak to none but the king."

Ferlim's lips curled into a sneer. "Then let him accompany us to Thranduil." He snorted. "Dain is a fool to have sent a child to do a man's work."

"Perhaps," Tathar agreed, watching the strange exchange between the young Maithon and Blákári. Had not an hour earlier the young elf been making insulting barbs about dwarves talking to beasts like the elves? For whatever reason, the dwarf was meant to be here; Tathar knew it, though he could not explain how. "What is done is done, and maybe his being here will have been for the best."

Ferlim lifted a skeptical brow, but said nothing else on the matter, while Tathar hastened to get his patrol prepared for the coming battle. All the while he kept half an eye on Blákári, nearly smiling at the dwarf's unease amidst the milling elves. Whatever reason fate had for sending a dwarf to them would come to light in its own time. For now, Tathar prepared for war.

To Be Continued…