Chapter Two

A Ride Under Dark Trees

Blákári's fingers itched to hold his axe. The further they rode from the Elvenking's halls, the more the sense of doom crept up his neck. In all his years he had never felt anything like this, not even when the dark ones had come to the Mountain with their demands. He did not remember much from his lessons on geography, at least concerning the forest of Mirkwood, but he thought that the fortress of Dol Guldur lay many hours, if not several days' ride, to the south. And weren't there mountains about half way?

He tried to look ahead for some sign of the terrain, but after they had ridden half a dozen leagues from the stronghold, the darkness had become like a cloak over the wood, swirling shadows and mysterious sounds making him jump. Like a veil, the blackness clung to the forest, keeping even the keen eyes of a dwarf from piercing them. He could only barely see the elf sitting right in front of him, and only because the elf emitted some kind of glow, which Blákári found a bit unnerving in the pitch of night.

He closed his eyes, then opened them, trying again to pierce the darkness ahead. By Mahal's Hammer, how did these elves see where they were going? The soft glow they emanated was not enough to light the path, at least not more than right beneath the horses they rode. He began to suspect some of the stories he had heard as a child were true, and that elves could indeed shoot a bird through the eye in the dark.

"Are you well, Master Dwarf?" Maithon asked from his perch in front of him.

"I am hale enough," Blákári answered, his lips quirking as he avoided answering what the elf truly wished to know. He preferred to keep his thoughts about the dark and the strange sense of foreboding to himself, at least for now. "And you?"

The elf's torso vibrated as Maithon snorted. "I am impatient to skewer a few orcs, but otherwise hale, naugrim. But that is not what I meant. You are quiet and so tense I fear the wrinkles caused by your grip on my tunic will never be removed!"

Blákári glanced down where he could just see his hands against the faint glow of the elf. His fingers were clenched tight, his apprehension manifesting itself in the way he clutched the elf's clothing. He forced himself to loosen his hold. "My apologies," he mumbled.

"It is well. I fear by the time the fighting is over, this tunic shall be fit for burning!" The elf laughed brightly as if he had told a great joke.

Blákári did not find it humorous; instead, he remembered the one time he had seen orcs. It had been when they had traveled from the Blue Mountains to the Lonely Mountain shortly after it was retaken from Smaug. He had been very young — too young to have seen the things he had. He had been hidden among the baggage with Gimli guarding him while his father, Glóin and the other men had drawn their axes and dispatched the small band of orcs. He would never forget the clinging black gore, the squeals of outrage from the orcs and the gurgles of the dying.

Soft sounds drifted back to him from the front of the line, and Blákári realized they had arrived at the rendezvous. He could faintly make out many softly glowing forms in the darkness but they were continuously swallowed by the unnatural blanket of darkness resting over the wood. His stomach began to churn with nervousness, for soon he would stand before the Elvenking himself, that fierce and unforgiving elf he had heard so many tales about.

"Is this the messenger?" a soft, melodic voice inquired from nearby.

Blákári jumped, turning to peer in the direction from whence the voice had come, but he could see only the faint outline of two elves in the blackness. He squinted and frowned, wishing the elves would offer some stronger source of light.

"Aye," came the answer in what he thought was Tathar's voice. "This is the messenger sent from Dain, or so he claims. His pony was in such a state by the time he made the border that we had to leave the poor beast behind."

Definitely Tathar, Blákári decided. "Are you going to stand there talking about me in the dark, or will you bring some light so that I might give my message and return to fight beside my people?" He hated when the elders spoke of him as if he were not there, and he certainly would not tolerate it from a bunch of elves.

All around him, voices faded to silence. It was as if the elves held a collective breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

"Light a torch," that strange voice declared, only this time it was not soft, but cold and demanding.

He had heard that sort of tone before, but only in Dain's voice. Blákári gulped, trying again to peer through the darkness, attempting to see the figure that eluded his sight. A torch flared to life not ten paces away, and Blákári's eyes watered a bit at the sudden assault, then fastened themselves on the most imposing elf he had ever laid eyes upon. Taller than even that pompous Lord Ferlim who Tathar had introduced as his father, this one had hair that shone a deep gold and fell in a single braid over one shoulder. Though dressed in the attire of a Mirkwood warrior, there were subtle differences, including some insignia Blákári had not seen before: oak leaves crossed with a staff of some sort.

The biggest disparity, however, was in the elf's eyes: green as sparkling emeralds in the sunlight, cold and hard as steel. Those eyes demanded respect and commanded attention. Blákári instinctively drew himself up straight and, thanks to his place behind Maithon on the grey horse, found himself eye to eye with this elf, unable to look away. He had no doubts as to who he faced. An older, more experienced dwarf might sneer in the face of the Elvenking, but all Blákári could do was stare into those ancient eyes and wish more than anything that he had been young enough to be sent with the old women deep into the Mountain rather than be as a messenger to such a person as this.

Thranduil lifted an imperious brow at him. "Well, you have light. Deliver your message, son of Mahal, and then you can depart my forest. The coming battle is no place for children."

Ire rose up within Blákári at those words and his fingers twitched. King or not, no pointy-eared elf was going to call him a child!

"…and whatever you do, keep your hands away from your axe!"

Dain's words echoed in his head and he somehow managed to keep from grasping the haft of his weapon. He did not miss the fact that the Elvenking's eyes had watched him for his reaction, and was thankful to his king for warning him so severely. Threatening the Elvenking with such a move could easily cost him his life, he knew, and so Blákári kept his hand glued to his thigh and away from the axe in his belt.

But he would not let the comment pass unrecognized. "I am no child," he dared, meeting Thranduil's eyes boldly. "But those more experienced were needed elsewhere," he conceded, swallowing hard as he recalled the battle that most certainly raged even now at the foot of the Mountain.

"Dain sends for aid, then?" Thranduil asked, his eyes flickering northeast, as if looking towards Dale.

"My message was to inform you that Men from the east have crossed the River Carnen and attacked King Brand. The Men of Dale were pushed back towards the Mountain and sent word requesting our aid. Dain granted it. He sent me here to warn you that the numbers of the enemy are many and to expect an attack on your own people." Blákári did not understand such a message. There had been no request for aid given – only a warning. Why Dain expected Thranduil to send help when it was not requested, Blákári could not fathom.

The hardness in Thranduil's eyes softened slightly, his eyes still turned to the northeast. "Honorable of Dain to send us one capable of fighting in order to warn us." He turned back to Blákári. "I know what he wishes of me, and would that I could grant it. We have received word from our scouts that the enemy advances in force from the south. I have no warriors to spare; as it is, we shall be greatly outnumbered. Erebor will stand or fall without the aid of the elves." And with that, Thranduil turned away, leaving Blákári gaping after him as the torch was put out.

—

The horses milled about, their unease apparent in the sounds of shuffling hooves and soft snorts. They could sense the approach of evil even as he could, Blákári supposed. He certainly felt the oppressive force drawing closer. It caused his heart to quail with the thought of looming battle. Earlier in the day he had longed to take part, but this feeling had not been as evident at the Mountain. There, Men of the East attacked, not orcs and wargs and who knew what else?

Now he wondered if he had the courage to face the coming darkness. Blákári snorted. Coming darkness? Already he could only see his hand before his face due to the elf seated before him. What made them glow in such a manner, he wondered. Was it true they were children of the stars themselves?

"How do you fare, Master Dwarf?" Maithon asked, probably having felt Blákári's tension and his hand reaching for the haft of his axe.

"Well enough," he replied. "I am unused to such darkness. Not even in the deepest mines is it this dark." How was it he kept admitting his weaknesses to this elf? Blákári cursed himself for his youth and impetuousness. His father would be appalled at his behavior.

But the elf did not disparage him for his admittance. Instead Maithon sighed. "This is not just the blackness of night, nor of the trees being so close. The Shadow approaches from the south." A shudder ran through the elf. "I fear the coming battle will be long and victory hard won."

Blákári grunted. He did not envy the elves' war with the evil forces in the south of their wood. For himself, he wished to be off home, to offer what aid he could, if he managed to return in time. He glanced about for Tathar, but could not differentiate one glow from another. Using his ears, he searched for the voice instead, and quickly pinpointed it off to his left.

"I cannot send him away now!" Tathar was saying. "The way is not safe and we would lose warriors we need here."

"Only one need take him back to the edge of the wood," came the voice of Tathar's pompous father. That one was the epitome of all Blákári had been taught to despise in the elves: arrogant, derisive, too certain of his own worth. Blákári found himself bristling at just the sound of Ferlim's voice. It was well that not all elves were as that one.  

The short hours Blákári had ridden behind Maithon had directly contradicted all he had been told about the elves – except for the flighty part. Maithon was quick to jest and smile. There was only joy and light in that gaze, despite the taunts he made against the dwarves. Blákári found himself thinking that had their peoples not been so at odds, that he and the elf might become friends.

He snorted to himself. Friends? An elf and a dwarf? How Gimli would laugh at him were he here! And probably knock him on his backside for daring to consider such a thing.

The sound of the voices lowered to mere hisses caught Blákári's attention again. It seemed some other elf had joined Ferlim and Tathar, but he could not make out what they said. Then Tathar's voice rose above the others. "NO! You would be sending him to his death!"

"Then the world will be rid of one more naugrim," the new voice growled.

Instinctively, Blákári's hand clenched about the haft of his axe at the threat in that voice. Would he have to fight his way back to his people? His heart thudded in his chest, and he contemplated slipping from the horse's back and making a run for the forest edge. Only…

Blákári still could not see the surrounding terrain and had no idea how to find his way through the depths of this forest. He swallowed hard as he realized his very life depended on elves, a race who despised him simply for being a dwarf.

"Do not listen to Belthul," Maithon whispered. "He speaks boldly, but you were granted safe passage, and not even the prince can thwart your safe return. Only the king can do that." The words did not ease Blákári's racing heart or the rising panic at being at the mercy of the elves.

"And would he?" Blákári dared to ask the question nagging most in his mind.

"Nay," Maithon replied. "Our king, despite his reputation, is honorable. He will either provide you with safe passage back to your pony, or will keep you with us for the battle. In all honesty," he added, turning to look over his shoulder. Blákári could just make out his features in the faint light the elf gave off. "It would be safer for you to remain with us." His lips twitched upwards. "Do you not wish to fight?"

"Aye," Blákári answered, loosening his grip on his axe. He dared be honest. "But not with elves. I wish to fight alongside my own people."

Maithon's eyes flashed with a deadly light. "Well I understand such a desire; I also yearn to fight with my kin. Too long has the enemy encroached upon our wood."

Blákári blinked. Had he understood the elf's insinuation correctly? "Have you not seen battle before?" he asked. Blákári could not be certain, but he thought the elf's face darkened slightly.

"I have seen battle," Maithon said, glancing back to the front of the horse so that Blákári could no longer see his face. "I have faced spiders, wargs and orcs. But…" The elf released a sigh, his head tilting forward. "I am still considered a novice by the captains, though I have fought with the patrols for nearly half a Long Year now! I might not be as seasoned as some, but I'm no child to be protected. I can fight." The fair head raised and the elf threw a confident look over his shoulder. "What of you?"

Blákári felt his face heat. He looked away, unable to admit his inexperience. "I am trained in the arts of war," he grumbled.

"Which means you have not actually seen battle," Maithon spoke the words for him. "That explains why you were chosen as messenger."

"What of it?" Blákári bristled.

"Nothing," was the calm reply. "There is no shame in never having faced battle. In truth, I wish you did not have to do so, for it is messy, loud and terrifying as much as it is glorious and honorable to defend one's people."

All his life, Blákári had heard the tales from his elders of battles won and lost, of the glories of victory and the vengeance meted out to their enemies. To be a dwarf was to be a warrior as much as a craftsman. From childhood they were taught to wield an axe in defense, and from early youth to brandish a weapon in attack. Blákári's knowledge of battle techniques and maneuvers equaled his knowledge of delving into stone. It was incomprehensible to him to consider not fighting. The only ones who did not fight were those to young or too old. Even the women were trained in the arts of war.

But to hear this elf speak of battle in terms he had never considered set him off balance. Loud was to be expected, and so would messy, he supposed, considering his blade was kept razor sharp, but he had not considered the practical and logical parts of war. No, he had only contemplated winning honor and glory by doing his duty. Only in the past hours had he experienced doubts and fear about actually engaging in battle. Could it be all warriors felt such terror?

"You will be fine," Maithon assured him with a smile. "From what I have heard, dwarves are stubborn and hard headed, confident and quick with an axe. Perhaps by morning, your count shall equal my own."

Blákári's eyes widened. He knew the warriors of his own people often kept count of their kills, like a game. Could it be that the elves did this as well? "Well, then," he added, his lips twitching, "if indeed we fight together, we should make a wager between us. Whoever has the least kills owes the one with the most a drink."

Maithon laughed brightly, the sound causing many around them to cease their murmuring. "That is a wager I'll accept, Master Dwarf. I have heard that the dwarves have a trick for turning wine into something stronger — brandy, I believe it is called?"

"Aye." Blákári chuckled, thinking of his father's brandy still. The dwarves did not trade this drink, and the method for producing it was kept safe within the Mountain. But he had managed to swipe a jug or two and hide them in secret places. If he lost, he could fulfill. his end of the bargain. "And I have heard that the elves have a wine that is so strong that it puts even their own to sleep."

Maithon snorted. "Yes, I have heard that is how your people managed to escape from the king's halls not so many years prior. Old Galion dipped too deep into the king's Dorwinion. If I should lose, Master Dwarf, I can provide a wine skin or two."

That settled, Blákári focused on the hushed voices of Tathar, Ferlim and the Prince Belthul. The argument seemed to have continued with no outcome as yet. Blákári wished that he might have some say in his fate. Was it not his life they discussed?

As it was, none of it mattered, for the decision was taken from them all. Whether he wished to fight alongside elves or not mattered not, for the darkness was lit by an orange glow. At first, Blákári thought the elves had lit torches, but the sudden scramble around him, voices calling back, and the distant sounds of metal on metal chilled him as he realized the wood itself had been set on fire.

The orcs had struck first.

To Be Continued…

Author's Note: Several years ago, in a discussion at a writer's group, Adaneth mentioned that she was certain the dwarves would have invented stills for making brandy and whisky. My dwarves concur.   

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