The thick foul smoke of the mountain choked him with its stink. The plains outside had reeked with it but here, at the heart of Orodruin, the fumes crept down his throat like something alive. Every breath was a struggle. The heat was like nothing he had ever felt. It made him sweat like a Man, pant like a Man. Strands of his hair were sticking to his skin. The touch of evil seemed to fill the hall around him, and even Vilya on his finger was not eager to try its power against it.
They had come to the overlook of Sammath Naur. Far below, the molten stone moved and steamed with active malice. Great magic had been worked here in this elemental forge, and the echoes could still be felt now; likely would still be able to be felt for a thousand years to come. He turned to the mortal King who shadowed his footsteps.
"Come!" He cried. "Cast it into the fire!"
Isildur was holding the plain-banded ring between fore-finger and thumb, turning it back and forth to catch the light. Even now, knowing what it was and all it meant, all it could do, the malice it held was a quiet thing, hiding in the gold like a serpent in the grass. He did not like to have it so close. But they had come so far and done more than he'd had any hope for, and now only one small task yet remained to cast down Sauron and all his works and end the font of all evil in Middle-Earth.
"Destroy it!" he shouted, when the Man hesitated. Was it not simple enough? Had he not seen the evils that Ring brought?
The Man smiled. It was, he realised with growing horror, an evil look. "No," Isildur-King muttered, and before he could act, move to check him, he had turned and was striding away, back towards the foul sky and less foul air.
Elrond returned to awareness of the world staring up at the dome of night, illuminated by the tender light of the stars. He let out a slow breath, banishing the dream from his thoughts. There was no need to question why that memory was preying on his mind; it had been a moment in which many horrors could have been prevented, not least those most recent losses beneath the shadow of the Lonely Mountain. He rose from the soft grass and surveyed their camp. They had stopped merely to rest the horses, taking their own brief respite in shifts. If this was a retreat, at least it was an orderly one, and they were not pursued.
As refreshed as any elf could hope to be under the circumstances, he had certain duties to attend to. Awakening the energies of Vilya with a whispered word, Elrond made his way through the camp to the tents they had swiftly raised to house the wounded overnight. Those who could not be fitted upon the wagons had needed to be carried, but that was a task no elf would shirk. Now those stretchers lay upon the ground, and those they bore lay in the stupors of healing, or shivering from the effort of suppressing their pain. The army's stocks of healing herbs had been used up days ago.
The last time Elrond had seen wounds like this, he reflected, had been three thousand years ago upon the blasted plains of Mordor. Dragon fire held a spark of the Maiars' power; it clung to flesh and was not easily extinguished. Many had died from it, their armour fusing to their skin and their lungs burning to char when they could inhale naught but flame. Worse though were those who survived. Though nerves would be sundered in the immediate aftermath, and elven nature meant no need to fear infection of the open skin, the process of healing could not easily be predicted. For some those nerves grew back too quickly, when all was still raw. He had known some to be driven from their minds in their agony until at last the burden became enough to drive their spirits to the Halls of Mandos. Where even the worst burns of natural fire might be healed in a mere decade or so, dragon burns might take centuries, and would result in scars that elves were never meant to bear.
King Thranduil had scarred thus. Elrond had tended to him in the aftermath, as he had tended to so many others. He remembered the hints of pale bone that flashed white from beneath the black char of his face, the shrivelled, crisped muscle of his neck and shoulder, the bubbled, melted fat and skin of his arm and chest. It had healed, even that burned horror which would have spelt the death of Man or Dwarf, but even a thousand years later, when Thranduil had still been willing to let Elrond see beneath the glamour he'd woven, it had left him blind in one eye and half his face a monstrosity of twisted tissue.
If caught from the wrong angle like that, Thranduil had looked like an orc, although of course Elrond would never be cruel enough to tell him so.
And now there were nearly a hundred like him, to a greater or lesser degree. Nearly a hundred elves who would never return to the perfect forms Eru had made them. Evil had touched them and would mark them forever, and not all of them would be as skilled with glamours as King Thranduil had been. Some might make the choice to go early to the Halls, and he could not truly blame them.
He moved amongst them now, letting loose the healing energies of Vilya to ease pain, to help the flow of blood, to spur on healing. It was tiring work spiritually, if not physically, but he would never do less than put his all into it.
"My lord Elrond?"
He turned to see a somewhat familiar face – a red-haired, female Silvan elf. She had been one of Prince – no, King now – Legolas Thranduillion's advisors at the battle. Tauriel.
"Yes?" He said, his hands not yet leaving the back of his current charge, who had ducked the dragon's fire, but not low enough.
"It's the King, my lord," she said. "There's something not right."
Elrond did not know much of her, but he had seen enough of her character to know she would not disturb him for something that was not a serious matter. He rose, tucking Vilya's magic away once more, and followed her out of the tent.
King Legolas was resting not far away, under a sparse and wiry pine, watched over by a small contingent of the Lasgalen guard. At first nothing appeared to be amiss, but on approach it soon became apparent that his rest was not the normal elven ease, but marred by something feverish, with glassy eyes and beading sweat. He held his healing stump tucked close into his chest, cradling it with his remaining hand. Elrond frowned, bending to lay a hand upon the young elf's forehead, his senses questing out to find the source of his pain.
"His arm," he said softly, drawing his hand back with a hiss. Yes, something was most certainly wrong here. A darkness lay upon Legolas Thranduillion that should not be. A darkness emanating from his wound, which had before this been well on its way to healing over. He lifted the stump carefully, easing it away from Legolas' body and noting the tenseness in his muscles. Unwrapping the bandages that lay upon the wound, both he and Tauriel let out startled breaths of shock.
Dark lines of infection swept up the elven-king's forearm, the healing skin now reddened and swollen. It was not hot to the touch, as the malady of a Man, but deathly cold instead. This was nothing natural, even had there existed a rot that would take its hold in elven flesh.
"This is an infection of the spirit," Elrond said, feeling the stirrings of fear in his heart. "The work of dark magic."
"What can be done?" Tauriel asked. Her hands were balled into fists, her knuckles white.
"His own strength and will must battle this," Elrond replied grimly. "But I will give him what aid I can. He is strong, and determined. His chances are better than most."
"How could this happen!"
"The sword the Halfling bears... it was once forged in Gondolin, many thousands of years ago. Now it has known the taint of the One Ring, and no doubt the dark thing that creature became gave it some fell name. I can only suppose it had not thus been named before – now its nature has been perverted to some dark end. It is lucky we of the Council were able to keep him from the greater battle, else I fear we should be seeing many more wounds like this."
This new evil only made him more certain that they should not have left the field but continued to press on. Even with what little, unprepared strength they had been able to bring to bear there was nothing to be gained by leaving black things to fester. He had been the one crossing blades with that quick, lithe little being and he had felt it tiring. Surely if they had persevered... even just to kill it, and leave the dragon for later... But he had been overruled in the vote by the Istari, and he was certainly willing to admit that they were wise in ways that even he did not fully appreciate at all times. Particularly not the strange, brown-robed one.
"I will keep a close watch on him," he said, re-wrapping Legolas' wound and rising. "Have hope, Tauriel. There is always hope, as long as Good remains in Middle-Earth."
As he left for the others who needed his skills though, Elrond reflected that he was no longer certain that that was true.
"I warned you Gandalf that no good would come of associating with these Halflings," Saruman told him. Gandalf nodded, but in truth he was barely listening. He was well aware of his own mistakes. His own blindness. Overconfidence. He had been so focused on the greater picture of the workings of Middle-Earth that he had failed to pay attention to the evidence of his own senses. He had known that something was wrong, some strange quirk of behaviour that Bilbo had picked up in his journey through the goblin tunnels, he had even known that there had been a ring, but he had never suspected...
He had been a fool! Why had he not at least asked the merest question? Asked to see the thing? If he had only thought...! But then, what if he had asked, and then picked it up... One of the Istari under the sway of the Ring would be an evil even greater than that which now sat in the heart of Erebor.
You cannot dwell on the past. The voice of the Lady Galadriel was, as ever, a balm. She stood, graceful and beautiful and unchanging, seemingly untouched by the horrors of these past days. There is no-one here who has not erred. The future is clouded, and always in motion. This could not have been foreseen.
By my actions a good and gentle soul has been corrupted by evil, Gandalf replied. And now the kindest thing I can do for him is to kill him.
"At least now we know the location of the Master Ring," Saruman was saying. "Once this Halfling creature has been slain, we will be able to put its power to proper use!"
"No!" Lord Elrond said, joining their conversation for the first time that evening. "If we have learned nothing else from this, at least we have learned that the Ring must not be used! It must be destroyed, as it should have been destroyed three thousand years ago!"
"The evidence of a mortal's fall is hardly a warning for us," Saruman replied, with a scorn that Gandalf felt was unwarranted. "Our will is far stronger. Just think of the potential if Sauron's powers could be used for the betterment of Good!"
"The Halfling spoke similarly," Galadriel said. "I imagine he began with the best of intentions. He may have fallen to its evil more swiftly but make no mistake; even would it take centuries so would we fall too. Do not forget who was once Sauron's master. There is only one of us who has not seen his power to turn the purest will to the foulest end, for he was thrown down before Lord Elrond's birth, but his shadow remains in the world. The Ring must be destroyed."
"All very well and good," Radagast put in. Gandalf had never seen him appear more harried. Radagast was at heart a gentle soul, not meant for war, and it had tried him sorely to lend his power to theirs, first at Dol Guldur, and then at Erebor. At least this retreat would offer him some respite. "We're getting rather ahead aren't we? We lost! The Ring won! What do we do now?"
"We gather our strength!" Saruman replied. Gandalf felt suddenly mistrustful of his eagerness. There had been something rather unusual about his contributions when they vied against the strength of the One, although he had as yet not the slightest clue what that might be. It had been Ages of Arda since last they had all joined their power together. Oft had they spoken, but the Istari were not meant to use their strength without great cause. Perhaps they were simply unfamiliar with one another. Perhaps practise would make them better, more able to defeat this threat.
If only he had not left the Company of Erebor at the eaves of Mirkwood! Sauron had not been so strong then that together they could not drive him out, and a little longer would not have helped him. If he had remained, he might have seen the change in Bilbo and divined its meaning. He could have mediated whatever meeting they had with the elves of Eryn Lasgalen and perhaps... perhaps much bloodshed could have been averted. All because he had not looked.
"Gandalf!" Saruman snapped.
"Hmmm?" he mumbled, rousing himself from his dour thoughts.
"Perhaps it is time for the Heir of Isildur to go South," Saruman said. "And reunite the Kingdoms of Men. Their strength may leave something to be desired, but we will need every advantage possible to throw down this evil."
"The Heir of Isildur is ten years old!" Elrond replied. "A fine King he would make!"
"Then he will be of age in a mere ten years," Saruman said. "Are you not fostering him, Lord Elrond? Ten years in which to groom him for the role he must play. It is a heavy burden to place on one so young, yes, but we will all have burdens to bear in the coming years. Ten years to muster our strength. Ten years to build our forces."
"I fear it will not be so easy," Gandalf forced himself to say. If only his grievous error could be corrected that swiftly! "The Stewards of Gondor have ruled for nine hundred years, and will not be eager to relinquish the Kingdom to a Northern Ranger."
"Then we must persuade them to see reason," Saruman said impatiently. "Perhaps it will take more than a mere ten years, but we must be ready to seize any opportunity we are given. You must travel to Gondor and begin to lay the seeds for this child's ascension. I will work on the Horse-lords."
"I shall visit Lord Círdan in Lindon," Lady Galadriel said. "Enough of our people may yet remain in Middle-Earth that together we can face this last threat and see it ended. So too must Lothlorien begin to consider the art of war for the first time in three thousand years."
Their gazes turned gradually to Radagast. "I'm afraid I really don't know what kind of assistance I can be?" he said.
There was a short space of considered silence. Then a thought occurred. "You know Beorn at least," Gandalf said, trying to sound encouraging. "He commands his own small army in his bears. And Gwaihir and his people roost in the mountains that face the Carrock. They may be proud folk with their own concerns, but they will not refuse all aid where it is dearly needed."
"The Eagles!" Radagast exclaimed, sounding far happier. "Yes, that sounds splendid! I will speak to the Eagles."
"Then it is decided," Saruman said. "We shall each of us depart upon our separate tasks, and make our preparations for the war that will come."
"I at least must remain for a time," Lord Elrond said. "King Legolas requires my knowledge of the healing arts."
"Do what you must to aid him and the others who were wounded," Lady Galadriel told him. "Enough pain and death has been visited upon our people; it will ease my heart to know you are here with them."
With that the meeting of the White Council was concluded. Gandalf remained in the tent that had been set aside for them for a while longer, considering the scope of what had now been laid before them. There would be war, yes, war such as there had not been since the days of the Last Alliance at the ending of the Second Age, a time when the Istari had not even yet been sent to Middle-Earth. Theirs was to have been a role of watching, of guiding. Not outright battle. Not pitting fearful strength against fearful strength.
Yet there was no-one to blame for this calamity but himself.
[Nardur – small, Koth – claw, Maukûrz – scrappy, Murûk – bear, Horm – serious]
A thing of magic had returned to the Holy Crags. Horm Gods'-Honoured had seen it in a dream, three nights before, and announced it to the clan at the morning meal after she had talked to Murûk-Chief and gained his agreement. In the dream, she told them, she had seen a great flame in the east standing on a plain at the foot of a mountain, and the flame had scoured the earth and the sky, sending shadows and stars scurrying away. Then a circle of swords rose up from the ground, nine in number, and the flame grasped one and pulled it forth before casting it from him so that it crossed the arc of the heavens like a darting bird, falling at last amongst the rocks of the Holy Crags. Horm said it was a sign that a great spirit had awoken, perhaps even the Great Eye returned at last, and that they had sent a servant into the holy places for the clans to seek their will.
It was not spoken, but Maukûrz could feel the excitement from everyone for the rest of the day as they went about their usual tasks. It had been many years since they had felt the touch of the gods upon the land, many years since the King of the Honoured Dead had ruled the north-lands and united them under the name of Angmar. The tarks had crushed their army and driven the King away and there had been no god to stop them. There was no strongest leader, and the clans fought amongst themselves. The Chiefs always fought, it was what burned in their blood, but even the greatest uruk was still an uruk, not a god or a great spirit, and so the people were divided.
But this meant that perhaps the gods had begun to lay their hands upon the world again. That they would come and walk amongst their people, receive their worship, sit the thrones that were their due. Maukûrz thought about this, out on the hunt in the hills. Perhaps blessed by the news, his luck was good and the stones from his sling found the skulls of a fair half dozen rabbits despite the lateness of the season. Snow was on the ground, heaped in the shadows of stones where sun could not get it, not that the Wizard's-Eye was strong here where it crept close down to the horizon, scarce seen in winter even if in summer welcome darkness fled. The cold wan light meant the people could hunt in the day when the animals moved, rather than dig in burrows at night like ferrets. Maukûrz pitied his southern cousins in that much.
He cleaned his kills quick, slitting their warm little bellies with his stone knife, eating the still-steaming innards as his hunter's due. Oft-reused string soon bound tiny rabbit feet together, and with the carcasses slung over his shoulder Maukûrz made his way back to the clan's camp, thinking pleasantly of the slowly steaming stew the meat would make.
"Official meeting tonight," Naudur told him when he gave her the rabbits. She was pretty even if she was small as she was named, with a wide snaggle-toothed grin and blunted nose, twice-broken over the years. She was wiry and strong and she had many scars even though she was not one of the warriors – but Maukûrz knew he'd never have a chance with any of the warriors, and he just might with Naudur. "Gonna' be a lottery, to see who they send up to the Holy Crags."
More good news! "Maybe my luck'll hold," he said, nudging her shoulder. She swiped at him, but in a friendly way, and her claws didn't score him deep.
"Don't see you as no holy messenger," she said, laughing.
"Holy as anyone else!" he told her. "Hey, maybe if I get lucky there, I'll get lucky somewhere else as well Naudur?"
"Maybe you will, but you won't!"
He grinned at her, and left her to her work. Well that was something! Not a no anyway, even if it had been a joke. It wouldn't be long now until the gathering, he thought, glancing up at the sky. Dusk was starting to turn to true dark, and the camp with its ramshackle huts was lit now only by the light of the cooking fires. Maukûrz had one more thing to do before then.
The shrine was in the shallow cave at the rear of the camp where the sun could not pollute it. There was the sign of the Great Eye, forged in metal and oft-wetted with sacrificial blood, and before it the circle of nine stones, the sacred number, each carved with one of the symbols of the Honoured Dead. To either side were the shrines of the other gods of fire and shadow; to the left the Horned Walkers, to the right the Living Stone. Kneeling, Maukûrz reached for the shallow bowl of red clay, marking the Eye upon his bare chest, and then prostrated himself to pray for luck.
When the blare of the horn called the clan together, Maukûrz was ready. He crouched with the other hunters a short distance away from the centre of the wide circle of the meeting place, opposite the warriors who, in his opinion, had become lazy and prideful with only other orcs to fight. Tarks, with their godless ways and birch-bark pale skin, were far more frightening than any of the other clans. Luckily there were none this far north – even luckier, there had never been elves here, and elves were the most terrifying of all.
In the circle's centre Horm stood with the lynx-skin bag of stones, with Murûk there ready to pick out one of the carved rocks that would narrow down the lottery to one of the groups watching the ceremony. Koth War-Caller started up the beat on his drum to call the attention of the gods down upon the draw, twirling the carved wooden tipper between his fingers. The pounding seemed to Maukûrz to match that of his heart – it seemed a good sign. Murûk-Chief reached into the bag.
"Hunters," the Chief called out, and Maukûrz drew in an excited breath. This was one step closer to being chosen.
There were too many amongst his work-kin for the drawing of straws, so instead Horm Gods'-Honoured brought forth the second bag of stones, this of bear-hide. Amongst the many pale river rocks, there was one of a lucky black, and the orc who picked it would be their chosen messenger. She brought the bag over to them, and Maukûrz kicked and shoved his way into the rough line that was being formed. The beat of the drum continued. He could feel it pulsing under his skin, and he could almost think the eyes of the gods were on him even now.
When he reached into the mouth of the bag, he met Horm's golden eyes and shivered. His claws rasped against the stones, and sweating, he grabbed one and drew it out. It was the black stone.
"Maukûrz will go to the Holy Crags," Horm cried out, and a shout of satisfaction went up from the clan. Maukûrz could barely believe it himself, but slowly a wide grin spread across his face. He had been blessed, and soon he would be the one to deliver the gods' will to his people.
There was preparation to be done before his pilgrimage. Maukûrz spent the night awake and fasting in the shrine, and before he left Horm anointed him with the holy oil that seeped from the sands around the Forodwaith flats. The thick black tar was mixed with white chalk so that it stood out against dark orcish skin, painting holy symbols on his chest and down his arms, with the Eye's diamond on his brow. When it was done he was ready to leave the village by the high trail that led to the Holy Crags far above.
As he worked his way higher the air became sharper with the cold, and the falls of snow became a carpet laid roughly over the ground. His breath steamed in front of him, and he was glad for his rabbit-fur boots keeping his feet from leaching their warmth. After a time he had made his way up to the shoulder of the sacred mountain, and soon the great cliff was stretching over him, the stairs winding up its sheer surface. This was but the first part of the tests he knew were to come. Nervously he pulled at the lacings of his boots, setting them aside upon the rocks, and stretching his toes. He would need his claws for the climb.
The stair was made up of flat slabs hammered into the stone, with wide gaps between them that he had to jump. It was easier to crouch and use hands and feet both, latching on to the cracks and imperfections in the rock. It was a slow and twisting path. The Wizard's-Eye had reached the peak of its arc by the time he made it to the Door.
The Iron Gate had long ago been pried apart and splayed out against the cliff. It had been the tarks who put it there, no work of orcish hands. As though the Honoured Dead could be penned in by something so meaningless! Still, it was a sign of disrespect, and so they had broken it. He gripped the rusted lattice tight as he looked down the Steep Path into the holy place, the wind whistling past him. Here was the second test. He set his claws to the stone, and slid as slowly as he could, digging in with all his strength so that the deeps did not take him when he came out to the High Hall.
It was cold here. Colder than a cave should be. But this was a place of the Nine Honoured Dead, not any ordinary cave, and Maukûrz could feel the power in the very walls. Carefully he wound his way further inside, walking the Path of the Nine Gates. There were whispers on the air. Something calling him.
"I am here Great One," he said quietly into the utter stillness. "I have come to be commanded."
"Then come," said the whisper in his ear. "Come and be seen. Come and hear."
The spells that were carved upon the Gate of the King were giving off a faint light in the darkness. It was golden, the golden of fire, fire and shadow. Breathless, Maukûrz approached. His claws clicked on the stone. The Gate was black and empty, but deep within, something moved. Carefully he edged inside.
"Do you know me orc?" the voice asked. There was a sword driven into the stone. Behind it a shape, blacker than black.
"King Angmar," Maukûrz said, kneeling. "Dread Lord, you are woken!"
"Woken, and left, and returned," the King of the Dead said, his voice as dry as dust. "Come closer, orc of the North. Let me tell you what must be done."
Maukûrz did as he was told, keeping his head bowed.
"The time of my Kingdom is come again," the great spirit said. "It shall be risen to the glories of old, the forts rebuilt, the army mustered and retrained, your clans come together. The word of this must go out and be spread, from Fornost to Forochel, from Hithaeglir to the River Lhûn."
"It shall be as you command, my King."
"Yes, it will. Now put your hands upon the blade so that I may give you my blessing, envoy."
Reaching out with trembling hands, Maukûrz closed his fingers around the sword. The edge was far sharper than he had expected, and it bit his palms, sending twin trickles of black blood down the dark metal. Strange things seemed to be happening to his vision. The blade swam in and out, as though he had drunk too deeply of strong spirits. Dimly, he heard laugher. Something was moving over his skin, like smoke. Gradually, a presence that was not his own began to take up space inside his head.
"Much better," said the King of the Dead.
Despite their common reputation as a violent people, Dwarves had a great respect for knowledge. Khamûl first learned of this in the Black Mountains west of the Sea of Rhûn, when he visited King Sankibil in Zundûsh-zâram and was treated to a tour of his kingdom beneath the stone, including the largest library he had then seen outside of Barad-dûr. Sankibil and his kin had been proof that some dwarves were wise enough not to be led astray by the lies of Eru's people, but he had not expected to meet any others like them so far from the lands beneath the Shadow. Now there were twelve more, and another kingdom that might be counted neutral, and the promise of more allies to come.
This new Master had made it so. A curious creature, Khamûl thought as he stalked the passages of Erebor. There should not be such strength in one so small and gentle, one who felt of earth more than fire. But perhaps in the union of those two elements was something great, something that could make the ground quake and shudder and run like water. As it was said it had in the youngest days of the earth, when Melkor walked.
The halls beneath the mountain were vast, and the many bridges and walkways bore no markings to guide the way of the stranger. Yet Khamûl had always had a good memory for cities and spaces, and did not mind the wandering. The cool and steady light falling on green stone reminded him of their old home in Minas Morgul, even though the style carved into the stone was that of Dwarves, not the watered memory of Númenór. Númenór meant less to him than it did to some of the others – he had never seen it.
In time, he found what he was searching for. Cirth runes were inscribed upon the great brass doors in lines of silver; Katûb-zahar, House of Knowledge. It was far from the dragon's domain, untouched by his fire. Even after so many years, the doors opened easily at a touch. Inside the shelves towered high, carved into the pillars, into the walls, into the stairs. Reading lecterns and tables were cunningly placed each within its own small locus of silence and lamp-light.
If the people of Thorin, Thráin and Thrór were anything like those he once knew, they would have arranged their library accordingly. Pacing between the stacks, thick with dust and that particular sorcerous tang of aging vellum and paper, retrieving works at random to check them against what he expected, he saw that his memory was correct. This was good; it would save him time. He had come here with specific purpose; he needed a map, and an accurate one.
Borders might from time to time be redrawn, but the lay of the land was not swift to change. Inked into fine vellum and covering the whole of the skin, he found the best of the lot, and laid upon it a quiet spell of preservation before taking it up, rolled carefully and tied fast. With a thought he sent out the call to the rest of his kin. It would be best if all were present when he spoke to their new Lord.
The Master was in his consort's rooms, but alone, although it mattered little. The dwarf was loyal – the weakness of his love made him so, and the ties of the Ring of Durin. Even now the aegis of the Master's power was beginning to settle into this place, gently pushing aside the mark of the dragon which had lain for so long upon the land. It was a green power that spoke of growing things. The volcanic soil of the mountain would soon be sprouting with life, with grass and trees, and give the possibility of fruitful harvest to both Men and Dwarves. And not only of food but of children too, when the time came for them to think of such things. A bounty that never would have been if not for the Halfling Lord, and another reason for the mortals to give him their loyalty.
The seven of his kin who remained in Erebor met him outside the chambers, where the Master welcomed them inside, alerted to their passage by the One. Khamûl nodded to him respectfully and went to the great circular stone table in the entrance hall of the royal apartments, bending to spread out his find upon it. Like the rest of the kingdom beneath the mountain, it was sized for those of lesser stature.
"Master, I would talk to you of conquest," Khamûl said.
The little Lord – though greater now in his seeming from the magics that wrapped around him – approached and studied the map. "This shows far more than any of our maps in the Shire," he said, brushing careful fingers across the vellum. "I know the lands here, although they've seemed to miss us out." He pointed to Eriador west of the Misty Mountains, marked here as Lindon, Arnor the Shattered, and Angmar the Fallen, and of course the strongholds beneath Ered Luin. There was no mention made of the homeland of hobbits. Khamûl wondered if the same omission was on most maps – it would be curious, and a boon to its strange people, to be a lost and uncharted area.
"We are lucky in our placement," Khamûl explained, illustrating his point with gentle taps. "The mountain is a fortress, and the only nearby threat is Mirkwood, now defeated. They will withdraw and attempt to rebuild, so we might expect them to rise again against us in the years to come. But the strength of Elves is lost and departed. They pass into the West, and no longer enact their will upon the lands. If this White Council wishes to oppose you, and it is clear they will, it is to Men they must turn.
"Dale and Laketown have bowed to us already. When this map was made the Kings of Dale ruled south to the River Running, north upon a border that marks a line between us and the Iron Hills, west to Mirkwood, and east to the border of Rhûn at the River Rhûr. The Master of the Lake does not command what became of the lords of all these fiefs now; he simply trades, and sits with them in council until decisions are reached with a vote from all."
"It seems a sensible enough way of doing things," their Master said, interrupting him. "The Shire Thain does something similar."
Khamûl hesitated. "It may stand well enough in times of peace," he replied diplomatically. "But it is not efficient in times of war. It slows the muster, and the lesser landowners are not so inclined to provide their numbers."
"I don't have any wish to change it, or at least not until we must. The other dragons haven't even hatched yet."
"As you will it," Khamûl said. "King Dáin Ironfoot has promised us alliance, and the orc-clans of the Grey Mountains and Gundabad will answer to your call. It is a good start. But the great kingdoms of Middle-Earth lie far away; Gondor, Rohan, Rhûn, Nurn-in-Mordor, Haradwaith. Lord Mairon left after the battle, and we all have little doubt as to where he went; back to Barad-dûr. He has no more use for the secrecy that kept him in Dol Guldur. He will call upon the orc-lords of Nurn, of the sworn Kings of the Haradrim and of Rhûn. Diminished as he is though, they may be reluctant to answer the call, and this gives us time. We must be strong enough to face him, and whatever armies the White Council brings to bear, and that means we must win some of these kingdoms to our own side by means other than the force of arms we do not yet have."
"Then all the better for it," the Master replied. "I'd rather do this without shedding blood, if it's possible. Now, I suppose you wouldn't have come to me if you didn't have a plan, so I would like to hear it."
"We have done this before, or something much like it," Khamûl said. There had been some discussion of this amongst them, although the Nazgûl had been brought together by the Nine for so long, working as one, at times almost thinking as one, that they were each intimately familiar with the strengths and weaknesses of the others. Often there was little need to talk, for they knew what was in the minds of each, and thus they moved and acted together. "It is a pity that Angmar is no longer with us, for he built his own kingdom in the north under his name, and were he not bound to his grave I am sure he would build it again."
"He has always been set in his ways," Akhôrahil muttered.
"As old as we are, that is no excuse for being unable to adapt," Adûnaphel said.
"You were his lieutenant for a long time," the Master told Khamûl. "I understand that you want to advocate for him, but he has proven himself treacherous. Only once he is willing to serve, can I afford to bring him back to you."
"We are... unbalanced without him," Khamûl said. It was a strange sensation now, to be merely Eight. They had been apart before, but not quite like this, and it was as if one thread in the symphony between their rings had become discordant.
"Yes," said Ji Indûr, whom amongst them was most knowledgeable in lore. "And if you have need to kill him Master, I beg you, find another to take up his Ring. Otherwise there is great danger to us. The song of the Nine will fall apart and we shall come to true death."
"I don't mean to kill him," the Master replied. "At least not unless he does something to deserve it, which he is in no position to do. Now, you were speaking of your plan?"
"We must each of us go to these far realms and spread word of your power and strength," Khamûl said, gesturing to the map. "We must make men fear you, and ply them with the promise of your mercy if they but bow the knee. In Rhûn they still remember me, as they do Dwar and Ji Indûr. One of us will go to them. If in Rohan they have legends of Ûvatha I do not know, who was once a chief amongst them when they still roamed the steppe that became the Brown Lands, but of us he would be best placed to speak to them.
"In Near Harad the Black Númenórians still rule; Akhôrahil will persuade them of your supremacy to the Dark Tower's sway. Ren will go farther south than that, to the same ends. Adûnaphel has elected to go to Gondor, although we cannot hope that we shall persuade them; they remember us ill. Still, they will spread about what she tells them, even in hushed whispers out of fear, and in fear gossip travels all the faster. Hoarmûrath shall go the length of the Misty Mountains and tell of you to the orc-clans there, although some may require further shows of strength before they accept your rule."
The Master considered this, and from the slight alteration in the frequency of his bond with the One, Khamûl could tell he was seeking the advice of the Ring. Although Khamûl himself was the better known of the Nazgûl in the east, he thought it would be wiser for him to remain here, to see the Master's work done. Communication with the others would in this case be of no difficulty, for they might speak to each other through the linkages of their Nine Rings, not fettered by the restrictions that had been placed upon Angmar.
"Then let it be done," the Master said finally.
"We shall get fast horses from Laketown, and those who are going will leave as soon as is possible," Khamûl replied. There was no need or cause for delay; the quicker this was started, the better their chances. They all knew how to return from a position of weakness; it had been done by them before. Indeed, the outlook was better here than it had been in millennia.
Kili's arrow-wound was healing far too slowly for his liking. Having only one arm available meant he wasn't capable of doing anything in Erebor, not helping with repairs to stonework, or mapping out the mines, or seeing to the armories, or riding with the wagons to Laketown to unload old serej steel in return for food. Instead he simply had to wander around, and as breathtaking as simply being here in the Kingdom under the Mountain was after so long hearing all the stories about the glory days of his Uncle's birthright, wandering was quickly becoming boring. Even Fili, with his head-wound, had still been allowed to help out.
And speaking of Fili, normally he would have had his brother to keep him company, but as short-handed as they were, he couldn't be spared just so that he and Kili could make their own amusement. Watching Fili work and teasing him had also quickly lost its lustre, only reminding him of how useless and stifled he was feeling. Óin had told him he would have to keep the sling on until the wound had closed up, and then there would be exercises to do to make sure the muscles regained their flexibility and strength, and it would be weeks, weeks, before he was strong enough to lift rocks, or swing a hammer, or climb scaffolding to check the mortar of arches and vaults. They might at least have given him a pen and found some geometrical or architectural calculations for him to check!
Really, Kili didn't see how anybody could find cause to blame him if he had to find his excitement in places where strictly speaking, he really shouldn't have been. It was his boredom that saw him sneaking, one afternoon, along the walkway that led to the ironworks where, in smouldering, bubbling crucibles, nine dragon eggs sat waiting to hatch. Dragons! Was there anything more exciting? When he had first seen Smaug, that day their Company had entered the mountain, his heart had thrilled with fear and wonder at the massive size of the wyrm, his glowing golden scales, his huge wings, the fires that burned in his belly. And then at the battle of the Five Armies – Smaug and that little dragonet that had died being one of those armies all by themselves – he had been struck by that same terrified awe all over again. But Smaug was meant to be sleeping now, so surely, Kili told himself, it couldn't hurt to sneak in just for a moment and see the eggs.
The heat was sweltering in the great hall of the foundry, even for a dwarf. Kili felt unfamiliar sweat starting to trickle down his back and chest underneath his clothes, and the very air itself seemed suffocatingly warm and humid. There were the massive crucibles though, with the water-wheel powered bellows firing the flames blue, and nine immense globes of stone just visible over their lips. Although... he frowned. One of those globes looked as though it had been cracked.
As Kili edged slowly forwards, a sudden weight hit him from behind and sent him sprawling to the hard stone, crushing his ribs and pressing his wounded shoulder into the ground, making him cry out in pain. A furious roar split the air above him.
"Aha! Thief or dwarvish spy, which are you? Speak intruder or die!"
Kili wheezed, all the breath knocked out of him and his head spinning. He thought he saw what might have been the flash of black talons out of the corner of his eye, and there was a definite prickling of a greater heat at the back of his neck. He struggled to get in enough air past the mass crushing him to make an attempt at an answer. Terror made his muscles weak as water.
As suddenly as it came, the weight was rapidly lifted off him. Kili rolled awkwardly round onto his front in time to see a writhing black dragonet the size of a large carthorse being lifted into the air by Smaug's great claws, dangling from a grip around its long serpentine body. It was hissing and protesting loudly, twisting to lash the trailing edges of its wings down at where Kili lay.
"Enough of that," Smaug growled. "Did I not tell you that the dwarves are not to be harmed?"
"It is still wandering where it doesn't belong!" the black dragon complained. "I wasn't going to kill it if it could explain itself!"
"Yes," Smaug said, turning his huge head to look at Kili rather closer than he was comfortable with. This wasn't looking half as fine an idea as it had a few hours ago. "Why are you here, dwarf?"
"I just wanted to see," Kili replied, feeling gingerly at his ribs to see if any of them were broken. He was starting to get his breath back, and it didn't hurt too much, so he didn't think so. Still, he could already tell he was going to be covered in bruises from his impact with the floor, and from the wet trickle at his shoulder he suspected he had torn his stitches. Óin was not going to be pleased. "I'm sorry! I'll... I'll just go..."
Smaug's head, with its complement of dozens and dozens of very large teeth, was disturbingly near now. He seemed to be studying him intently. "You are young for a dwarf, are you not?" he said.
"I'm seventy-seven this year," Kili replied, thinking that perhaps he ought to be offended. It wasn't that young. Old enough to come on the quest, at least!
Smaug smiled. It was terrifying. Gently, he placed the black dragon down, where it wriggled quickly out of his grasp, the horns around its head and down its neck standing straight up like an affronted cat. "Your Hobbit is a great one for the virtues of friendship," he said, which Kili thought did not seem to have much to do with anything. "If the Uruloki are to abide here in the mountain with Durin's Folk, perhaps we should start with the young." He nudged the black dragonet towards Kili with his knuckles. Kili shrank back, alarmed. This sounded an even worse idea than his plan of sneaking in here in the first place.
"Ancalagon," Smaug said, "this is...?"
"Kili," Kili said, in a small voice.
"Ah yes. The sister's-son of the King. A Princeling, indeed."
Ancalagon looked him over. His eyes were gold, with narrow slit-pupils. Standing as he was, his head was twice the height of Kili's own. "I apologise for my... impetuousness," he said, hesitantly. "We didn't look upon each other kindly, yours and mine, the last time I was in Arda."
"That's... alright," Kili replied nervously. They regarded each other in awkward silence for a while. "Have you been... outside of the foundry yet?" he asked.
Ancalagon shook his head. "Oh, go," Smaug said, with a wave of his hand. "Do try to be sensible. And do not leave the mountain."
Feeling rather stunned by this unexpected turn of affairs, Kili led the way into the high halls of Erebor. This was not how he had imagined his visit might go.
The mines of Erebor had been evacuated at great speed. Picks, hammers, trolleys, stools and lanterns had each been abandoned, littering the rough surface of the floors. There was less damp in this mountain than in most, an effect of the heat and fire that still lurked miles and miles below them, dry enough that the metal had not rusted, nor the hardened and treated wood decayed. There were no spiders to spin their webs down here in the deeps with nothing to feed them. Thus the corridors and halls looked as though they had been left only days or perhaps weeks before, as though those who worked them might return at any time.
It had taken a very long time.
Glóin was not an expert in mine-workings, or at least not any more so than any dwarf. He could, of course, admire the mathematical precision of the struts and braces that had been left to support the stone, the calculations taken for direction and depth and dimensions to maximise yield and minimise the work of splitting unneeded stone. But his expertise was rather in valuation and merchandise, in the movement of gold, in lending and borrowing; kidhuzashf, or as he had seen some traders translate it in the Common Tongue, economics.
That much was his excuse for venturing down here. He knew the value of gold and silver and gemstones in markets across Eriador, had word – albeit dated – of their prices in lands further afield. His knowledge was, true enough, six months now out of date, but these were not values that changed often or greatly. New mines rarely opened. This though – the return of the Khazad to Erebor – that would have an effect, sure enough! Though Glóin had not been alive to see it, the loss of Erebor to the dragon decades ago had driven up the price of precious metals and stones to an astonishing degree, leaving their only reliable source of those goods the mines of far-off Rhûn. True, there were some silver-mines in Gondor, but small and meagre. And little use expecting trade from the gem-mines of Harad, with relations with Gondor as bad as they were.
If pressed to look for advantages to their current situation, Glóin would've had to grudgingly admit that at least with the wyrm sitting on that vast mound of serej coinage it would never be available to trade on the markets. Such vast volumes would make gold worth about as much as copper, and there would be many kings and lords out there who would not be happy with that. It would have served well enough released as a slow trickle, but after Thrór's gold sickness-driven hoarding... Still. Thorin would have known better than to be careless with it, if things had been as they should have been.
If things had been better. That was the real reason Glóin had come down to the deep mines. Things were... not right. He knew that they were not right, despite this strange lassitude of uncaring that appeared to have come over them all. Accept a dragon in the mountain? Accept ten of them? Accept an alliance with dead things, which any dwarfling knew were bad news? Any of Durin's people should not let this stand, so why then did he feel no anger when he thought about these indignities, feel indeed, nothing but a calm acceptance while logical arguments that should have provoked rage echoed through his head. He had his suspicions about who was to blame.
As he had asked of them, Dori, Bifur, Bombur and his brother Óin were waiting for him at the agreed meeting place. A mine-lamp threw flickering light onto the rock walls, rough with pick-marks, occasionally studded with strands of electrum ore.
"What's all this about then?" Dori asked as he approached.
"We can speak Khuzdul here," Glóin said, in that language. "We have only ourselves to hear us."
"There has been an outsider amongst us so long it seems even my thoughts are switching into the Common," Dori said, although changing languages easily enough. "It is good to be able to speak it again."
Bifur grunted, and his hands moved in the signs of Iglishmêk; "For me, it is better understood."
Bombur nodded. "But you haven't answered Dori's question," he said. "I'm a cook, not a miner or a merchant, and Dori's trade is in fabrics. And why did you say we mustn't tell Bofur about this? He's the one in charge of the mines; oughtn't he know about whatever it is?"
"Not about this," Glóin replied. "This isn't about the mines. This is about the mountain. Specifically, it is about our King, and the creature he has taken as his Consort."
"Ah, the Hobbit is not so bad," Bombur said. "Strange as he is with all his hair on his feet rather than his face, he is brave enough, and he is no more friend to Elves or Men than any of us."
"He is friend to more than those."
"This is about the dragon," Dori said, looking unhappy. "About the treaty."
"Better to live with a dragon than be dead," Bifur signed.
"Aye," Óin said. "That's the argument that was put to us. But don't you think you all accepted it rather quick? No fighting. No arguing. No looking for an alternative."
"The alternative was being cooked," Bombur pointed out.
"You all know Thorin though," Glóin said. "Or at least, if you did not know him before, you came to know him over the months of our journey. If I had asked you even in Mirkwood if Thorin Oakenshield would accept a dragon under his mountain, even if the only other hope was a desperate and doomed last stand, would you have said yes?"
As the other three considered this, he began to see the confusion and concern appear on their faces. The realisation that yes, perhaps there was something unusual here. Óin had accepted this already. It had been to his elder brother than Glóin had gone first, seeking assurances that his anxieties had some basis in reality. Glóin had always been prone to uneasiness in the face of success. But after some explanation, once Óin had taken the time to really think it over, he had become aware of it too.
"Surely not!" Bombur said, sitting down heavily on an abandoned stool. "You think the little Lord would do something like that? Cast some sort of spell on all of us?"
"There's another thing," Glóin said. "Why are you calling him that?"
"Well, he's going to marry Thorin isn't he?" Bombur replied. "They're going to rule Erebor together."
"We don't call Thorin Lord," Glóin pointed out. "That would be absurd. King Thorin, when formality requires. Any title our burglar would need would be, as I understand it, Prince-Consort. Prince-Consort..." He left it hanging. There was a long silence. Faces creased in increasing confusion.
"Why don't I remember his name?" Dori asked. "Thorin uses it all the time! But I can't..."
"Bofur remembers," Bifur signed. "Thought it the usual for me."
"Yes, Thorin uses it. Bofur has always been friendly with the hobbit. I suspect Fili and Kili might recall it as well. But the rest of us, who are not close to him." Glóin sighed. "There is a reason I only called you four here. Fili, Kili and Ori are too young to be involved in this, even were the Princes not Thorin's nephews. Bofur would not believe it, and though meaning no harm, might easily let something slip. You know what he is like. And Nori... well." He looked apologetically at Dori. "You know I bear your brother no ill will, despite his profession, but he is not what might be called reliable."
"And Balin? Dwalin?" Bombur asked. He was running his fingers over the great plait-loop of his beard in nervous repetition.
"Dwalin would take his brother's side," Óin explained. "And Balin, like the Princes, is too close to be trusted."
"Then what do you want of us?" Bifur signed.
"As yet I do not know," Glóin told them. That was the flaw in this meeting, but he had thought better it happen now then risk the power of this spell taking a greater hold on them in their unawareness. "One thing I want least of all is for my family to come here, but the Raven has already been sent to Dís, and if I were to send another I fear one of those dead Men might be suspicious enough to check it. I know some of Dáin's people are going to come here; perhaps the traffic of post will then be enough to chance it."
"They may have already left by the time such a Raven arrived," Dori said.
Glóin nodded. "So we must plan something else. Some way of dispelling the magic that has ensnared us all."
"Wizards?" Bifur signed, although growling in displeasure as he did so.
"Wizards means Elves and Men," Óin replied. Everyone made equal looks of disgust at that prospect.
"Maybe we can do it ourselves, if we can get a Runesmith here," Glóin said. "One may come with Dáin's folk, or if not that, then I can make myself wait until Dís comes, even if my family comes then too. There'll be enough from Ered Luin that surely they will have a Runesmith."
"Months to wait," Dori sighed. "How much will happen in months?"
There was no reply to be made to this. None of them knew, and none of them had much desire to speculate about it either. For one thing, Glóin knew, those Mahal-damned dragon eggs would have hatched by then, and that was another problem he had no idea how to deal with. Would they still be small enough to kill without great loss of life? It had never been said if the wyrms were even intending to stay in Erebor. They might leave, go off to start their own hoards. If so, may they steal from the Elves, he thought, although it was a vain enough hope. Elves set little store in gold.
"We must keep ourselves mindful," he said. "We must remember that this subtle spell is upon us, and not fall to its effects. We must keep ourselves strong, and recruit others to our cause from the dwarves of the Iron Hills when they arrive."
The others nodded. There was no need for further discussion. They had said all that had needed to be said, and despite some popular opinion, dwarves could indeed be patient. Particularly when it came to holding grudges.