The Halls of Eryn Lasgalen had been growing ever darker in later years as shadows and spiders encroached upon the kingdom, but that darkness was nothing compared to the pall that had fallen now. The corridors seemed to echo with the presence of those who had died here, and there was no victory to placate their memories. Tauriel was old enough to remember when the woods had been airy and light, and there had been joy and laughter, feasting and drinking and dancing. No longer. Nor any sign that things would return to those ways.
It had been her wish, when King Thranduil still ruled, to go out into the world and fight against the evils that surrounded them. But she had not truly expected anything like what they had faced. She had not known, not as the King and those of his generation had known... now she wondered if they had been right all along. If King Legolas had remained in the Greenwood rather than call their army to seek justice and fight for good, many might have lived who were now dead or wounded unto death. But at what cost? It had always seemed to her the responsibility of the elves to live up to their birthright and principles, and not to do so would be to forsake that which made them who they were. And yet... they had fought for those principles, and evil had still carried the day.
It had been an unpleasant surprise to realise in the aftermath that with the deaths of several older and more experienced elves – and no doubt influenced by her old friendship with their new King – she had somehow been left in charge of the remainder of the army. From Captain of the Forest Guard to a General and the Right Hand of the King... She winced even as she thought it. It was an ill choice of words. Yet despite the poison of that wound Legolas had survived it. He was too strong to fall to that black spell, thank Illuvatar. It was at least a disfigurement better borne than that of dragon fire; Maedhros son of Fëanor had lost his right hand also, and he had done things both great and terrible thereafter. There were worse heroes of the First Age for Legolas Thranduillion to be compared to.
There had been cause for memories and whispers of that Age to arise in the camp as they travelled in any case. Lord Elrond of Rivendell had been fostered by Maedhros for many years. Tauriel had spoken with him from time to time on the journey back to the forest, making sure that the healers were supplied with everything they needed to best tend to the wounded, and she had seen the ghost of old memories in his eyes when he lent his strength to fight that dark taint that had almost struck the King down. She had found herself frightened though, whenever she had cause to go to that tent that still seemed to carry the scent of dragon-fire and burning flesh, frightened in a way she herself did not fully understand. That fear shamed her, and whilst she would have wanted to defy it by bearing the sight of those so terribly wounded she knew only a little of healing, and thus would have been of little use there. Better that she keep to her own areas of expertise, and help her people that way.
Now they had returned to Eryn Lasgalen those skills were being called on in other respects. Legolas had called for her personally, and although she did not yet know what they were to discuss, she had some fair idea.
Legolas greeted her at the entrance of the chambers that had once been his father's, his face still drawn and pale, his arm still in its sling. It had resumed healing, but the unnatural infection had left the limb weak, and the stump painful and tender.
"Come in," he said. "We have much to do."
"I am at your command," she replied. Like the halls, Thranduil's chambers had the same feel of a place abandoned. They might once have been pleasant and welcoming, but Legolas had made no attempt to change anything here and that preservation created the sense of a mausoleum.
"You were there when the White Council persuaded me to order the retreat," he said, sitting and slipping his arm out of its sling, letting the stump rest instead on a pillow while he gently massaged the muscles of his forearm. Lord Elrond had warned that he would have pangs and phantom pains from his missing hand from time to time. "You know the arguments they made."
Tauriel forbore from mentioning that it had been less of a persuasion and more that Lord Elrond had physically held him back from trying to return to the battle and shouted at him until he saw reason. "They told us that we must wait, and build our strength, and return with a greater force with the armies of Middle-Earth behind us," she said instead, since it was clear that Legolas was expecting some kind of answer.
Legolas nodded. He gestured to a roll of parchment that lay on the table. Tauriel picked it up and read it quickly, then again more slowly, her heart sinking at the implications.
"To order a draft of our people," she said quietly. "Such a thing is the way of Men. Has this ever been done amongst us before?"
"As Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel have oft said," Legolas said, with a twisted knife's-edge of a smile. "The time of the Elves in Middle-Earth is ending. My people will reach Valinor one way or another, whether they go in body or merely in soul. At least in the Halls of Mandos we will have good company."
"And what is my role to be in all this?" Tauriel asked.
"Many of those we will be calling upon will not have had any interest in learning the arts of the warrior, even despite all their thousands of years," the King said. "You must arrange their training. Also, we have become too used to fighting in the forest, with all the advantages we have here. The whole army must learn to be just that; an army, not a ranging, guerrilla force as we have been. There are some amongst the Palace Guard who know of such things from the First and Second Age; we must call upon them."
"You have great confidence in me," Tauriel said. It was a greater responsibility than she had ever had before, or indeed ever wanted to have, but she would do it if her King and friend asked it of her. "Is there no-one better suited?"
"None I know and trust as well as you," Legolas replied. "And it is not the only thing we must do in the years to come. Ten years we have, at least, before we can make our move. I admit it is not long, but every year is another in which our enemy grows stronger as well. We wounded Smaug but he will heal, and all our great-bows were destroyed by that fell witchcraft that sundered the earth. More must be made; you must find the plans for them and then we must speak to Lord Elrond. The smiths of Imladris are more skilled than our own, I know."
Tauriel nodded, already steeling herself for the work ahead. "It shall be done," she said, bowing. She would do this; rise to the occasion and make her King proud of the trust he was laying in her. Then when the time came they would wipe this evil from the land. If the elves were to leave Middle-Earth, let them leave it a clean and good place for those who would come after them.
A Raven had come that morning bearing word that the first band of dwarves from the Iron Hills was drawing near to Erebor. Now Ori waited nervously at the Great Gate with the rest of the Company to welcome them to the mountain. Both Thorin and his Hobbit were looking very fine. Thorin had started to grow out his beard again, although it wasn't quite long enough to braid yet. He'd taken off the outer layer of steel scale-mail he had worn throughout their quest, revealing the fine mithril layer beneath, and he wore a circlet that Balin said had been worn by Thráin when he was the heir to Erebor, in the years before the dragon. The royal crown of course, as all the records told, had been lost on the field at Azanulbizar. Some Moria orc had it now.
One of the dead men that served their Prince-Consort was there as well. Most of the others had left the mountain about a week ago on errands, although Ori didn't know the details. He'd asked Balin about it, since as the official scribe for the Company he ought to write it down in the chronicle he'd been penning. He thought he would call it the Quest for Erebor. Balin hadn't been able to tell him very much though except that it was about diplomacy, and Ori was too nervous around the wraiths to go up and ask one of them.
It was about then that Thorin noticed that Kili was missing, and rounded on Fili with a glare and some pointed questions about where his brother might be. Ori had seen him sneaking off with the black dragon earlier, but he didn't want to say anything and risk Thorin's wrath. He was pretty sure the King wouldn't approve, and Ori didn't actually know if Thorin knew about it. Fili knew at least something, because it was his brother they were talking about, but it might be only the two of them (apart from those concerned) that did. Considering some of the older dwarves opinions about dragons, it might be for the best. For his part, Ori had mixed feelings. Dragons were terrifying, and Smaug at least had killed a lot of people, but they were so old that they knew so many things! Just think about everything they might be able to tell him about the history of Middle-Earth!
Kili did turn up before the Iron Hills dwarves arrived, but it was a near thing. Ancalagon also snuck into the Gate-Hall by a different route, curling up in a shadow where he could barely be seen. Ori didn't have time to do more than notice his presence though before Bombur was calling out from the Gate overlook, and the massive doors were swinging open to let the approaching column through.
The Raven had estimated the numbers at about a hundred, and they made a great crowd when set against the Company's mere fourteen, plus one wraith and one dragon. Their leader – a tough-looking dwarrowdam with warrior's tattoos on her shaved head, and a two-handed axe on her back – made all the appropriate greetings to Thorin, and there was a moment's stilted silence, but then the crowd broke apart in a flurry of excited murmuring and began to mingle with the Company, talking about the usual subjects of any two groups of dwarves meeting. Ori had no sooner mentioned that he was a scribe than he found himself being dragged over to meet some of the newcomers with similar interests and professions, and in a little while he found himself part of a small circle of conversation with Balin and a Master of Laws from the Iron Hills, a dwarrowdam named Tazl.
"It is convenient that one of your profession came," Balin said, after some general gossiping, and an interesting anecdote about a dispute in the salt mines a few leagues south of the Iron Hills. "One of the tasks which I have been putting off for lack of experienced hands is an accounting of ownerships and rights in Erebor. We do not yet know which families will be returning to us from Ered Luin or other places, but when they do we must know which homes are rightfully theirs, as well as which businesses, mine-rights, taxes, that sort of thing. Of course all that was stored in the treasury is lost to us, but many agreements were drawn up between the citizens and the royal family, the details of which neither Thorin or I remember exactly. I, and young Ori here, would be gratified to have your assistance in this matter."
"It would be an honour," Tazl replies. "Even just to be able to come here... I almost can't quite believe it to be real. No-one ever thought Erebor would be ours again. Despite the price, none of us who came were willing and wanting to come would say it was not worth it."
"Glad to hear it, lass," Balin said, then addressed the whole group nearby. "Now, you must be tired and hungry after your long journey, all of you. Come, let me show you the rooms we've set aside for you, let you get settled in."
There was a general cheer of appreciation for this, and with Balin leading the way, in drips and drabbles the group began to make its way further into the mountain that from now on would be their home.
The horses in the stables of Esgaroth were sturdy, hardy beasts, albeit not a patch on the steeds that had once been bred in Barad-dûr from Rohirrim and Khandish stock. Still, Hoarmurath found that his chestnut mare served him well enough as a riding mount, though he would not trust her spirit if it came to battle. Thankfully, real battle was not something he was expecting from this trip.
There was no true road northwards in this age. There had been one once, when Mount Gundabad had still been a dwarf-hall, but millennia had covered it with grass and weeds, with no trace to tell what route it once had led. It made less difference to his progress than might be expected in other terrain however, for even once he had passed the dragon's Desolation the land was still one of open hills and plains, empty moors and scrublands. Instead of rain came flurries of snow; the winter solstice and the turning of the year were nearing. It was a good time to visit orcs. These were the long nights, and the longest, most sacred to come. If he could, he would arrange to be at Gundabad for the Solstice, for the great festival there. All the orc clans of the northern mountains would gather together at that time, even those not under Bolg's rule, protected by truce. The perfect moment to spread the word of this new lord. A new religion.
He made good time. Polda – a name he had given the mare in a moment of whimsy – was made for land such as this, keeping up her endurance on forage in the evenings, maintaining a steady walk and trot for the eight hours the light held, with a few half-hour breaks to rest. Travelling thirty miles in a day, it took Hoarmûrath but three days to reach the foothills of the Grey Mountains. Here, a lone traveller, he did not need to expend much work to find orcs; they found him.
Like all of the Rings of the Nine, Hísë, the Ring of Mist, could detect the presence of other creatures of the Shadow, so that when the attack came it came as no surprise. Even before they made a move Hoarmûrath could feel the slow heart-beats of a dozen orcs concealed in the rocky landscape, grey skin and grey furs letting them blend into the rock. He gave no show of his foreknowledge, but continued at a walk as though a simple traveller foolish enough to come into this dangerous place. Then, with well-practised timing, orcs arose from their hiding places, some with bows drawn, others moving to block the pathway ahead and behind, arrows then quickly buzzing through the air like huge and deadly wasps.
Hoarmûrath turned them aside with a simple spell. As they gaped, he raised his hand and called light, a white flash like the metal-that-burns, heatless and harmless, and split the air with the Nazgûl-screech of fear that made all mortal things quake. The orcs staggered back, shielding their eyes, and went to their knees with cries of terror and awe.
"You know who I am?" Hoarmûrath asked them.
"Yes my Lord," the leader of the little hunting party said, rising and approaching a short distance, though still hunched and half-bowed. "You are one of the Honoured Dead my Lord. Please; we did not know, we would never have dared..."
"I come with a message for the clans of the mountains," Hoarmûrath said. "A message from my master."
"We had heard the Great Eye had been defeated in a battle to the south," the orc said, looking shifty. Likely they had sent the warriors of their particular clan south at Mairon's command, but equally there had been few on that battlefield who had seen enough to know more than distorted rumours of what exactly had happened there.
"Not from the Eye," Hoarmûrath replied. "We serve him no longer. Another has come; another more powerful." This was not precisely true, but what use was the truth in this? This was work of words, saying fine things. Mairon had made promises to his servants, with never the intention to keep them. Their little Lord might have some other ideas, but he still had much to learn, and would understand in time how a legend worthy of service might be made.
"There was also word that Bolg, Chief-of-Chiefs, spoke with a mighty spirit," the orc volunteered.
"He is the one the Nine now serve," Hoarmûrath said. "He is a god from strange and far-away lands, new-come to this earth, and he would stretch out his dominion over these lands. He is fire, and earth, and bounty. He calls the orcs of the north to submit to him and swear their allegiance. He demands your worship."
"By what name might we know this new god?" the orc asked.
Hoarmûrath considered it. Their Lord's old name had been deemed unfit by the One, and he had chosen no new title for himself. If appeared that it fell to him to name him. At least if the Ring found it inadequate, it had ways of making its displeasure known.
"He is Kulkodar, the Father of Fire-Drakes," Hoarmûrath said, and felt Hísë grow warm for a moment on his finger. He had chosen well.
"I will tell our Chief and our God's-Honoured of great and terrible Kulkodar," the orc said, bowing again. Hoarmûrath nodded to him, bid him move aside with a wave of his hand, and nudged Polda forward. This was only one small clan out of hundreds which studded the great snowy peaks of the Grey Mountains. He had many more to find in the weeks to come.
On his way back from the Hall of Records to his rooms, Ori noticed something rather odd high up in one of the great chambers, those massive rooms where many pathways crossed at different heights, and hundreds of house windows looked out onto the streets and down to shadowed depths. A black shape was moving on the carven stone, climbing towards the dark ceiling. In made him curious enough to investigate, making his way to the room's central stair which ascended in a spiral wide enough for twenty dwarves abreast. He was already quite sure that said shape was Ancalagon, long and lithe as only the dragonet was, but what he was doing was another matter.
The highest road in the chamber crossed the space at a height equal to where Ori had seen Ancalagon moving, but looking around at the rough clusters of stone that jutted towards the pathway, he could seen no sign of the young dragon. He ventured out a short distance, wary, for there was little light up here where so few would ever have need to go. Perhaps Ancalagon had already moved on in the time he had spent climbing?
Then, just as he was about to turn and go, someone he had very much not expected to see poked their head up from a natural crevice in the rock.
"Hello there Ori," Kili called out, grinning far too widely for someone dangling precariously over a drop of several hundred fathoms. "What are you doing up here? I thought Balin had you working with some of the newcomers looking at dull old scrolls."
"I could ask you the same question!" Ori replied, edging closer, looking carefully at the sharp edge of the road, a little too close even for an eternally sure-footed dwarf. "This looks awfully dangerous Kili."
A blocky, black-scaled head extended sinuously from the crack next to Kili's. "We are playing a game," Ancalagon said. "A game of hiding and seeking. Kili says that this is a common past-time amongst young dwarves, and it is a good game for dragons too, because it is like hunting. Of course, treasure in a mountain doesn't move around, but I promised we wouldn't move either once we found a good hiding place."
"Then who are you hiding from?" Ori asked, looking around. Apart from the three of them, there didn't seem to be any sign of movement in the chamber. Although the dwarves from Dain's kingdom had swelled their number, Erebor was designed to hold tens of thousands, with space left over for the humans nearby to retreat into the mountain in times of war and siege. Six-score only filled a corner.
"One of my siblings hatched this morning," Ancalagon replied. "Ondolissë. Smaug said he was still resting so to get out from under his wings, so I suggested this dwarvish game and she agreed."
"And I'm hiding from Fili," Kili said, grinning. "Although he doesn't know he's taking part in a game exactly. We just thought that since it was going on we might sort of unofficially invite him... since he was looking for me anyway."
"Oh." Ori hadn't heard about another egg hatching. The thought made him a little bit nervous. That made three dragons in the mountain now, all of which could do them a lot of harm if they decided the treaty wasn't to their liking. Not that he distrusted them, exactly, he was just very aware of their deadly potential. But Kili seemed to be getting along with them well, so they couldn't be all that bad.
"Do you want to hide too?" Ancalagon asked. "There's room in here for someone so small, or you could find another place and then we would come find you once Ondolissë has found us."
"I have found you already!" Another voice cried out, and as though appearing from the very stone itself suddenly another dragonet leapt from the wall, twisting elegantly in mid-air to land on the walkway. Ori just had time to register scales in all the possible hues of grey before the backwash from the newcomer's wings made him stumble sideways towards the open drop, fumble, teetering, on the edge, and then feel his feet slip away beneath him as gravity laid its grip upon him and he fell.
There might have been shouting above him, but he dropped too fast to tell. Wind whipped past his ears, through his hair and beard. Far-away windows, and much closer pathways, flashed in front of his eyes, gone in moments. And then a larger shape dropped past him like a sleek, pointed stalagmite, and before he knew it he had hit something soft and firm that moved underneath him. His hands shot out instinctively, grasping for something to hold, and found ridges and horny spines. Wings flared either side of him, and then they settled with surprising gentleness on the wide spiral of the central stairs. Ori stayed where he was, trembling, and became gradually aware of something nudging hesitantly against his shoulder and a voice saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over again.
Eventually, Ori opened his eyes. The thing nudging him was Ondolissë's head. Pale green eyes blinked at him. "I didn't mean to do that," she said softly. "Please forgive me?"
"At least... at least you caught me!" Ori said, voice tremulous, trying not to be sick. Carefully he managed to work fingers stiff with terror loose, and slid down off the dragonet's back. He was glad, he thought as from a distance, that he wasn't man-sized, because surely he would have been too heavy, might not even have fit in the span of her back between her wings.
A soft sound made him look up in time to see Ancalagon gliding almost silently through the air to land on the steps a little way above them. Kili scrambled off his back where he'd been lying, running down to grab Ori by the shoulders.
"You're alive!" he shouted, grinning with evident relief. "Dori would have killed me if you'd died. Not," he added quickly, "that that's the only reason I'm glad you didn't die, I mean, you are my friend and it was all my fault and I'd have been terribly guilty..."
"That's... okay," Ori managed to fit in between the flood of apologies coming out of Kili's mouth. "I'm fine. I just... really don't want to ever do that again."
"I should have been more careful," Ondolissë said. "It was very high. You were lucky not to hit any of the other walkways."
Ori hadn't thought of that. He gazed upwards, gulping. Yes, if he had hit one at the wrong angle, or after too long a fall, he would have broken bones or maybe even died. Dwarves might be naturally tough, but tough only took you so far.
"Can we go somewhere where there isn't a long drop?" he asked.
Fili, the other, unknowing, member of their disastrous game of hide-and-seek found them some time later in the corridors leading to the area the Company had tentatively claimed as their new quarters – as Ori was well aware, the results of his research might turn up still-living owners, but if so it would also identify homes to which no-one held claim as replacements. Looking rather irritated, the Prince glared at the four of them.
"Kili, where have you been all day?" he asked impatiently. "I had enough trouble finding you even before you got your sling off." He glanced at Ori, and at the two dragons, and said more quietly, "Can we talk Kili, just you and me?"
"Ah, I didn't mean to make you worry or anything Fili," Kili said, looking a bit chastened.
"Have I done something wrong?" Fili asked. "Only we always looked out for each other, on the journey here, but now it seems I hardly see you."
"No, nothing like that," Kili replied, as the two of them went a little way off to have their conversation. "It was only that when I was injured I couldn't do anything useful, and you were busy, so I had to find something else to keep me occupied and I suppose now that there are more dwarves around to take up the slack I hadn't realised... I didn't want to bother you doing something important for Erebor."
"Kili, you're my brother," Fili said, looking pained. Ori shuffled backwards a bit, trying to look as though he wasn't listening. This wasn't really any of his business. "There's nothing more important than you."
Kili didn't seem to know what to say to this. "Well, anyway," he finally replied. "The reason you couldn't find me was, we were playing hide-and-seek."
"You and... the dragons?"
Kili nodded. "Ancalagon and Ondolissë," he said, waving at each of them as he made the introductions. "I've been showing Ancalagon around the mountain, and Ondolissë just hatched this morning. And Ori joined in our game too," he added, not mentioning how well that hadn't gone. Just as well really, Ori thought. Now that it was over, he'd rather it not be brought up again. He would rather forget the whole experience.
"It's like your secret club!" Fili said, smiling. "Dragonets and us young dwarves; yeah, it does seem right that we should stick together. You don't mind another person joining?" he teased.
"Yes, that's it exactly," Kili said, matching his brother's wide grin. "I bet Uncle would be proud of us too, helping diplomacy and all. Obviously, as the Heir you should be doing your part, for the future of Erebor."
"We are pleased to meet you, Prince Fili," Ondolissë said, inclining her head to him. "Although perhaps it is too late, as you dwarves count things, to get to know each other better at the moment. You need more sleep than the Uruloki do."
"That's true," Kili said, and punched his brother in the shoulder in a friendly fashion. "Let's go then. We can talk more in our rooms." They went off together, leaving Ori alone with the two dragonets.
"I notice you were not asked if you wanted to join this confederation we appear to be forming," Ondolissë said to Ori. She sounded amused.
"I don't mind," Ori replied. "So long as it doesn't involve anything like today again. Anyway, Balin, Tazl and the others are all very clever and wise, but they're so much older than me I don't feel I can talk to them outside of our work. The Princes might be, well, princes, but at least they're about my age."
"But we, although reborn, are very much older than you," Ondolissë pointed out. "And some of us may be wiser, though I am not sure about my sibling here."
"Hah!" Ancalagon said, bristling the horns around his head, but not otherwise objecting.
"That's different," Ori said, trying to put his feelings into words. Even though he had only just met the dragonets, he still felt this to be true. "You're dragons. It just stands to reason you'd be old and wise, but it doesn't feel the same as with older dwarves. I can't explain it better than that."
"Well as long as you have no objections," Ondolissë said.
"A young-blood confederation," Ancalagon said, smiling without showing teeth. "Sounds a fine thing indeed!"
The Gold Road did not only transport gems, silks and precious metals west, it also transported rumours east. Merchants were talkative folk, and Huang Bao counted himself as part of that generalisation. Certainly he made a point at every town along their way to visit the local drinking house to socialise with other travellers. It was wise to hear of any difficulties that might present themselves further along their way, from unfavourable weather to increases in bandit activity, although the Emperor's Guard were eternally zealous in safeguarding the trading routes. What was trade if not the lifeblood of Rhûn, after all? And what a dishonour on His Imperial Majesty's rule, if a traveller could not safely pass from one side of the Empire to the other.
The new whispers from the west spoke of great changes in the Kingdom of Dale. Quite what those changes were, were a matter for debate, and none of those rumours seemed to Bao to be very credible. Dragons and wizards and gold, but sparse on the details that would indicate any real source of truth. However, whatever that truth might turn out to be, it was a cause for concern. Dale and the Iron Hills on their north-eastern border were a vital source of salt and iron, not to mention that the capital, Laketown, served as an excellent buffer and facilitator of trade with the heathen far-western realms, which in their godlessness feared contact with their betters. If that buffer were lost, it would be a great financial blow to both the east and west.
Ah, but he would find out soon enough for himself. Their caravan was reaching the river Rhûr marking the border, and he only intended to venture as far as the salt-towns. Even if something had happened further west, as the rumours indicated, it should not make too great a dent in his profits. He hoped.
The border town of Manzhouli was their last stop before the crossing the river at the great ford of Yangshuo. The caravan itself made camp outside the small collection of houses tightly hugging the rolling landscape. North-east, the desert whose edges they had skirted for the past few weeks could just be seen, nothing but an expanse of cold sand and bare stone. Here though there was enough forage for the oxen and the ponies, and a warm welcome in Manzhouli itself. There was even a small but thriving market for those who did not wish to venture out of lands under the Emperor's protection. Bao spent some time checking over the wares in his wagons before going into town, making sure nothing had shifted or been damaged during the day's travel. His cargo was bales of raw silk wrapped in jute and wax-paper, which he would trade for both a much greater volume of raw iron ingots and forged goods, as well as Gondorian silver, but there was also a heavy lock-box containing gold coin and a few lesser gems which would go to buy salt. Indeed, he hoped to fill it entirely with the white gold. He had been travelling this route for years, and always managed to turn a tidy profit.
Satisfied that all was as it should be, Huang Bao walked into town, stopping for brief conversations with a few of his fellow travellers that he saw on the way shopping for food, or other wares including the strong local spirits, which were fermented from fruits or berries and distilled during the winter months by leaving them outside and picking out the ice as it formed. Personally he avoided such beverages, whose effects on the following day were much worse than civilised rice wine.
The local inn and drinking house seemed unusually quiet when he arrived. It was late enough in the day that he would have expected it to be full of both locals and travellers, drinking and eating their evening meal, but although the windows shone with light, there was no hubbub of conversation audible from the doorway. Nor were there any mounts in the rough stables next to the building save one, a relatively stocky horse with the rough coarse coat of a Dale breed. Frowning, Bao ducked under the low mantle and went inside.
Immediately, he stopped. In the centre of the room the tables and chairs had been pushed aside save for one that now sat before the small shrine recessed into the wall, the shrine of the Eye of Heaven. Sitting upon it was a figure in black robes, hood pushed back to reveal empty air surmounted by a shadowy crown. He was studying a map spread over his knees when Bao entered, but looked up at the sound of the door swinging closed. Instinctively, Bao dropped to his knees and genuflected. It had been thousands of years, the legends said, since one of the Nine Di had walked the Empire at the behest of the Eye of Heaven, but he had no doubt that this strange figure was one of their number.
He was not the only one offering appropriate respect. In the space opened up before the lone chair, the innkeeper was doing the same.
"Merchant," the Honoured Ancestor-Hero said, in a raspy, inhuman voice. "To where do you travel?"
"West to the salt mines, Son of Heaven," Bao replied.
"And from where do you come?"
"From the capital, Son of Heaven." The family house there in the Merchant District had been passed down for three generations, and he dearly hoped would be passed on for many more.
"How many days have you been upon the Gold Road since then?"
"Five weeks travel with wagons, Son of Heaven."
"Good," the Di said. "It may interest you to know that the Will of Heaven is making itself known in a new form in the West. In the Kingdom under the Mountain, the Dragon-Emperor now rules. I bear news of this to the Son-of-Heaven in Rhûn."
"My family and I are ever obedient to the Will of Heaven," Bao replied, his mind whirring. Now those unbelievable rumours seemed less unbelievable.
"You may leave us now," the Di said, dismissing him. Bao shuffled backwards out of the inn, got to his feet, and fled back towards the caravan. He had no wish to stay in Manzhouli tonight.
Adûnaphel did not expect to have the same luck in Gondor as some of her brothers had had in the lands that were still sworn to the Shadow. At least now, thanks to Hoarmûrath, she had a fit name to give to their Master. She had felt it as they all had through the ring-connections they shared, whilst travelling the south-road east of the Anduin. There had been four of them then, before Ûvatha split off west towards Rohan. Now she, Ren and Akhôrahil were riding through the forests of Ithilien, having skirted the Black Gate and the Dead Marshes. There had been signs of orcs atop the Gate, an indication if any were needed that Mairon was busily securing his hold on Mordor once again. No doubt Nurn had bowed to him already. At least they would be able to count on the orcs of the northern mountain ranges, and they could hope that Ji Indûr would reach the Emperor of Rhûn before whatever messenger the Eye would send.
Ûvatha, however, was having less luck, as they had gleaned from the reports he made back to Kulkodar via his Ring Hortalë. Fengel, the current King of Rohan, had seemed a target ripe for persuasion to their cause, a man much in love with riches, gold and fine things. Ûvatha might have made him many promises with the wealth of Erebor, but he had not been the first to come to the court at Edoras. The White Istari, Curunir, had made no attempt to conceal his presence there. Ûvatha was not strong enough to stand against him alone – he had left without ever entering the building, a pretence of a petitioner who had simply gone away disappointed.
Gondor would be no better, she thought, but at least she could hope there would not be any wizards. It would soon be time for her to take the turning west, through Osgiliath and towards the White City, but before then there was Ithilien, more settled now than she remembered from their days in Minas Morgul. The countryside was, as usual, crawling with Rangers. So far however the three of them had passed undetected, remaining hooded and cloaked at all times, maintaining the illusion of simple travellers.
There was a temptation to go east, just for a little while, to their old home. It would still bear the imprints of them even after all this time, Adûnaphel was sure of that. But it was not in her orders, and would be both foolish and dangerous besides. With the pass of Cirith Ungol and its guard-tower above, it would not have long lain abandoned after Mairon returned to Barad-dûr. To go to Minas Morgul would be to reveal their presence to him.
The orc movements within that wall of mountains had not gone un-noticed by Gondor either, she found, listening in to hushed and worried conversations in way-houses on the road, buying food for the horses and for themselves which they only pretended to eat. The Rangers were concerned, and so were the villagers and townsfolk, and undoubtedly so would the Steward be, as word filtered back to him. In some ways this was good; it was a known threat that they could be a saviour from, or at least claim that, for she knew it would not be believed. It did not need to be believed, not whole-heartedly. Just the thought of it, the subconscious knowledge and touch of hope, would be a slow poison seeping through the minds of those who heard. It would be a foundation for something more.
Adûnaphel left the others a few days later, taking the wide and well-travelled road through long-abandoned Osgiliath, over its great bridge now ruined and spanned with a wooden replacement. She remembered laying siege to this place, when it had still been lived in by a few. The men of Gondor had fought well to preserve this place, but it had never been the same since the plague and the Kin-strife. Now it was simply rubble around the road, a throughway, long past the days of its glory.
From Osgiliath she went through the equally fallen Rammas Echor, and then the flat, fertile, open farmland of the Pelennor Fields stretched before her all the way to the foothills of the White Mountains and the White City nestled against them, shining in the sun in the far distance. If it did come to war, this wall would not stand against any army, she thought to herself, but perhaps with the threat from Mordor, the Steward would order repairs to be started. As she understood it from quiet enquiries on the road, Turgon the Old was the current Steward, aged for a Man without the blood of Númenór at eighty-six. He was still sound of mind, but tired easily, so that much of his daily work had been delegated to his son Ecthelion II.
It was only another day's steady travel on the good road before Adûnaphel reached the Great Gate of Minas Tirith. She made it inside before it was shut over for the night, and found lodgings, since the court would see no petitioners before the next day. It would not be wise to reveal any part of her nature before entering the Steward's Hall. She doubted any here had a weapon that could harm her, but they still might force her out of the city with a concerted effort, or bar the Seven Gates against her whenever she might approach. She was not here to make Gondor an even greater enemy than it already was.
The seventh and final gate of the city opened onto a wide stair, which led up through the spire of rock that stuck out through the city like the prow of a ship towards Mordor. Atop it, the spire had been flattened out into an open plaza, the Court of the Fountain, no doubt used for ceremonies when the need arose. She had never seen this much of Minas Tirith before, although it felt so very familiar, the sister of its dark twin east of the Anduin. A small crowd of petitioners formed an orderly line up to the great doors of the Hall, skirting a wide half-circle around the dead remains of the White Tree. It was strange to look upon to her otherworldly senses; even lifeless it had within it a brightness like moonlight, a fell light that in its day would have burned.
Hooded, cloaked, Adûnaphel joined the line in the guise of an old crone, having adopted a bent posture and taken up a gnarled walking stick as her disguise even before she passed through the seventh gate. She waited patiently. She would approach the Steward in this manner, give him advice and words of wisdom as an aged soothsayer, and only reveal her true self if it became necessary. A witch-woman might be reviled or disbelieved, but she had decided her chances were better judged thusly than as one of the Nazgûl.
When it finally came her turn to pass between those tall doors, she beheld the hall inside with curiosity. It was formed of white stone with black pillars, and lined with white marble statues of the Kings of old. At the head of the hall was a dais with three chairs, the tallest of which was raised up high above the others at the top of a stair. The Steward Turgon sat in the left-hand chair at the foot of the stair, seeming half in a doze, and his son sat in the chair to the right. There were none of the nobles or courtiers she might have expected, but hearing petitions was not work of much interest.
"You may approach and present your petition," the guard at the door told her. Adûnaphel mocked a trembling curtsey to him, and made her way slowly towards the dais.
"My lords of Gondor," she said. There was little need to make her voice any more ghostly than it already was. "My lords, I come not for myself, but for our great nation. It has been given of me to see things, visions and dreams of past, present and future, and what I have seen concerns me."
At this, Steward Turgon roused, and drew himself more upright in his chair. His son leaned forward. "Little have visions or works of magic ever aided Gondor," Ecthelion said. "For who can say whether they come from a true source or from the enemy. Yet I respect that you have come here with good intentions. Speak, and we shall deliberate upon the news you bring."
Adûnaphel curtseyed again. It amused her, thinking how different would be their words were she truly known. The curve of her hunch made her hood hang low, obscuring any suspicion that there was naught to be seen where a face should be.
"My lords must surely know already that a shadow has returned to the east," she said. "In my dreams I have seen darkness and fire. It is a doom that all who see it know will come, even if not within the lifetime of one such as I, or within yours, my lord Steward. The strength of Gondor has been tried before, and it shall be again. The paths of the future are unclear – though I am pained to say it, Gondor is not as strong now as it was in ages past."
"Then you offer an ill omen indeed," Turgon said. His gnarled fingers gripped the arms of his chair, uneasy.
"It is ill, but I also see hope," Adûnaphel replied. "There are other powers within the world."
"If you speak of the wizards, Mithrandir the Wanderer has not been seen in these lands for many years," Ecthelion said. "As to Saruman, Warden of Orthanc, perhaps he will be of help if war comes, but even he is but one man. I hope your visions have better news than this."
"A change has come far to the north," she said. "Dwarves have retaken one of their ancestral kingdoms, with the help of a great ally. My dreams have shown him to me. Above all, I have seen, this lord desires peace, peace across all lands. He is no friend to the Enemy."
"Curious," Ecthelion said, leaning back. "And easy enough to check if it is true, although no word has yet come of it to us so far south. Were your visions clear enough to put a name to this power? Is he a Man? A Dwarf?"
"Something far stranger. He wore a form that looked like a human child, but he was a man grown."
"I have heard of creatures such as these, in old tales," Ecthelion said, frowning. "Perian, those stories called them, but did not speak of any great deeds or powers."
"The visions were not clear," Adûnaphel said apologetically. "Perhaps that is not what he really is, only how he has chosen to appear. There was a name I heard; Kulkodar. I do not know its meaning."
"A strange name," Steward Turgon mused. "Yes, very strange. Still you have given us much to think upon, my good woman." He waved a hand to dismiss her. Adûnaphel made her way back out of the hall, marvelling at her good fortune. She had feared they would insist on pulling back her hood, seeing her face, but they had not. They had listened to a version of the truth that was close enough to it to put considerations of allegiance into their minds.
She would speak this truth again many times in the days to come, in the ale-houses and inns of the city. She would let gossip carry it, a balm to fearful souls, and Gondor would be one step closer to being theirs.
Six weeks had passed since that fateful day when Ori had nearly fallen to his death, and in the intervening time the rest of the eggs had hatched, so that now their small association of friendly dragons and dwarves had gained seven more members on top of those five who began it. Fili had been trying to recruit some of the younger dwarves from the Iron Hills with his brother's help, but all of them seemed to be too intimidated by the dragonets to want to spend any time with them. This, he felt, was rather a shame. It was lonely now being a prince in a way it hadn't been before. The easy camaraderie of the Company was being slowly drawn apart by their different jobs, and the newcomers regarded those who'd won the mountain with a too-distant respect. They were friendly enough, but not friends.
So in the end, when neither Thorin nor Balin had any lessons or work for him, Fili found himself spending a lot of time with the dragonets. At least they always had interesting stories to tell about the First Age, when they had last been alive. And they liked hearing his own stories about the mischief he and Kili had gotten up to when they were younger, and about life in Ered Luin, and about their mother, and in fact about dwarves in general.
Right now, however, he was teaching them another game.
"It's called Hnefatafl," Fili explained to his attentive audience. "You see, the colours of the pieces represent two different armies, and the shapes mean different roles. One side has a King that they're trying to get off the board, and the other has to capture them." Ten dragon faces of various sizes, Smaug included, studied the lines of the board that had been chalked onto the floor with interest.
"An intriguing exercise in strategy," Glaurung said. His claws clicked on the stone as he padded around, looking at the set-up from various angles. "A mind is kept flexible by playing many such games as this, where I am sure it is as much a matter of judging one's opponent as simply knowing a list of ways to counter their tactics."
"I suppose so," Fili replied. Glaurung tended to be rather intense, and was, he was sure, considerably more intelligent than him. It was rather intimidating. He got on better with Ancalagon, who was more than willing to join him and Kili in 'frivolous pursuits'.
"Such exercises are all very well," Glaurung continued. "But a Prince requires more specific training in the arts of war."
"I've had training," Fili objected. "Master Dwalin taught me how to wield a blade."
"He meant tactics," Raumo said. "Reading a battlefield, leading troops, organising your armies, manoeuvring against your foes." The pale, cream-coloured dragon sounded exasperated.
"I'm not going to need anything like that anytime soon though am I," Fili pointed out.
"Don't be so sure," copper-shaded Calarus replied.
"What do you mean?" The battle outside Erebor was long over – the orcs had retreated back to the mountains, and from what they heard, were too afraid of Bilbo to dare come back. The elves had gone, running away even before the orcs did. He supposed that at some point they might try and attack again, but it wouldn't be any time soon surely?
"You ought to have waited until Kulkodar told them," Heren, scales shining like silver, said disapprovingly. "Too late for that now though." At this point Fili was used to them using that title, although Bilbo himself didn't seem to care much either way that he had seen.
"I do not think he will mind it coming from you," Smaug said.
"Well, someone tell me," Fili said, confused and not a little exasperated.
"There probably will be a war," Ancalagon admitted. "Although we don't know yet when it will come. But Bilbo – Kulkodar – made a promise to Smaug that he was going to use all this power the Ring has given him. He wants there to be peace throughout Middle-Earth, so that people can settle their grievances with words rather than resorting to war."
"That sounds like a good thing though," Fili said. "So why would there be war if he's going out of his way to stop it?"
"Because the only way to prevent all wars is to be the ultimate authority," Glaurung replied. "You have told us how dwarvish arguments are settled; you have Masters of Law who judge these conflicts, and if that is not accepted, then it is taken to the King or Queen. Kulkodar would be that King."
"Put it this way," Turcosú said. "If two Kingdoms of Men had a disagreement about where their borders lay, or about their trade, or if one were acting to threaten the other, instead of fighting they would go to Kulkodar and he would sort it all out."
"Middle-Earth is a very big place," Fili pointed out. "How is Bilbo going to be everywhere he would need to be? It's a lot to ask of people to come all the way to Erebor when they have a problem."
"If he has not considered it already, we were thinking of suggesting the dwarvish model of the courts to him," Glaurung explained.
"I suppose it would be helpful to have impartial judges," Fili said doubtfully. "But I can see that certain people might not like the idea. I can't see any Elf accepting someone else telling them what to do – they're too used to having their own way."
"And that is why it will come to war," Glaurung said.
"And why I'm going to have to be ready." Fili nodded. He understood now. Well, Thorin was his uncle and his King, and Bilbo was now both those things just as much. He wanted to help. He wanted to be worthy of being the Prince of Erebor. "Will you teach me what you know?" he asked them.
"You and your brother both," Glaurung replied.
When Dís had finally received the raven-message from her brother, her immediate reaction had been relief. Thorin was alive, and, skimming the letter, so were her sons. They had not perished in dragon's fire as she had feared. The very fact that they had been able to send a message by this route had indicated their good fortune east of the Misty Mountains. Reading through the letter more carefully however, she had been struck by its strangeness. Thorin spoke of unexpected allies, and of some kind of treaty with Smaug the thief and murderer, which made her sure that somehow she was not understanding the strange code that her brother was using.
But still. Erebor was theirs. That much had been plain. She had been swift to spread the good news, and mere days after that the first group of dwarves had been ready to leave. Dís had told them about the dragon, choosing her words carefully, but with Erebor at the end of their journey few cared. Of those who had gathered outside the gates of Ered Luin, most had either fled Erebor all those years ago, or were the children of those who had. They had packed light for the journey – the general agreement had been that whatever goods and belongings they owned could be sent along later, for they had no time waste being slowed down by wagons. They had left Erebor with nothing, and they would return with nothing.
Of course they'd been limited in their numbers by what was practical. They were not an army, and Dís had learned from that first exodus how hard it was to feed a great host. So, she had decided, they would set out in groups of two hundred, leaving two weeks apart, so that they would not strip the towns they passed through bare of food. She herself had left with the first of those parties, along with the families of Thorin's Company.
Now, four and a half months later, after a perilous crossing at a little-used pass over the Misty Mountains near that Elven stronghold Rivendell, and shielded from orcish attack by their own numbers, they had arrived at the Long Lake, and were making their way towards the Lonely Mountain.
Those rare travellers and traders who had been to Laketown in the years since the dragon had brought back tales of a great, bare desolation in the lands around the mountain, the old fields, meadows and groves lying dead and barren, but now she saw that this was no longer the case. Green grass was spreading out like a carpet from the foothills of the mountain, and sapling pines grew in clusters upon the spurs that cupped ruined Dale and the Great Gate. The air felt fresh and clean, as though spring would come early this year. Even the forest trail through Mirkwood had not been as perilous as they had feared, and though at times they had felt eyes watching them, nothing had ever come of it.
Confident that there would have been Ravens about watching the approach to the Gate, Dís led her two hundred up to the new-built doors, admiring the clean stone-work of the outer wall and the overlook above, seeing the work of her brother's hands in little embellishments here and there. As they came nearer, a dwarf she did not know standing watch shouted to those inside, and the gates swung slowly outwards to welcome her.
There was her brother, standing waiting for her. Five months growth had made of his shorn beard something that now could be braided, and in shining mithril mail he looked every bit the King she'd always known he could be. Fíli and Kíli were beside him, looking no different than when they had left her over a year ago. She grabbed Thorin tight in a bone-crushing hug as soon as he was near enough, hearing him laugh.
"Idiot," she muttered. "I'm so glad to see you."
Her sons were the next to be embraced, to their expected, fond protests. Blinking, she did her best not to let tears of happiness fall. It had been so long. So long since she had seen them. So long since they had had hope. Now they had Erebor, and there had been none of the hefty price she had feared.
Eventually though Dís did have to let her boys go. It was at that point she noticed the other person standing there, a little off to the side. He was a strange creature, a little shorter than a typical dwarf with curly brown hair and odd golden eyes the colour of the sun. He wore armour that bore her brother's makers-mark, and a horned crown. Thorin's letter had spoken of finding his One, of making him Prince-Consort. She had even guessed from his rather sparse details that he was referring to the mysterious burglar that Tharkûn had promised to find them, but she hadn't expected him to be quite so unusual.
"Ah," Thorin said, seeing where she was looking. "May I introduce my sanâzyung, Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo, my sister Dís."
"It is good to meet you," Bilbo said, smiling. "Thorin has been fretting about when you would arrive for weeks. Quite apart from seeing you again, he also has a request he'd like to make of you."
"Oh?" Dís asked. From the tone of voice she could tell this request would be nothing ill. "And what request might that be?"
Her brother almost blushed. "I wanted you to officiate at our wedding," he mumbled. After a moment's astonishment, Dís laughed.
"How long has it been, months?" she said. "And you've put your wedding off for all that time just so I could do it? Thorin, really, you are simply ridiculous."
"Sister," Thorin said, looking even more embarrassed. His consort only grinned wider.
"Of course I'll do it," she said. "But first I think there are a lot of things you need to explain. What's all this I hear about a dragon?"
That was to be a very eventful conversation.
