Chapter 50

Abad Kilmîn, the Red Mountains

18 March TA 3019

Nori's missive heavy in her coat pocket, Dís burned with righteous indignation, boundless and terrible. Before her sat not one king but two. A perverse stroke of luck, or so she'd thought at the onset. Now, she gnashed her teeth together and listened as the Ironfist king, Dolgar, listed in a patronizing tone all the reasons why what happened beyond the Orocarni was of no importance to four dwarf Houses calling the Red Mountains home.

By Mahal, she'd not slogged her way through miles and miles of filthy, stinking red sludge, beset by clouds of insects thirsty for blood, to be treated as a foolish miss too dumb to know her own place. She was Dís, daughter of Thrain, daughter of Thror, and she'd had a bellyfull of Ironfist xenophobia and superiority.

To think Pallando had pushed himself to collapse to get them here, only for this to be their reception!

Her blue eyes shifted to the younger king, he who had to this point been silent. King Vestin was horribly young for the burden of a crown—only seventy-one years old, younger than her son Kíli when he'd died—and the Blacklock advisers clustered around him vocally sided with King Dolgar.

By Mahal, she was too exhausted for this. It had been days since she and her friends had permitted themselves sleep.

'Twas as Dolgar's thick fingers waved her off, dismissing her as if she was a servant, that she snapped. With brows and chin low, she slowly stalked forward two paces.

"We are through, Lady Dís," Dolgar said with a small frown. With the prematurely gray hair that was the Ironfist hallmark, fair skin, and green eyes, he was a handsome dwarf, she thought. Until he opened his mouth. "Go back to your Halls. You Longbeards must learn not to be so discontent with your lot."

Bam! There went her temper, flaming hotter. "Discontent?" she said softly.

The Blacklock king, Vestin, shot a minute frown at the other sovereign dominating the conversation in his throne room, but when one of his adviser's touched his wrist, the lad subsided.

"Aye, discontent," Dolgar said, pounding one overly large fist upon the arm of the throne he'd been provided. "You lost Khazad-dum in your weakness, then Erebor. Your beggared king-in-exile came pleading for aid…"

That. Was. It. "My brother made a mistake," she began.

"He was a fool!"

"Aye, he was," she shouted back. "For he believed there was strength to be found in Aulë's children. For believing dwarves," she said with crooked arm, "would never turn their back on their kindred. Do not dare mock my brother," she fumed. "You, who have sit in your safe Halls for countless generations as others held the Shadow at bay. Do you really believe yourselves so safe here? Because none have yet trespassed in your lands?"

She snorted in derision. "I will leave, for I ascertain that what courage and perseverance Aulë bestowed has weakened in the absence of tribulation among his children of the Orocarni. It took thousands of years filled with constant battling against evil to send the elves of Middle Earth into retreat across the Sea. Here, it took naught more than a word. Aye, I will leave. It seems if the world is to be saved, it will again be men and elves that will see it done."

Dís ignored Dolgar as he jumped to his feet with a wordless roar. To Dár, she said, "We head into the Wild Wood."

"Wild Wood?" Dár repeated, eyebrows lifting.

"We're going to find the Avari."

Her hunter nodded shortly, his countenance one of determination. "So be it, lassie. I'm with you."

"Avari?" Dolgar sputtered.

Dís bestowed her most scathing glare upon the Ironfist king, one honed by generations of Durins before her. "The heart of elves has not yet failed. Though dwarves quake in their Halls, the elves of the Wild Wood may not. But know this. If Mordor crushes us, Sauron's forces will spread like a plague. You will have time. Perhaps decades. But eventually, you will have thousands upon thousands of orcs upon your doorsteps."

"Let them come," Dolgar snarled. "We are safe within our Halls."

Dís granted him a brittle smile. "Did you not listen? The Black Númenóreans ride in his service. How long, King Dolgar, will your iron gates and mighty Halls stand when an army of sorcerers arrives?" She laughed with scorn. "They will bring your mountains down upon your heads. There will be no escape. By the time you finally recognize your peril, it will be far, far too late for you to act."

With Dár walking proudly at her side, Dís stormed from the elegant onyx and obsidian throne room, ignoring Dolgar's angry insults in her wake. She had naught more to say to him. Dís intended to pause only long enough to collect their exhausted wizard before removing herself.

"Wait!"

'Twas not Dolgar. For that reason alone, she turned around. To her shock, it was the young Blacklock king, Vestin, who'd spoken, and it was he who rose from his ebony throne. "Wait," Vestin repeated.

When his advisers began to object, the dwarf king's hand flashed out, stopping them. Like all his kindred, the Blacklock possessed a swarthy complexion and dark, brooding eyes. His black hair was left free—braids were not used for status in the Orocarni, Dís knew—and his beard was contained in a single fat braid that fell to his mid-chest. Hair and beard were dotted with orange sapphires, and when the lad's head tilted so that he could gaze upon the large, single-bladed ax affixed to the wall—an ax like none Dís had ever seen before with a gleaming black blade—she noted that his black cloak had runes upon it, all them in brilliant orange thread.

Fidelity. Honor. Courage, they read.

"A king," the young dwarf said in ringing tones, "protects his people. He does all to serve them, be it ever so humble." Dark eyes met Dís's. "Your brother was an example to us all, one we in our arrogance despised." His unexpectedly potent glare silenced the shocked Ironfist sovereign. "He labored as a blacksmith, taking any work to be found. Aye," he told Dís, "rumor of it found its way here." Then addressing his entire audience, he added, "When the opportunity came for the exiled Longbeard king to restore his people their home, by Frathrasir's boots, he took it. He gave his life for it."

Those dark eyes scanned none but his fellow Blacklocks. "We are of the Khazâd. We should have aided him. It is a stain on our honor that we let our kindred fight alone. That we left any of our people as wandering exiles."

A hush fell over the room when the lad again surveyed the black ax. Then a mighty gasp as King Vestin reached up and jerked Gorim's black ax from the wall.

Dís found herself in awe and thrumming with pride for her people. For dwarves of all Houses and clans. This, she vowed, was a king. One of Thorin's ilk. Of her father's. And aye, what Fíli would have been.

"No more. The Blacklocks hide from no one," Vestin shouted, the ax lifted above his head. "And should Mordor's stench spread, we will fall as dwarves, not hiding like goblins. We will no longer sit idle while others sacrifice their lives, be they in ever so distant lands."

The lad descended the dais with shoulders back and a noble carriage. His people—all but the advisers, Dís noted—knelt with deep respect, the looks upon their faces saying this outburst, this show of leadership, was new…and welcome. Aye, they looked upon their young king with pride.

"Hestin, with me," the King of the Blacklocks commanded. Then without a backward glance, he strode towards Dís, inclined his head in silent invitation to join him, and walked out of the hall.

Dís followed. By Mahal, if she'd had any kinswomen left, if Gloin had sired a daughter instead of a son, Dís vowed she'd be plotting on the spot to drag the girl across the world to meet this young king. The Blacklocks had been blessed, and she hoped they appreciated it.

The moment they were closeted away in a large study—Dowager Queen Sissal joining them—Vestin gestured Dís to a seat. "Now, then. Tell me, my lady, how can the Blacklocks be of service to the line of Durin?"

Dís did just that.

Then at the end, when Vestin's right hand dwarf, Hestin, prepared to show Dís and Dár to their guest quarters where Pallando, she was told, was already dead to the world, she remembered Nori's other request.

Unable to believe she was asking the question, she said with a dry voice, "Tell me, King Vestin. I don't suppose you have some dwarrow that wouldn't mind changing a bunch of nappies?"


The Dead City

19 March TA 3019

Dori drew his steed up short. With heart in throat, he fell from the saddle and took a few stumbling steps forward, letting the reins dangle as his horse dropped its weary head.

Nay. Nay, nay, nay. He'd arrived too late, curse his beard.

His hands balled at his sides while in the distance, he watched Minas Morgul's eerily luminescent gates open as a dozen horses and one emala clattered across the white stone bridge spanning the foul waters of the Morgulduin. As the tall gates parted, the dark maw leading into the heart of the Dead City was revealed. Chills raced down his spine, for though 'twas day, the entire city was wreathed in such shadow as to look the dead of night. From within, a spine-tingling screech broke the silence, and shudders shook his frame.

"Mahal," he whispered thickly.

'Twas almost too far to see it clearly, but Dori was sure that two of the bodies among the others were shorter. Stockier.

One by one, the travelers vanished into the terrible city. Dori did not move. He could not. His feet felt married to the uneven and broken pavement stones of the ancient road. A sinister wind raced by, and still Dori remained there, eyes locked upon the foreboding gates as they creaked to a close.

Boom. Such finality, there was, as the gates sealed shut. Dori finally turned, tripping over his own two feet as he retraced his steps to the horse. He blindly collected the reins, then with the back of one arm, he mopped the tears tracking down his cheeks.

Mahal. 'Twas too much to bear so swiftly on the heels of learning Ori's fate. Dori's shoulders bowed.

The strongest dwarf of them all, he'd once been called. How he took pride in that, often scooping up Bilbo when danger drew near.

All for naught.

Dori tugged upon his beard. He was done losing loved ones. Aye, he was.

They're not dead yet, ye old fool, he scolded himself. But what to do?

Wait, a part of him suggested. He didn't know for what. For an idea. For one o' the Company—they said they would head north once Caeldor was taken care of to join the Gray Company, and the Harad Road was the most logical of paths.

If the Black Company lives.

Dori refused to entertain that nonsense. Nori, at least, would not die on him. He wouldn't dare. By Durin, if that rascal so much as singed a hair on his head, Dori would give him the thrashing of his life.

Sniffing back residual tears, Dori straightened his shoulders. His chin lifted. For now, he'd go back to the crossroads a few miles behind him where the Harad Road intersected this nameless and doomed byway leading into Minas Morgul. From there, he'd keep watch—there was little chance of Bifur and Bofur escaping through the city's gates on their own, so he'd keep vigil nearer the crossroads.

If any of the Company passed this way, Dori intended to catch them.


Bofur stifled a shudder as the gates clanged shut. What in Mahal's name had they done to get the entire city to glow corpse-white like that? 'Twas ghoulish, and more, the horrible light failed to provide the least illumination. Nay, the streets seemed all the darker for it. The shadows, deeper.

Tied to the saddle as he was, he could do nothing to stop his progression deeper into the terrible city, the horses' shod hooves clattering out ominously loud. On either side, structures loomed, each with empty, windowless eyes and a truly frightening visage.

Why it was so, Bofur couldn't put his finger on. He'd not ever been so petrified in his life, and 'twas all he could do to feign boredom. (A dwarf had to have some pride, after all.) He even yawned into his shoulder, content when one o' the Corsairs—a mite wide-eyed himself—boggled at him. Bofur winked in return.

At street level, a few dozen orcs and goblins scurried about with abnormal silence. The imposing city felt empty but for them and the heavy feeling of Something.

Aye, that's clear as mud. Yet he could not find better words for it. There was an old evil here, and Bofur's shudder won free as he clapped eyes upon the monstrous stone figures lining the roofs above.

"Nice place you have here," Bofur managed to say in a bright voice. "Love the ambiance. Truly a…"

Two of the Corsairs glared back at him, hands on the hilts of their swords as if tempted to run him through when that Something bloomed heavier and heavier. Though he twisted about with wide eyes, heart racing like one o' Radagast's freakish rabbits, Bofur saw nothing to explain the terror eclipsing all else. The street seemed to darken.

When Valkthor scowled back at him, a bead of sweat trickling its way down the misbegotten wretch's face, for once Bofur found himself in full agreement.

Speaking here? Not a wise thing to do. He clamped his lips shut.


Bifur heard his cousin's ill-chosen jest, aye he did, but he could not find it in himself to respond in kind. With each fearful pound of his heart, he dreaded what would come next. He prayed his daughter never learned of her uncle and adâd's fate, for it would destroy his Gêdul.

If the men haven't already done that. 'Twas a thought that the evil saturating the air seemed to magnify until it drove through his heart like a jagged dagger.

Nay, he stubbornly persisted. Thannor had her. Nori protected her. His lass was a survivor, a Weapon, and she'd be fine.

Aye, so long as she never learned of Bofur and Bifur's fates, she'd be alright.

As his gaze lifted higher to study the city so akin to its gleaming sister across the Anduin, 'twas plain to him he and Bofur had ample reason to fear…for themselves.


Harondor

"How is she doing, Master Dwarf?"

Nori lay on his belly upon a slight rise, filthy as the day was long and Finnur's spyglass to his eye. At Orodon's breathy question, Nori permitted the metal tube to drop into the sea of green grass beneath him. He rubbed his face. "She's not sleeping."

Orodon collected the spyglass and did some looking of his own.

Nori smoothed one finger across his braided eyebrow, back and forth, back and forth. Durin's ax, he knew what drove her, and Mahal knew Nori was proud of his stubborn niece—she was a Longbeard, and that was the truth—but he'd seen the bursts of anger upon her face followed by flashes of uncertainty. Aye, something was occurring in that head o' hers, and Nori cursed himself roundly for not thinking his way 'round to being able to be with her.

Orodon's hand alighted on his shoulder. "She's done wonders training those Novices," the Ranger said.

"Aye," Nori agreed with a weary sigh. "Mayhap too well." Little did they need those children more dangerous. What if they turned on her? Had she considered that? Nay!

Orodon's teeth flashed. "Perhaps. But only if they serve Mordor. Have faith, Master Nori. Both Saldís and Anuon are working with those children, and more of the Novices are looking to our friends with trust. Saldís and Anuon might just succeed at this."

Nori hoped so. They'd already entered Harondor, lands contested over the years by the Haradrim and Gondor. The Mountains of Shadow, Mordor's southern border, could be seen in the distance—jagged, blackened peaks that looked more akin to a blackened collection of fangs than the majestic mountains Nori was accustomed to. Since the first time he'd clapped eyes upon them many decades back, they'd given him what men would call the willies. Mordor's northern mountain range, the Ash Mountains, were not much better.

Soon, Saldís would lead her Novices onto the Harad Road, Nori thought. 'Twas deserted from what he'd seen of it between breaks in the hills to the west. Too soon, she'd reach the Dead City.

By then, Nori would intervene. His niece was not going near that accursed place.

That, he grumbled to himself, was final.


Three days.

'Twas too soon, Saldís thought. Eyes dry and itchy from lack of sleep slid across the horizon until she saw the tell-tale orange glow illuminating a spot between the Mountains of Shadow. Barad-Dur, whispered the kernel of ice that had taken up residence in her heart.

Three days.

She tore her gaze from the sinister light, one hand finding the hilt of her scimitar. Before her, the Novices were teamed up in groups of ten, battling each other as the sky darkened with night's arrival.

Mahal, but the last week was a blur. Saldís had run herself ragged, and in that, she wasn't alone. Her Novices were fiercely determined to arrive at Mordor's gates "ready". What they imagined for, she didn't wish to dwell on. She did not want to believe they dreamed of raiding innocent villages, raping and pillaging.

Though Hilliz did not approve, she'd taken to pressing her troops harder and harder to think for themselves, discussing scenarios as they sat in a large group eating their evening fare. Aye, to her assessing eye, Hilliz had severe reservations about what she was doing, for she taught the teenagers to even question the Duumvirate, though that was done in a roundabout fashion. Never directly. Never with outright treason, but she skirted the edges dangerously.

She had to. There was no time for a slower approach.

There were whispers. At least, Saldís thought she detected whispers. She heard nothing openly, but 'twas in the way some Novices would fall silent when she drew near. They plot against me, she found herself considering more than once, only to have to bring herself up short.

There was no reason to believe any plotted, and truly, when would they have the time? The teenagers, too, were worn out.

Akhora, she reluctantly attributed the unsettling feeling, but she had no real proof. Just as likely, her own fatigue and inner fears were causing her to flinch at shadows that did not exist, and she growled at herself as she fought them off.

Aye, three days left. Soon, she'd have to confront her Novices with blatant and hard truths. One day, maybe two. She dared not wait until they reached Minas Morgul.

Then, she would learn her fate, and that of her friends. Then, the Novices would either set their faces towards Mordor…or a new future.

Her eyes lifted at a sudden increase in illumination. The moon had worked its way through the heavy blanket of dark clouds overhead to briefly grace them with its light. Crickets chirruped in the background, a familiar serenade, and the lure of a nice pallet called to her.

Yielding to that temptation was out of the question. Too much yet to do, and not enough time.

I'll sleep when I'm dead. Or once Mordor falls. Aye. Sleep now was too costly.

"Ne-Hilliz? Take over," she told the man who'd rarely left her side the last week. 'Twas the truth, she was chafing. Would he not go away for ten, Mahal blight them, minutes?

"Ib-Akhora?" The dark haired man frowned. Was that suspicion?

Bah! She couldn't tell anymore.

"Take over," she repeated shortly. "I want twenty more minutes of drilling, then the Novices may seek their bedrolls." Raising her voice as she walked away, hoping to avert an argument, she called, "Novice Yahzin! With me."

Thannor's new daughter jogged over with brows high, but she asked no questions, merely walked by Saldís's side until they reached where Finnin and Erynor were situated. With zero fuss, Saldís collected her nearby saddlebag and dug through it until she found jerky. She had no desire to cook up more substantial fare.

With Yahzin fidgeting nervously at her side, Saldís squatted before her "prisoners" and said, "Thank you, cousin."

Yahzin startled.

Erynor too, Saldís noted. "Cousin?" the Ranger whispered.

Had no one told him then? Likely not. Too many ears. Before Erynor pursued the subject, Saldís silenced him by shoving a bit of jerky into his mouth. With a tired smile, she said, "Thannor has adopted Yahzin into his household. You are looking at Berenor's new sister."

The blond Ranger's brows lifted. He chewed his food, his head tilting to eye the girl in question. Saldís offered the next bit of jerky to Finnin, feeding the two the only outer excuse she had to be with them.

She needed to be with them.

Her dwarf studied her and around his mouthful managed, "You're well, Dushin-Mizim?"

Again, Yahzin seemed to startle. Enough of that. 'Twas time to take another risk. To the girl, "You know the Dunedain and dwarves came to rescue whomever they could."

Yahzin's head dipped slowly. "Should we be speaking of this?" she whispered.

Saldís shrugged with all the fatigue in her body. "Three days," she said again, her gaze drifting to Mordor's peaks. Berúthiel's cats, one should not be able to see them in the dead of night, but she could despite the moon abandoning them once more. "I'll have to make my appeal soon."

Finnin's boot nudged her hip. "Talk to me, my Saldís," he insisted the moment he'd swallowed. "You're not sleeping."

"Can't," she answered simply, keeping her voice low and baring the burdens she carried to him by her expression. "She has been busy tempting me with compromise. If I but bend, I can do more good," she said with heavy and bitter irony.

Both males stiffened, and Yahzin frowned, confusion creasing her forehead.

By Mahal, Saldís wished for nothing more than to lean against her dwarf and feel his arms around her. 'Twas not to be. "Just watch me, aye?" Saldís asked.

The two nodded in unison, but it was Finnin's piercing gaze that comforted her. Aye, he'd keep both eyes on her, and she knew it. 'Twas a different type of guarding than likely he'd counted upon when joining this mission back in Ered Luin, but Saldís trusted him. His dip of the chin let her take her first deep breath in days.

*You matter,* she signed, the words inadequate for all she truly longed to say. But from the way his gaze heated, the dwarf knew what she meant.

Saldís shook herself, then she fed the two captives additional morsels. And if she used the opportunity to place a palm to Finnin's cheek, a palm he kissed in return, none saw it but Erynor and Yahzin.

Knowing the time short, and prolonging the interaction unwise, she got to the crux of her reason for seeking the two out. "I'll make my plea to the Novices before we reach the Cross-roads. Should we survive the aftermath, where do we go next? Caeldor is gone…" She tossed Yahzin an affirmative nod at the girl's sharp inhale. "…but from the snatches Anuon has had a chance to share, Hlein leads the young Novices and women from the Den to Umbar. Do we join them?"


Yahzin's chest tightened, and she blinked back a sudden surge of tears. She'd been stunned at Akhora's actions with the blond dwarf, yet as the woman interacted with both prisoners, that had been replaced by a pang of unexpected jealousy.

Akhora cared about these males, and they cared back.

Isn't that what she promised? What was it Akhora had said that fateful night? That she offered a life with laughter, safety, and love?

How Yahzin had scorned the notion. How she now yearned for it. Watching the dwarf kiss Akhora's hand, Yahzin hungered for it.

She lost track of the conversation, her focus on Akhora. At last, Yahzin believed every word the woman had uttered. Finally. Completely. Akhora had spoken the truth, and she and her team had truly come to save Yahzin and the other Novices.

Over. The years or eluding groping hands, sly daggers in the night, and horrible Tests…they were coming to an end.

If the other Novices do not kill her. Yahzin's attention panned to her left, homing in upon where her fellow Novices battled over a patch of ground in mock battle. She'd been among them but minutes before, thrilling in the different feel of the training.

She'd been a part of a team, and it had been unlike anything she'd experienced before. It will work, she concluded. With help, Akhora's attempt to call these… She almost referred to them all and herself as Black Númenórean Novices, but with a clenched jaw, she changed her mind.

Barhador's words returned to her. She didn't know what it meant to be descended from the line of kings as he'd claimed. And she didn't know any other way of living.

No, we are Ib-Akhora's Novices, she decided. Akhora's and perhaps (for Yahzin) Thannor's. A final decision. A commitment.

I'm not going back. No matter how events unfolded, Yahzin would fight beside the commander. She was going to claim the life Akhora promised or die trying.


Finnin watched his lass closely, at turns honored by the trust she bestowed upon him and worried. Akhora tempted her into compromise, did she? Well, Finnin had a thing or two to say about that.

You'll fail, he promised that Akhora-side of his lassie. He'd not relinquish his Saldís. If she needed him to watch, then by Mahal, he'd be watching. Had she alerted Anuon to her struggle as well?

"Take them north," Erynor said, distracting Finnin from his thoughts. "The Gray Company must be somewhere near Minas Tirith. There, you will at the very least gain word of them. You must take the Novices to Aragorn."

The wee Novice watched Finnin's Saldís intently, and to Finnin's mind, the lass seemed more resolute the longer Erynor and Saldís spoke. What it was that had decided things for her, he didn't know, but if he read her aright, Yahzin was firmly on their side.

A good thing, for they could surely use all the help they could get.

"That takes us through possible battle lines," Saldís said. "Minas Tirith is certain to be Sauron's first target." Beside Saldís, Yahzin nodded silently.

"It is the first bastion of men," Erynor said simply.

"I will not lead these Novices into war," Saldís hissed, flashing to full fury.

"It is where Aragorn will be," Erynor answered without heat. "It is where their people will be. The Gray Company. No one is suggesting they fight."

Saldís glared daggers at the Ranger a heartbeat longer. Then she rubbed her face with an exhale. "Orc spit." Dropping her hands she said, "I'm sorry, Erynor. I knew better."

"You're not sleeping," Finnin stated a second time, his voice kept light by sheer force of will, for that display of temper—on one of The Brothers, the Rangers his Saldís adored so—disturbed him. Aye, it could be exhaustion turning her words sharp, but it could be Akhora planting doubts in her mind.

"You told us how Kimilzor found you," Erynor said as if she'd not just lashed out at him with her tongue. "Blood calls to blood. We need these Novices under Aragorn's protection. He has ties with Lothlorien and Rivendell. The elves' magics would protect these children from any seeking to track them by magic."

Saldís stiffened. Her head whipped to glare at Mordor's peaks. Aye, and she hadn't thought of that. Neither had Finnin. Little good to free these young ones from this life if that life turned around and hunted them down once more.

"The lad's right," Finnin offered. As her attention turned to him, Finnin added, "We cannot leave them open to retaliation. They've endured enough. I'm thinking they are entitled to some peace. If not with the elves, then within our mountains. We cannot let these Black Númenóreans reclaim them."

A hesitation. A brief glance to each Finnin and Erynor in turn.

Then his warrior lassie inclined her head. "So be it. We ride hard in search of Aragorn." Then with a quiet gratitude, "Dolzekh menu." (Thank you.)