Chapter 7: T.A. 2790 – Little by little, one travels far

The first days of spring also brought the first green along, after an endlessly cold winter had kept the hilly landscapes of Dunland in its claws for months, and while snowdrops and crocuses started to colour the meadows, the last remnants of snow were still reluctant to give up where they hid on the shady sides of the hills; but with every day passing by, the sun regained more strength, and soon after the rivulets running down from the nearby Misty Mountains were free from snow and ice. Only the rumble of avalanches high up in the mountains reminded the inhabitants of the sparsely spread settlements, that, although the worst lay now behind, there was still always a chance for winter to return, even if it would just be for a couple of days.

The fields and hills of Dunland were not fertile, nor were they rich or of great value, but, nonetheless, they provided their inhabitants with everything they needed to survive.

There were the Hobbits of the Storrs, who lived near the meeting of River Greyflood and River Glanduin and close to the slowly declining city of Tharbad.

There were the Dunlendings, a reclusive folk, who avoided contact with other people of the race of men, but who were on rather familiar terms with the Hobbits who settled in the downs.

And there were the dwarves who had come to Dunland about twenty years ago after they had lost their kingdom and their home. They were of Durin's folk and although they were neither farmers nor countrymen, they quickly accommodated themselves to the conditions they found within these lands and its borders marked by the rivers Gwathlo in the west, Glanduin in the north and Isen in the south and by the Misty Mountains in the east.

Instead of being miners, the exiled dwarves of Erebor showed their many talents and skills now in various crafts and trades and they proved themselves as to be hard-working, dependable and resilient. They offered their hands in the villages of men to work at the forge or as jewellers, as toymakers, as tinkers or in many other trades.

Some went mining in the Misty Mountains, but as it turned out, these efforts were not as profitable as they would have wished them to be.

They all knew that Moria was close, the ancient kingdom of Khazad-dum, founded by their legendary and highly admired ancestor, Durin, the Deathless.

Moria, and its mines – riddled with veins of silver and gold and with seams filled with Mithril, the most valuable of all precious metals.

Moria, the dwarven kingdom with its caverns, its great halls and its keen swung bridges and pathways.

Moria, the hideout of Duirn's Bane, of the great Balrog, the dwarves evoked when they dug deeper and deeper for the riches the Misty Mountains kept within their deepest depths.

No dwarf of Durin's kin, who did not know about the loss of Khazad-dum.

No dwarf, who did not know about the horror that slumbered within its once sacred halls.

No dwarf, who did not know about their exiled kin...

"Not with an army of all seven kingdoms united you'll succeed in removing the orc filth from Moria! Mark my words!"

The sonorous voice of an impressive dwarf resounded from the walls of the hall, while he was slowly pacing the place, looking at each of those, who had assembled round the heavy oaken table in the middle of the room.

His eyes mirrored concern and although his outer appearance was fierce and although it revealed the warrior, he was not known for acting with levity.

"What makes you think so", another asked from the head of the table, beholding the first out of wide eyes.

"That one and undeniable fact, that we'd just be outnumbered. They would simply overrun us!"

"None of us really knows, how many of them actually dwell in the halls and the mines", a third mingled in.

"No, that is true, my liege Thrain, but will you really dare to make a try to find out what's a lie and what's the truth?"

"What is this", the second asked: "You're not yet afraid, Fundin, son of Farin; you, one of my best fighters!"

"Not in the way you might define being afraid, my lord, but I have to admit, that an undertaking like this scares me, 'cause it might lead to another senseless loss of life and strength."

"You'd not deem it wise to make a try to reclaim a kingdom for my kin?" Thror leaned back within his seat, his gaze still fixed on the thoughtful and considerate Fundin.

"My lord, not a single dwarf of the seven kingdoms would doubt your right to rule, but I'm sure they'd doubt the reason behind the purpose."

"We cannot return to the Lonely Mountain", Thrain remarked: "Not as long, as the dragon is alive and resting on its lair. And we cannot return to the Grey Mountains for the same reason. The halls of Durin are close..."

"They are, indeed, and so is the danger of failing."

"So you'd prefer to live a life like this", the king asked: "exiled, mocked, asking for work and food and shelter like beggars?"

"You, my lord, will never be a beggar neither will your son, or any of your kin, and will you ever decide to call to arms, my axe and sword will be yours. But there is nothing wrong with living a life in peace, even if it means to exchange the glorious halls of your ancestors against an old farmhouse amongst the gentle hills of Dunland."

Thror just nodded, but it was almost written upon his brow, that his thoughts still dealt with Moria and about a way to enter the long lost halls of Khazad-dum. After a while pondering about it, he straightened in his seat and said: "Perhaps you are right, it might not be wise to enter Moria with a whole army, but to send in a scout to find out the true number of orcs and goblins dwelling within its halls and mines shouldn't be able to do harm to any of us."

"A scout?" Thrain frowned: "Whom would you like to send out on such a suicide mission, father?"

The answer, the king gave him, surprised them all: "I'll go myself, alone and without any company. No one will expect one single dwarf to be bold enough to approach Moria without an army or at least an escort."

"You cannot be serious about this, father!"

"My lord, think it over! Your kin needs you!"

"You will not talk back! For too long we watched when others claimed what's rightfully ours. If there is a way to lead our people back to their halls, I'll find it and..."

"...he'll not go alone!"

All eyes turned towards another of their kinsmen who had kept silent up till now. He was no warrior, but he had listened attentively and he seemed determined to keep to his words.

"You?" Fundin cocked an eyebrow: "You're a scribe! A chronicler! I doubt, you'll survive in the wild all on your own."

"Don't make a fool out of you, master Nar!" Thrain agreed.

"Not more a fool than the two of you", the king's first confidant replied: "What's more inconspicuous than a dwarf accompanying his old liege. No one will become suspicious against us, travelling from Dunland to the Iron Hills..."

He raised his gaze and looked at Thror.

The king remained silent. The worries and sorrows of his son and of one of his best fighters did not escape him, but he needed them here. Thrain was right, this plan was a suicide mission; nonetheless he had to try it.

Since they had taken flight from Erebor this had been on his mind – to retake one of the ancient kingdoms of his kin to return it to its old glory and to rebuild a home for his people. No matter the cost...

Thror knew, if he'd find a way to drive the orcs out of Moria, the dwarves of all seven kingdoms would unite to follow him – and if he'd not be able to return Erebor to his kin, he'd return Khazad-dum to them.

Before the silence started to get awkward, he got up and faced them all one after the other: "I'll set out for Moria all on my own – and Nar will accompany me. No one will know who he is and no one will learn who I am..."

An arrow hit the knaggy bark of one of the trees near the rivulet and a cheerful crow followed: "Hit it!" The young dwarrowdam clapped her hands and placed her long braid of thick, black hair back over her shoulder when she put the bow down. "The third in a row. For the first time."

"Well done! But you have to get quicker. You still need too long till you grab the next arrow. Enough time for your enemy to kill you in a battle."

To show her what was meant, the young dwarrow standing by her side reached out for an arrow, aimed and shot for just to do the same again within another split second. Both shots hit their aims – fir cones, high up in the trees – and those hit the ground close to another of their companions.

He smirked when the other shot him a glare: "You look as if you got hit by a mace! Calm down. Those were just fir cones!"

"Bow and arrow!" The second lad snorted: "That's an Elvish weapon! That's not for a dwarf!"

"But it's very effective at long distances."

"Pah! I prefer to look into my enemy's eyes."

"Is that why you carry your axe everywhere", the lass asked, leaning on her bow.

"What?" The lad grinned, when she addressed him and his cheeks reddened while he scratched his head, obviously slightly embarrassed.

"She said, if that's why you always carry your axe around..." The young archer said, giving the girl a wink.

"Nah", he smirked: "That is 'cause I want to become a fighter. I'd chase that dragon out of Erebor. All in the king's honour!"

"Aye! Of course! In the king's honour! I bet you'd just do it to impress Dis! We all know that you have a crush on my little sister."

"That's not true!" The other blushed even more.

The young dwarrowdam rolled her eyes. It was not for the first time that Frerin started to tease the lad and in a way she felt sorry for him.

Dwalin was the younger son of Lord Fundin and up till today, they all had been nothing else but close friends. He mostly accompanied his father when he came to see the king and the young dwarves enjoyed spending time together.

Dis was allowed to stay with them as long as she did not take part in their games, which meant staying away from axes, bows, arrows, knives and swords of all kinds. But neither her father nor her grandfather cared much about what really happened when they spent hour after hour exploring the lands their new home was surrounded by.

Since they had settled down in Dunland, their minds had been occupied with brooding over ways and possibilities to return home to the Lonely Mountain, to chase the dragon away or to wipe the orcs out who dwelled in Moria.

She, Frerin and Thorin had to fulfil their duties as the heirs of Durin, but with their mother gone, there was no one who really took care of them. They had to learn to handle their sorrow and their grief and they learned quickly, that both, their father and their grandfather, were not able to give them the love they would have needed.

It was Thorin, who told his younger siblings bedtime stories and comforted them when they suffered from nightmares, it was Frerin who sang them lullabies and taught them how to play and dance, and it was Dis who took the role their mother would have held if she'd still be alive – but however none of them was already of age yet.

That was why Dis wrinkled her nose when she looked at Frerin and spat: "Why should he have a crush on me?"

"Don't know", Frerin shrugged, grinning and looking at both of them by turns: "You grew lovely sideburns, little one. Maybe he likes them."

"They look nice", Dwalin admitted, beaming.

"See?"

"Will you stop it?" Dis grumbled: "Otherwise I'll tell father to feed you to the orcs."

Frerin burst out laughing: "Who knows! I'd like that better than becoming a husband. But tell me, sister, who would be your dwarf of choice?"

He dropped down on a stone and Dwalin, following his example, stared at her expectantly.

"That's none of your business. And if I'd know one, I'd not tell you..."

She beheld the two lads and after a while of pondering she asked: "How would you do it? I mean chasing the dragon away?"

"It says", Dwalin replied: "that they don't do anything at all but sitting on their hoard. I'm not so big yet, he'd not even notice me if I'd sneak in. And then he'd feel my axe and I'd bring you a tooth or a claw."

The siblings changed a look. Both got stern within a wink of an eye and Frerin said: "You better not wish to come across a dragon as long as you live! You've no idea what it's able to do to you! Not even the king's guard had been able to withstand its wrath."

"My father says, if the elves would have sent help, they would have been able to bring the beast down."

"Many say so, but we won't ever get an answer to that question."

"Their king did not care..."

"What do you know about it", Dis hissed: "You haven't been there. But I was! This is, what the hot breath of a dragon does and I'm sure you don't want to experience it."

She removed the braid from her shoulder and a scar got visible. It appeared to be healed, but if one dared to have a closer look he'd notice that it still looked angry. And, really, the hot breath of the dragon still affected the once burned skin. It was just due to the skills of the elvish healers, that it didn't hurt. The same applied for the other scars, those, she kept hidden.

"The elves sent help", Dis went on: "they just didn't send fighters."

"And that is why she has a crush on the elvenking..." Frerin nudged Dwalin and his smile returned.

"I have not..."

"You have", he taunted: "That smooth skin and those soft strands of hair..."

"Pffff..."

Before they could go on, they got torn out of their merry mockery, when Nar, their grandfather's scribe showed up: "The king wants you to join the feast that is prepared! All of you! Now!"