CHAPTER 5
Halif was still unaccounted for when it was time to go inside. Ori lingered until the last possible second. He had a terrible feeling in his gut that he would never see her again.
"No trouble, lads?" Lord Balin asked. His voice echoed in the high stoned chamber of the entryway.
The guard he spoke to grinned fiercely. "Nothing worth speaking of, my Lord," he said cheerfully. "A few came in the night but we dispatched them forthright."
Balin nodded with a smile on. Ori thought about what he'd said before, that he expected an ambush. "Very good then!"
There was no hint in his voice that he was troubled. He cast his arms upward. "You're the first dwarrow to sleep within the walls of Khazad-Dum since the beginning of the Age! Your names are going in the histories, mark my words."
This was met with much cheering, as it deserved.
At Balin's side Flόi looked grim, but then again, he was Lord Balin's guard. It was probably within his job description to be dour. Dwalin had often been dour and serious.
Frάr hung back next to Ori. His elbow brushed Ori's and he didn't apologize.
"What do you think?"
The miner blinked and belatedly looked over at Ori. "It's stable," he said. "You'd expect that, of course, but I did have my thoughts about what the orcs might have done to the place." His eyes wandered over the wall, cataloging details that Ori didn't even bother trying to pick out. "There's damage, but it's cosmetic. At least this close to the surface, it seems safe enough." He paused.
Ori looked away. It was obvious that the miner had thought something along the lines of 'It's safe from collapse, at least'. It was true but not very pleasant that an unknown number of enemies were lurking nearby.
'I hope Halif returns soon.'
She wasn't the swordsman that Flόi was, but Ori would have felt much more secure with her at his side. As it was, he hugged a little close to Frάr as they began a cautious foray into the mountain.
The entryway itself was dark and surprisingly cold. It had marvelous acoustics. Every scuff of a boot and every displaced stone was magnified and sent back at them tenfold in an echo. At least Balin's voice carried in an extremely heroic manner as he gave the order to move inward.
The path sloped down at a drastic angle after. Ori spared a thought for the dwarrow of old who had to have moved cargo through here, the poor travelers pushing their wheeled chairs up this incline.
'Going down would be marvelous fun, though.'
He had a vision of his aunt Morin careening downwards in her chair, whooping.
He stumbled. Ori was pitching forwards in the dark before he realized his boot had caught on something.
Frάr caught him before Ori could hit the ground or worse, the dwarf in front of him. Ori winced at the impact of his nose against the older dwarf's armored side. "My thanks," he said. His voice came out stuffy.
The miner helped him straighten. "Alright then?" Frάr murmured.
Ori nodded back. "I'm fine." He felt his face flush. What kind of dwarf lost their footing in the dark? How embarrassing. He watched his feet more carefully after that.
The incline leveled out and a path split into two.
By the time that Ori reached it, the group had long since chosen one side. He gave the path untraveled a curious look but he was not tempted to break off and explore by himself.
'What if they're waiting down there and they come up behind us?' Ori felt his whole body tense. 'What if they shut the door and the army can't get in but we're trapped in here and we can't get out?'
His breath was coming fast now.
There was a rustle of fabric as Frάr leaned closer. "We're fine," he said quietly. He put a warm hand on Ori's shoulder. "Lord Balin knows what he's doing."
Ori grabbed onto the lifeline of that reassurance and nodded wildly. It was true. Lord Balin knew so many things. He was wise.
Ori tried to trust that thought as they descended further into the city.
Gasps and murmurs traveled back along the line.
"What is it?" Ori cried out, unable to take it anymore. No one answered him but the pace was fast enough that he saw for himself soon. The chamber that they came into was breathtaking. He gaped. Ori turned his face up and up and tried to see the ceiling. It was impossible. The height was lost within the gloom. He could faintly see sconces where lights should have been.
"See the way it glitters?" More heads than just Ori's turned to hear Frάr speak. "The stone catches the light, reflects it up. I bet you anything the ceiling is a mirror to amplify the lights." Awe was plain in his voice. "This is the great open market."
Open indeed!
As far as the eye could see, massive pillars reached upwards to the unseen ceiling. Any one of the pillars could have orcs behind it.
His heart was in his stomach throughout the entire chamber. Ori kept jumping at imagined sounds and shadows.
But nothing leapt out at them. If there was an ambush, it wasn't in the open market.
It came in the chamber below. Ori wasn't there. He only saw Flόi's body brought back up, missing a hand.
"He slew a chieftain," Lord Balin said quietly. His eyes were tired as he watched the much younger dwarrow be laid to rest. "He was very brave. He will lie in honor, underneath the grass by the Mirrormere."
That was the last of their significant battles for control of the kingdom for quite some time.
Thereafter began a painfully long and laborious process of mapping out the connected chambers and confirming that they held no goblins or orcs. Ori found his way next to Balin again, hurriedly turning verbal reports into sketches of the inner workings of the great city. They must have spent days there. They grew so tired that shifts were assigned and people slept. The sleep was poor indeed.
He read excerpts from Bilbo's letters at night to raise morale. It worked better than it had any right to.
Bilbo really was an excellent writer. Despite the clear evidence that Bilbo was in the legal and moral wrong, most of the dwarves were supporting him over his many neighbors, tenants, and a cheesemonger who was affronted to be paid in coin rather than in pie.
The stories helped, but not enough. Ori jerked awake a dozen times during his allotted rest time, heart pounding at what surely must be the coming attack. It never was. It was always some nearby footstep or pained murmuring of someone else's poor dreams.
The sketches began to tell stories. There were grand manors that must have belonged to the great families of old. Those maps were complicated and involved multiple levels. Other rooms were undoubtedly for public usage. One was a grand ballroom or other such space, with mithril scrolling on the walls. Another room featured a pit surrounded by lifted rows of seating. Another was a grand chamber centered around a well, which Balin took as his sleeping quarters and the command center.
"Mazarbul," Ori read off the inscriptions. "The hall of records. What's that really mean, then?" He had to flip past a page which he had used to keep a tally of Bilbo's legal wins and losses since returning to the Shire. He was going through paper much more quickly than he could have expected. He made a mental note to tear that page before it was added into the histories.
No one had an answer for him regarding Mazarbul, other than that of course it was the name of the chamber and they ought to put records in it. The room had a thick door which was still in working order. Ori slept a little better when he was inside of it for his sleeping shift.
"Twelve orcs, sir."
It was at least three days after they'd entered the mountain by the time a scouting party finally reported they'd encountered living orcs.
"Did you have any casualties?" Balin asked, a little sharp with nerves.
"Injuries, but nothing fatal," the scout reported. "They were small and weak and without good weaponry. We think perhaps they were young."
That idea hung uncomfortably in the air. Ori couldn't remember anyone ever saying they'd seen a young orc, much less an infant. The concept that orcs were anything at all like the free races was… disconcerting.
"Very good then." Balin recovered first. He granted the scout a fatherly smile. "Your bravery is recognized. Thank you for clearing that path."
The dwarf beamed and ducked his head as he backed away.
What the body language meant hit Ori with a realization. He stared at Balin.
That was the way that someone left the presence of a king. Backing away without showing your back- well.
Of course.
Khazad-Dum was the greatest of all dwarven kingdoms, Ori reasoned. How could the Lord of Moria be any less than a king?
Fear began to mingle with awe. The days rolled past. The dwarven camp outside gradually came inside and were established within chambers that the scouts had mapped out.
Halif was not found, but her journal was brought to Ori. He looked at it for a very long time, drinking in the neat ink, the messy chalk, and the dried blood.
By Ori's count, they had been within the mountain for 8 days when the orcs made their last rush. By that time, Balin's company was controlling both the East and West doors.
The orcs came up from the depths in a frenzy, hacking and slashing and fighting like cornered animals. They carried with them the stench of brimstone from somewhere deep in the mines.
They were finished off easily and none reached the door.
So began the reign of Balin, Lord of Moria!
The days began to be glorious rather than fearful. As the ancient metropolis was remapped, the scouts came back with incomprehensible treasures. Ori recorded them in his book. There were the great mithril helm and the axe of Durin himself! Balin took those and had them displayed in pride of place. Other treasures were doled out as thanks to notable members of the army. The army itself rather dispersed and became more of a settlement. The wine from the Elf-King came in useful, as did the stores that the company had laboriously hauled with them.
"We need a lot more food production," Oin grunted. The rickety old healer scowled at the dining hall. "And medicinal herbs. Where are the sun levels? There should be soil and air where we can grow things within the mountains. And the mushroom mines? We ought to have those below."
"Peace, friend," Balin laughed. "We are searching and we are growing. But for now, we can buy what we need, aye?" He leaned forward so that the candlelight caught the glitter of mithril braided into his beard.
That was true! And it was true for years. The colony grew and thrived. After two years, they received word from a surprised Erebor that survivors of their initial battle had returned home after escaping from orcs. They had gone awfully far out of their way, but they had not known who had won the battle. Balin had presents sent on for those few in an apology. Ori checked the names- they were both dwarrowdams, oddly enough, but Halif was not in their number.
Those who were unaccounted for after the battle were quite few, and at that point they were presumed quite dead.
Ori sent a thought to Halif and a prayer on her behalf to Mahal every month's first day. He avoided using her journal until it became necessary. They had been in Khazad-Dum for three years when he carefully took apart the bindings of the two journals to make one grand book detailing their travel and reign.
Ori had a small but pleasing stack of letters from Bilbo that he kept tucked inside his journal. They contained writing advice and updates on his life.
Ori sometimes read them aloud for the table to enjoy. He saw some parallels between their carefully managed relationship with Lothlorien and Bilbo's maneuvering to keep his neighbors out of his smial. The mention of his game of turning off the lights and pretending not to be home inspired passionate debate over whether or not the dwarrow could pretend to all be out on an errand when the elves came a-visiting.
Their eventual decision was "no", but it was a pleasing diversion nonetheless.
That debate did not make it into his records, out of concerns that it might one day negatively impact dwarrow who had a great need of that tactic for dealing with neighbors. There were a few other things that he left out.
Oin was hearing things. Given that the old dwarf was deaf, that seemed odd.
"I'm telling ya, there's something down deep," Oin insisted. "Deep in the mines. It reverberates on my trumpet. It must be some ancient device that still moves about. I can hear it sometimes!"
The table jeered him good naturedly.
"It rings," he cried. "There's a high pitch, like a bell."
Ori cheerfully joined in booing this nonsense, but he also joined the search parties that went down deep into the mines. Nothing of that sort was ever found, of course, though they continually found evidence of ancient habitation of both dwarrow and orcs.
No matter how deeply they delved, they were always more. It still astounded Ori.
This was the birthright of their people. This kingdom was the embodiment of Dwarven accomplishment.
"Another message," Náli reported glumly. That could have been very exciting news, but no one sent them very interesting mail yet aside from Bilbo. Most of the world assumed they were all dead as dust. At best, they got confused congratulations on their continued survival. As the new head of guards, Náli received most information early.
Náli continued in the air of a funeral announcement. "The elves of Lothlorien send us their well-wishes and ask for the opening of diplomatic relations."
The booing was much louder this time than usual.
Balin steepled his fingers and hummed. "We really ought to respond," he said regretfully. "Perhaps a letter with my regrets would do it. We couldn't possibly host them, after all." He cast an arm upward to indicate the unparalleled glory and beauty of Khazad-Dum. Even the walls shone. Age had done nothing to them that couldn't be removed with water and a dust cloth or a bit of polishing. "We're not ready for visitors. We are quite busy redecorating!"
Ori wasn't sure how to record that for posterity, but the entire city had laughed for days at the very suggestion that Khazad-Dum was not sufficient for hosting such august company as elves.