Chapter 8 The Halls of Evendum


The tunnels the Hobbits were led along meandered bewilderingly, sometimes dipping, otherwise rising, often sharply and suddenly making them stumble, but always twisting. They quickly lost all sense of distance and direction.

After a sometime Bilbo realised that things were not quite as dark as it seemed. In many places the walls glowed faintly, not enough to avoid the occasional rock that he tripped upon, but just enough to avoid the occasional boulder that blocked their path that the Dwarves, for unknown reasons had left in place. Not that the Dwarves were not trying to guide them safely, three times they had stopped one or other Hobbit from stepping into an unguarded and unseen shaft. They just assumed that the Hobbits could see the stray outcrops.

Bilbo got the impression that many of the tunnels they were hurrying along had been dug as quickly as possible, they certainly had not been finished as the Gaffer had described the Halls of Moria. Smoothness of walls and floor were obvious by their absence. Then he supposed they had not been ensconced for that long, barely three years.

Finally the tunnel opened into a small cavern, not much more than a wide tunnel, which, unlike the tunnels they had been travelling, was lit by huge flaming torches. Again, this looked unfinished to Bilbo's inexpert eye. The impression aided by the small party of six dwarves swinging axes into the walls, gradually widening it into a hall.

At the far end of the hall were two more dwarves upon a low dias. One was sat upon a stone seat. Beside him stood what Bilbo could only think of as an ancient dwarf. Bent and leaning firmly upon the long handle of an axe. The impression was completed as they came closer. The Dwarf's beard flickered red and yellow in the torch light in only the way a truly white beard could and dragged on the floor.

The two were in some discussion.

"So how many shafts are still working, Grydore?" The seated Dwarf was demanding of the older.

"Shaft Six is still looking promising, they made 100 feet yesterday. Four hit a seam of iron granite. They should get through that in a day or two," the older Dwarf announced in voice that screeched to set teeth on edge.

"How about nine and five?"

"They are following the Malachite seam in nine," Grydore explained patiently. "It will give us goods to trade with the Easterns."

Finally the two noticed the small party approaching.

"Borin. Why have you stopped work in Six?" the seated dwarf demanded. "Who is that with you?"

"We hit a gas pocket," Borin reported to be received by a groan from the seat. "Can't start working again until it clears. These," he pointed at the Hobbits, "claim to be Hobbits from the Shire and Dwarf Friend."

The perfunctory introduction brought a closer examination, the old dwarf Grydore hobbling over to the three Hobbits for a better view.

"By whose authority do you claim Dwarf Friend?" The seated Dwarf demanded. "I warn you I am Farin, Son of Falloth, Master of these halls. We will not tolerate Orcish spies that damage our carts."

"We are not Orc's!" Farrimer burst out indignantly.

"There be no Orcs in these parts in o'er fifty years!" Tom snapped. "An' no Hobbit has touched your carts!"

Bilbo stepped forward, raising his hand to stop the howls of indignant protests of his compatriots.

"We are three Hobbits of the Shire," he declared quietly. "These hills belong to the Hobbit's homelands as bequeathed by King Elissar. None may settle in these lands except on his or our permission. We came rightly to ask the same of you, for whilst we are friendly to all and have little use for these hills, you have damaged the river right down to the Southfarthing. We were named Dwarf Friend by Gloin, son of Dorin, descendant of Balin. I am Bilbo Gamgee, son of Sam Gamgee, member of the Fellowship of Nine Dwarves, Elves, Men and Hobbits that set out to destroy the One Ring and at your service," he bowed deeply then guestured towards Tom. "This is my brother, Tolman Gamgee. The other is Farrimer Took, also descendant of the Fellowship."

The two Hobbits bowed as they were introduced, but rather less deeply than Bilbo, watching the Dwarves suspiciously.

It was well they did, for the Dwarves did not appear overly impressed by the introductions and descended into a low whispered conversation.

Finally Farin rose from the huddle and spoke. "You may be as you claim," he admitted. "It is small matter we have never met Gloin and have not had contact with Balin's people for many a year. But these hills are not free for Elissar to bequest. The workings we are in are Dwarvish and have been for many years before Elissar or Isildur stood in its former glory. We have merely reclaimed them. We cannot permit you to carry news of why we are here until we have finished, yet we will not kill you, in case your claims are true. So you will remain guests of my hall. Borin, find a suitable billet for our guests, they are to be well cared for, but must not be allowed to leave."

"We don't know why you are here?" Farrimer protested as they were about to be led away. "We came to find out why you turned the river black!"

Farin glanced at Grydore, who stepped forward. "Mythryl," he said quietly. "There was a seam of Mythryl once in these hills. I remember it from when I was a dwarfling. It was a thin seam then. But richer than anything to be found now from the Western seas to the Far Mountains in the East. Finding it would establish this as a new dwarfdom to rival any hall."

This short explanation was all the Hobbits were to receive as they were led away.

"Well this is a pickle, an' no mistake," Tom observed as they were shown into a small chamber, equipped with three lumpy mattresses a torch and little else.

He proded a matresses with a toe then pummeled the worst of the lumps out before sitting firmly upon it. "What do we do now?"

"I don't know," Bilbo admitted quietly slumping desolutely beside his brother. "I suppose we wait. We can't find our own way out of these tunnels and I don't think they aren't going to show us anytime soon."