Chapter 18: Some people we never forget
A crisp cool wind blew across the lake, driving waves across the water; colored leaves were already dancing on the waves. Autumn was upon the city of the long lake, Bard did not need to feel the fresh chill in the wind to know the year was falling. The signs were everywhere, the sun would still shine warm during daytime, but the summer was already saying goodbye and soon enough the winds would turn north to bring storms and the long lonely winter to Lake-Town. Bard was not sure if he was looking forward to the coming winter, the Captain of the Town Guard harbored no illusions that the cold times would again bring some roving bands of robbers from Wilderland, and who knew what else would come creeping from the wilderness.
"Bard!" A familiar voice startled him from his musings; he turned around to find Egil, his second in command who had been in charge of the night watch. "Captain, it is good that I found you," the soldier's breath was flying, he had been running. "The Master wants you at the hall at once, we've had some strange arrivals and he will want your expertise dealing with them."
"Arrivals?" Bard asked, as they began walking towards the heart of town. "It is too early for the last trading caravans of the Iron Hills to come through here on their way home, and the wrong time of the year to set out south…"
"Lookout spotted a boat coming downriver," Egil reported, realizing that the alert that had startled him during the hour of dawn had not yet reached Bard. "Elven boat, came nicely as you please and we haven't seen any of them in years."
Silently Bard agreed, the Elves had systematically cut down the trade with them and all but retreated into their forest. "So, what do the elves want?" he understood why the Master called for him, Bard may not have wandered as far as some of his people but he knew the lands beyond the long lake fairly well and he could get answers from those of Dale's former people who had dared wandering the wide world even further.
"It wasn't elves at all, Bard, it was dwarves," Egil's voice still echoed confusion. "We escorted them to the Hall and the Master had them wait a little, so we could summon you and a few others."
"Dwarves?" Bard did not need to ask that these could not be from the Iron Hills, Lake-Town was trading with Dáin's kingdom and would not need to make any fuss over his people. "If he needs advise on them, he will have called for…" Bard did not finish the sentence, when the man he had just spoken off walked into sight. Standing even taller than Bard himself, the warrior crossed the street in a sharp stride. He wore chainmail armor and a two handed sword on his back, his long hair was of a deep iron-grey with the first white streaks mingled amongst the longer tresses. While more than twenty years older than Bard himself Hagil was still strong and a powerful fighter.
Bard had often wished Hagil had liked Lake Town enough to join the town guard instead of selling his skill as a warrior to whomever could pay enough. The old mercenary bore not love for this city, nor the Master, that he would still returned here faithfully and did his share in supporting Lake Town was owed to his loyalty to Bard and nothing else. Much like the man walking beside him, who seemed the exact opposite of Hagil. Only in his late twenties, as fair as Hagil had been dark, two curved blades on his back and wearing an armor of eastern make, Aiken hardly looked the descendant of proud Dale but much the mercenary that he was.
Both men stopped, when they met Bard, Hagil inclining his head, indicating a bow that he would only award Bard, while Aiken saluted him the fist over his heart. "Hagil, Aiken, I take it the Master called for both of you as well?" Bard asked.
"His messenger mentioned Dwarves," Aiken said. "I wish someone would remind him that the only dwarves I know are mercenaries, and good ones." Involuntarily his hand went to his neck, where a blackwork tattoo glittered on his pale skin, depicting the harp of Dale with a runic inscription.
Bard surely would not have expected Aiken to display the symbol of Dale in such a fashion; he held little love for the past. "Where did you get that?" he asked, wondering what the story was and how it linked with dwarves, as Aiken seemed to make that connection himself.
"I got it from a Dwarven mercenary during the Succession," Aiken explained as they walked on. "He nearly killed me under the gates of Dunkarga. I had brought down Prince Tarkhan and already thought, if I could hold out until our men could break through to me and secure the catch the war would be over and a nice ransom on top of it all…" Aiken barked a laugh. "And then this dwarf charged me, not caring for the burning gate nor the arrows coming down on him, all rage and fierce will – two axes and he battered away at me… what a fighter! He nearly killed me, took me captive… good man."
Bard arched an eyebrow, the question apparent in his expression. "It's not like you to praise the enemy, Aiken."
"Sure, but he was special. He could have sold me to slavery, I was his catch and could not offer any meaningful ransom. But instead he made me fight for him for the rest of the campaign. Said he had known Dale before it burned and wouldn't bring harm needlessly on her sons. Before we parted ways I asked him for one of his famous tattoos and he made this one, so I'd have something to remember my homeland by."
"He knew Dale?" Bard was amazed, of course he knew how long Dwarves lived, but he had rarely met a dwarf who had known the city of his great-grandfather. "I so envy you, having the chance to ask about Dale, hearing from someone who walked her streets…" He saw Aiken's face and sighed. "You never asked, did you?"
"No, we talked of other things, how to get into Cymarkhand, what Varis Khan was up to… war and campaign, along with stories of battles old and new. He was one of a kind, and I'd gladly serve a few more campaigns under him, but I doubt my knowledge will be of any help with whatever dwarves came from the elven lands."
"And neither will mine," Hagil added, the old mercenary had listened calmly to the story, knowing the life Aiken led, having chosen none other for himself. "I knew one dwarf, decades ago, not to mention that Kadan was not quite right in the head. I would prefer not having him mentioned where other dwarves can hear, he never wanted… he never wanted others to know."
Bard sighed, what Hagil said was true, even as Bard's own memories of Kadan, the ancient mad dwarf were hazy at best. "You two have had more dealings with dwarves outside the Iron Hills than anyone else in town," he told them, Bard often hated the fact that like others of his people Hagil and Aiken had gone to seek fortune in far off lands, finding no true home in Lake-Town. The people of Dale were a scattered nation, and while the children would come back to the Long Lake, at least for having their children named, to marry and to be buried, many preferred the tough life in foreign lands to the narrow confines of Lake-Town. "And I may need your insights." Neither of them would help the Master easily, but they would always come through for Bard.
They reached the town hall, a well-crafted wooden building and entered through the side door. The Master was already expecting them, an old man with a peaked, thin face he greeted Bard with a smile. "Bard, it's a relief you came, I have not seen such warlike folk arrive at our city, since the envoys of the Iron Hills returned home… and they looked tame by comparison, I well feel saver knowing you are here."
Inclining his head, Bard took his place to the left, Aiken and Hagil at his back. While he and the Master did not always see eye to eye, he understood that the old man was frightened. He had been a trader first and a councilor later, a man of peace, with a mind for prosperity, war and those who chose the life of the blade over productive work, scared him.
The doors of the hall were opened and Bard understood all the better, the group of dwarves – ten dwarves, one man and one smaller creature, a dwarfling maybe – walked in. All except the last well-armed, and carrying their armor and weapons in a way that bespoke ease, those were warriors of lifelong experience, and they were not afraid to show it.
The Master rose from his chair to stand. "Welcome to Lake-Town, travelers. It has been long since we saw strangers come to our city. May I ask who you are and what brings you here?"
The group parted, making room for their leader to step forward and Bard held his breath. The dwarven leader was easily recognizable by his presence that left no doubt on who was their leader. He held himself with a presence and command that demanded attention; long ebony colored hair with a few braids framed a proud face. By his side stood two younger warriors, one dark haired, one blond, but both carrying some unmistakable similarity to him.
"I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror," the dwarf announced proudly, "and these are my sons, Kili and Fili of the House of Durin." There was a visible pride with which he introduced his two sons.
Bard could not believe it, and yet he did beyond the shadow of a doubt. He had only been a child when his aged great-grandfather, blind old Girion, had told him of Dale and Erebor and of Thror the Great King of the Dwarves. He had spoken of his son Thrain and the grandson Thorin, whom Bard's grandfather Gerion had at least met prior to the destruction. He felt the Master's gaze upon him, the old man certainly did not know what to do with the situation, Bard gave him a small nod, indicating he believed Thorin's words. He had once dared to go up to the ruins of Dale and had seen the ancient dwarven statues at the mountain; this dwarf bore too great a resemblance to them.
"Be welcomed to Lake Town, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror," The Master spoke. "It is with great joy that we see some of the noble dwarves our friends of ancient Dale have spoken of so much, come here at last."
If Thorin found the speech strange, he did not show it. "The people of Dale are still living here?" he asked, with some surprise. "We feared they all perished when the dragon came."
The Master smiled slightly. "They have lived here for four generations now, Thorin, some present in these very halls. But… let us not stand on such strict formalities. Be welcome as a guest in our city…"
He was interrupted by the head scribe hurrying in, his face in such a worry that it did not need anything to tell he was bringing troublesome news. The Master waved him close to hear the whispered message and sighed. "I have to apologize for cutting our greeting short, Thorin son of Thrain, but some things demand my immediate presence. My people will show your group quarters where you can rest, and mayhap you may find some of Dale's people to speak to all the same."
The dwarf took it better than Bard had expected, the Master of the city was a man of industrious business and would always cut short ceremonies when they stood in the way of money earning, but guests did not always like being treated that way. The grandson of King Thror took it with a calm that was admirable. Bard saw the small nod the Master gave him, asking him to take care of this.
Once the Master had left the atmosphere in the hall relaxed a good deal, Bard wanted to approach the group to show them where they would find rest, as the Master had indicated, but that was cut short, by a bald dwarven warrior, approaching them instead. "By my beard, Aiken… you should have said you were still living in the shade of the mountain!" He exclaimed, as they greeted with a forearm handshake.
"Dwalin! So you meant it when you said you were going home to fight for your King!" Aiken laughed. "Had I known you were coming here…"
So this was the dwarven mercenary that had nearly killed Aiken under the burning gates of Dunkarga and that had spared him slavery… somehow it touched Bard that the dwarves, the proud and indomitable dwarves too were reduced to mercenary work and fighting for coin. It was bad enough that his people would do it, but the dwarves… the way his great-grandfather had spoken of them, this sounded impossible. Or maybe… maybe Dwalin was the exception. A King in Exile might not turn aside a mighty sword-arm, no matter what the man's occupation otherwise was. Bard himself accepted Hagil's and Aiken's support even when he shuddered that they had sunken to mercenary work.
Within moments Bard found his assumptions again faulty, when Thorin joined them. "Dwalin, you know these people?" he asked.
"Aye, Aiken fought for me in the war of the twins, his family came from Dale." Dwalin replied. "But I had no idea that there were more of their people still living at the lake."
Aiken actually had not lost his head, or his manners. "If I may…" he spoke up. "This is our leader, Bard, grandson of Gerion of Dale."
Thorin looked at Bard with calm steady eyes. "I knew Girion of Dale and his son Gerion," he stated respectfully. "And I am glad to learn that they escaped the destruction of Dale."
"They often spoke of your people, and of your house Prince Thorin," Bard replied, falling back on how his grandfather had spoken of Thorin. "Were they still with us, they would be overjoyed to see your return. But… this is nothing to speak of in the hall. If you will come with me, I shall show you to your quarters."
When they walked outside, Bard felt Thorin's piercing gaze on himself. "It is good to see some of your people survived," the dwarven king stated. "I saw your city burn… and I doubted anyone could have made it that day." There was an audible shudder in his voice, when he spoke of Dale burning.
Bard could not help it, he was awed, he walked by the side of one who had seen Dale on her last day, who had survived to come back. "Those who survived made it into the wells, the water systems and the old sewers where the fire could not reach them. Girion… my great-grandfather always said that the water saved the survivors and… your brave stand at the mountain. Had you not fought like you did the dragon might have returned for us."
"Girion?" Thorin asked, remembering the proud King of Dale, he could see some likeness in Bard, even as the soldier had little of the proud bearing of Girion. "He survived that day?" The assumption it had been their fight that had kept Smaug off the fleeing populace, was too kind. The closing of the siege doors had been an act of desperation, the bravery of one warrior who gave his life to give his King a chance to escape.
"He did survive indeed, Prince Thorin," Bard told him. "He lived for long years here by the lake, before he died as a truly ancient man. He often spoke of you… of your grandfather."
They arrived at their destination; the hall where Lake-Town housed guests had been built for their various trading partners and would have to serve for the dwarves as well. Bard showed them around swiftly, he was sure the Master would host a small feast for them during the evening and they would wish for some rest until then. When he was ready to leave them, Thorin stopped him with a short gesture. "Bard, could you stay? I would like to hear more of your people, and how your family has fared since… since Dale was destroyed."
ADL
Asbiorn usually learned of events at the city late, because his workshop was on the northern end of the city, all trades that were to work with fire had been placed there, it was dangerous to have them in the city at all, but while a town might be able to make do without a gaffer, a potter and a blacksmith were things the city needed and it was not safe to settle on the shore and thus the few fire-related trades had been moved to a small rocky island at the north side of town. Asbiorn had been working since the morning, in the warm times when trade was high, his work was in much demand, to see horses shoed and cartwheels ringed, he had noticed some commotion during the morning hours, but he had heard quickly what was going on from Islar the old potter who had told him that dwarves had come to the city, not those from the Iron Hills but none other than the King under the Mountains. There had been no end to this talk after that, especially amongst the people from Dale, to whom Asbiorn belonged.
He had kept working, not caring for the talk, the axe blades that had been ordered would not make themselves. Even a King with an army at his back would stand low chances against a dragon, and a King with only a few followers even less. And even if the army of the King under the Mountain was still coming, all Asbiorn would hear of it would be demands for horseshoes and blades sharpened. At least that was what he kept telling himself as the day wore on. However he may talk to Bard later in the evening, if there was something to these rumors… if the men of Dale armed all their people and supported the dwarves they might provide the lacking numbers… provided there was a decent plan to deal with Smaug the Magnificent.
It was well into the afternoon when the excited voiced of Asger and Athalwyn, Asbiorn's sons made him look up from his work. The boys stood in the entry of the forge and stopped two strangers from approaching. The strangers were only a bit taller than the children, but both only four feet tall, they had to be dwarves. One of them was blond, the other dark haired, and both of them were clearly amused about Asger, who stood before them with a staff longer than himself. The seven year old boy, was trying to look all threatening. "What do we have to do for you to let us pass?" The blond dwarf asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
"Teach us a song to exasperate our mother," Athalwyn piped up. "One with Trolls and other bad words in it."
Asbiorn bit his lip not to chuckle; he had warned Franhild to not be so strict in that regard, because the boys now knew how they could get their mother into a state.
The dark haired dwarf laughed. "But of course… listen…" he began to clap his hands, in a near dancing rhythm.
"One and two - a troll will come for you,
Three and four - the Orcs are at your door,
Five and six - they put your head on sticks
Seven and eight – the dragon is on his way…"
With the last his hands shot forward clapping right in front of the startled boys, and Asbiorn saw a hint of sparks in the clap. Both boys laughed, delighted at the song and the trick and let the dwarves pass, beginning to sing the new song for themselves.
When both dwarves entered the smithy Asbiorn could see they were carrying a veritable arsenal of weapons with them, blades, axes, knives and an assortment of throwing knives and axes. All of them looked like they had seen a lot of fighting recently. "You've come for repairs," the blacksmith observed. "I am Asbiorn, welcome to my fire."
Both dwarves bowed. "Fili and Kili – at your service." They spoke like one, once the greeting was done with, the dark haired one spoke on. "You are right, Master Smith, we are here for repairs, but we would prefer it if you allowed my brother to do our own work, in exchange I will assist you with whatever work you have."
Asbiorn pointed to the left. "The sharpening wheel is over there, if it is all you need, you don't have to work for me in exchange." He said.
The blond went over to the sharpening wheel, unloading the whole weapon's pile, before settling to work. The dark haired one – Kili – looked at Asbiorn. "I'd still like to assist if I may," he insisted. "You are very friendly to allow us to do the repairs and… I could do with some forge work for a change."
Dwarves often were very skilled at the anvil, Asbior knew but this one was still young. "If you can find a way for yourself to reach my anvil, you can help me." Asbiorn decided, testing the dwarf. The anvil was high, because Asbiorn was a tall man and the dwarf was only a little above four feet tall.
Kili, Asbiorn tried to remember the name, had to have worked in a smithy of men before, because he was clearly acquainted with the size differences. He looked and spotted the stump Asbiorn used to test weapons and pushed it beside the anvil for himself to stand on. Quickly discarding the coat he wore and the armor underneath, only with the bloodstained leather tunic he wore beneath, he joined Asbiorn at the work. "Axe blades?" he asked, seeing what the blacksmith had been at.
Asbiorn handed him a hammer and tong. "Exactly, see you keep up." Working together on such things required skill, but Asbiorn quickly found Kili did not lack in that area. He was strong to provide the hold with the tong and his hammer hit precisely where needed to hammer the axe blades into shape. Only the fire seemed to become hotter, for the axes they worked on, remained white hot as long as they needed them to and only cooled when it was necessary. When they had put the last of them into the water too cool, Asbiorn handed the dwarf a pitcher of water. "It is really true what they say of your people, Kili," he observed. "You are born to this."
Fili, who was working on removing the scarring from a blade, looked up with a grin. "It takes only a few decades in the smithy to get that far… and any old dwarf will tell us that we are whelps." He said good-naturedly.
"How old are you?" Asbiorn asked, putting the finished weapons from the water to full cooling on a rack. He had seen enough dwarves from the Iron Hills to tell they had to be young still.
"I am 82," Fili said. "Kili is 77,"
"Nearly 78," Kili pointed out, he had gratefully taken the pitcher and gulped down some of the water. "What's next Master Asbiorn?"
"But… but that makes you youths still!" Asbiorn knew that dwarves only became of age in their 90s. He could at once see the eye rolls of both of them.
"We are not from the Iron Hills, Master Asbiorn," Fili said. "We are of the Exiles, our people become adults once they reach the age of seventy, have forged a weapon and killed an Orc and a Warg."
"I apologize," Asbiorn said, still surprised, the Dwarves of the Iron Hills jealously guarded their young, protecting them fiercely. Was this what had happened to the survivors of the great kingdom of Erebor? Having to wander, to survive, their children growing up swiftly? He looked at Kili. "There isn't much left, you helped me make short work of these axes." Thoughtfully he studied the dwarf, the way he had worked bespoke years of practice and the way the fire reacted to him… Asbiorn did not really believe the legends, but he would much like to.
"Nothing really? No other work you have to do?" Kili sounded disappointed. "Mahal, I'd even do horseshoes or arrowtips."
"I have the feeling those horseshoes might give the poor mare troubles," Asbiorn laughed. "Too much fire in them. But…"
"But what?" Kili asked. "I will do my best to not make the horseshoes fiery, if that's what you fear."
So he was aware of what he did. Legends and stories, Asbiorn thought, this was the day they seemed to come to life. It would be worth to find out how much of legend was in this one. "I'll make you an offer, Kili," he said. "I will give you the materials for two good weapons to make. What weapons I leave to you, in the end I keep one the other is yours." If Asbiorn's hunch was right, they might need good, very good weapons, soon enough.
Surprised he saw Kili's face shine in an honest smile. "Master Asbiorn, I'd make both of them for you, if I can just have a night between fire and anvil," he said, meaning it. Asbiorn had rarely seen such a happy expression connected with a night of hard work in the smithy.
The night had already fallen and Asbiorn sat on the wall that ran between the pillars supporting the projecting roof of the smithy. He had rarely been patient to watch work done at his anvil, but this time it was worth it. Kili required little help and if he did his brother was there to provide it, it was clear the brothers were used to working together but Fili seemed to be willing to leave his brother to it. And while it would take some of his material storage, it was so worth it…
"There rarely are still hammers ringing in your forge at this time, Asbiorn," The blacksmith turned around, surprised to find Bard standing outside, beside the pillar. "And even rarer that you are allowing someone else on your anvil."
"It is rare to see someone who could teach me a few tricks still," Asbiorn replied, honestly. While both dwarves had been unfailingly polite, always referring to him as 'Master Asbiorn' their skill surpassed him. And watching a true spellsmith work… that was a privilege and pure profit on his part. "Bard… I had my doubts about many stories about the dwarves, but after seeing these two… maybe the stories of Erebor were all true after all."
Bard looked past him, to the figure at working at the anvil, the warm right light of the fire illuminating the young dwarf as his hammer rang out on the greatsword he had begun. It was like a picture from ancient legends, of stories about the great dwarven smithies of an elder age. "Kili and Fili… the sons of Prince Thorin," the bowman observed. "And I thought my greatfather's stories about Durin's house were exaggerated."
"They are the sons of a King?" Asbiorn could not believe it, both seemed so much like normal people, neither prideful nor haughty.
"King only if he can deal with the dragon," Bard said, rubbing his chin. "Don't get me wrong, Asbiorn, Prince Thorin is an impressive…dwarf. I am honored that I got the chance to meet him, to speak to him but… they could not defeat the dragon then, with all their armies ready to fight." He had not asked Thorin for his plans; he had not found it in himself to question the dwarven Prince in Exile so directly.
"No dragon ever has been killed by an army," Kili spoke up, not interrupting his work; he simply turned the blade to the other side. "Fili… have a knife ready, this blade will need its first cooling in blood, the second in water, third in tears I think." He looked up at Bard. "There has been no dragon in history slain by an army. All the great ones, were killed by one man in the end. It is not the numbers that make a good plan."
Asbiorn made room so Bard could come inside and the Captain of the Town Guard joined him. "So you truly think that you can defeat Smaug?" he asked. "Make no mistake, I have been to that mountain two or three times, and I am sure he is still inside."
Kili cut his wrist, the blood touching the hot iron, Asbiorn watched as the blade cooled unnaturally at the touch of the blood. Kili went back to working, letting the heat dry the cut on his arm. "Of course the dragon is there," Kili said. "Anyone who thinks he died of old age indulges in wishful thinking. The trick will be to scout him out, assess his strength, relative position inside the mountain and work all that into our strategies. Once he is airborne it will be too late."
Bard could hear that the young dwarf must have been thinking about this a lot and he found it easier to question him than Thorin. "So, let us say you find a way inside, this is your mountain, you will know the backdoors. Smaug will smell you, and fighting him in closed quarters… your people failed at that before."
Kili's hammer came down harder than before. "Bard. They were not prepared and they had a civilian population to protect, the situation was totally different." He put the blade back to slowly heating up and turned to the second weapon he was working on, which looked much like a hammer. "This time it is only us, so we can devise different strategies for him, once we know more. His strength and shape will certainly determine much of what can be done. I understand that you are concerned, should Smaug take to the air, your city would be the first target in his immediate range. Which is why I still would prefer to finish him inside the mountain, in close quarters the chances are better to get to his soft underbelly."
"Aren't you a bit young to talk of dragonslaying and planning on strategies that all sound like a fancy way to suicide?" Bard asked, he had seen the dwarf Prince during the greeting and could quite certainly tell that this young warrior would count for no twenty years of a human lifespan.
Fili, who had helped Kili with the tong but now had a break while Kili worked on, walked over to Bard. "When the dragon came your people suffered, Bard," he said in a warm voice. "He came for us, but our doom was also the doom of your people and we are not blind to that. Your people are as much exiles as ours are. And… wouldn't it be better if both our people could go home?" He asked.
The Bowman sighed; he had often thought such thoughts, and especially seeing on how many of his people chose wandering over the life in Esgaroth. The city had no room for all those who had come from Dale, and he had seen the slow changes wrought on his people. "Prince Fili," he began, wondering what he could possibly say. "While I would love to lead my people back to Dale, I have doubts the Dragon can be defeated. Legend may claim that the great dragons of yore were defeated by single warriors… but legends rarely walk in the broad daylight of our days."
"We do not ask you to come with us," Kili said, between the sounds of the hammer. "If we fail to kill Smaug, your people will lose nothing except maybe a few legends… and as you said, legends do not walk this good earth. If we win, then our peoples both will return home from Exile. All we ask for is a little time and maybe your good wishes."
And there was it again… he had felt that before with Thorin, and now with his sons again. Bard's mind had doubts, reason and experience telling him that it could not be done. But his heart whispered that this Dwarven King was the legend they had been waiting for, that Thorin would not try if he had no chance. And his son… he held the same fire, if they only asked, Bard would go with them and dare the Dragon and it frightened him more than any other foe, or even the dark things from Dol Guldur would. "You will always have the good wishes of my people, Prince Kili," he replied. "You and all your family."
ADL
The same night the Master of Lake Town held a meeting of quite different proportions in his house. He had entertained messengers before, but never before had he entertained the envoy of the Iron Hills at the same time as a messenger from Mirkwood, and never in all their lives they had agreed on one person: Thorin Oakenshield. This uncrowned dwarf king was seemingly no little trouble, and while the messenger from the Iron Hills feigned concern over the peace of the lands and Thorin's state of mind, the Elven Envoy was here to speak of the clear intentions his people held towards these dwarves.
The Master was no stupid man, he could see many options in what was transpiring here. And it was true that Thorin had only few warriors with him. Once the dragon was out of the picture… should something happen to them the vast riches of Erebor would be ripe for the taking. "I cannot do much against him… at least not until the dragon is off my back." He explained to the elf. "But once that is done… provided the Iron Hills withhold any support for Thorin Oakenshield, I will gladly aid his demise."
The elven envoy was satisfied with that, the army would need time to march, either way, he even promised to reopen the trade route through Mirkwood if the Master of Lake-Town honored their deal. The envoy of the Iron Hills stroked his beard, betraying a kinsman was a serious accusation, but… they already had told Thorin that they would not support his quest. They could stand by that and ignore all pleas for aid without being traitors. Both of them left satisfied and the Master smiled, if he played his hand right, it would bring Lake Town a new age of trade and prosperity, along with a share of the famed hoard under the Mountain.
ADL
Morning came and the fire in the forge still burned in white flame. Two weapons lay glowing on the anvil, one a greatsword and the other a warhammer. They had been heated in flame and cooled with blood, reheated in red hot fire and cooled in water and now they glowed in white hot flame and with all the power wrought into them only tears would cool them. Kili stood at the anvil, his skin scorched and marked with sooth and ash, but he felt more alive than he had during their travel downriver. He knew what he needed, purposefully he closed his eyes, making himself think of the pale one, of the dreams… facing it on directly, no shying away, no further evading all that he had lived through in the nightmare. He choked, a sob rising in his throat, a dry, hot sob, but he did not allow himself to look away, he forced himself to relive it, to see it again. The tears came; hot and painful they touched the glowing weapons and with a hiss evaporated. No river of tears would truly cool a weapon but these sealed the powers wrought in the hot metal and cooling them. Kili did not cry long, with every tear vaporizing loudly on the weapons the pain lifted, until he could look at his fears, at the pale one, coldly. He breathed deeply, putting both weapons into the barrel to cool fully.
Asbiorn watched awed, he did not know where the dwarf had gone to summon the tears to finish his impressive work. But it had been a dark place, he could see that. But now, as Kili put both weapons before him for inspection, the dwarf was calm and steady again. Carefully examining both weapons, he could not help but marvel. "If that is the work of a youth, then I would not dare ask what your father could do." He said awed, this one, Prince Thorin, probably could make blades that would go down in history.
Fili and Kili exchanged a small smile, they both knew what Thorin could do, only that he rarely did go all out and allowed the fire to work through him like this. "Which one do you wish to keep?" Kili asked.
The question brought Asbiorn back to their agreement of the previous evening. He had not expected that good a result. "Do they have names?" he asked. "I know many a weapon will be named after battle… but I have feeling that you know the names of these, their traits?"
"Fearbringer," Kili's eyes pointed to the sword, "and Stormcaller," he indicated the hammer.
"I will keep Fearbringer," Asbiorn decided, not knowing knew what the future may bring. Whether he would ever sell that blade, or whether it would be the sword Bard might need to retake Dale.
Kili took Stormcaller, he had to use both hands to lift the heavy warhammer. Fili had gathered up the weapons he had repaired and sharpened. "I think I know whom you had in mind when you made this, little brother." He said with a wink.
"Aye," Kili agreed. "There is only one for such a weapon, but how to make him accept it without muddling things hopelessly?" He leaned the weapon against the wall for a moment and went to the forge again, gently his hand touched the flames, they seemed to dance on his arm, and then burned all the brighter, even as the coal was long gone. Turning to Asbiorn Kili bowed. "Thank you for permitting me into your smithy, Master Asbiorn," he said. "I hope one day to see you return to Dale." He took the Hammer again and together the brothers walked out of the forge.
Asbiorn looked long after them as their figures vanished down the street into the morning dusk. He did not believe in stories and legends… no King of old had ever come back to rescue his kingdom from dismay. It did not happen in this world, but… but he found believed in one House returning to free their Kingdom. Fate strike him, he did believe.
Author's Notes
Timeline: As already said in another chapter, I am working with a shortened timeline, so the dragon was only for about 120 years at Erebor. Bard as approximately 40 in the story.
Thanks to Harrylee94, who always is patient with me and keeps up with my crazy ideas. HUGS