CHAPTER X: Of Dwarves and Drakes

It could have been that the Greagoir was pleased, or perhaps he was merely tired, but the master offered only a relatively few amendments to the tale while the apprentice recited (relatively few, that is, fifty rather than a hundred edits); then he fell asleep. Tatya stoked the slowly dying embers of the fire, and then threw another log on to rid himself of the pre-dawn chill. Covering himself in a sheepskin, he curled up by the hearth and began to nod. The master would soon be awakened by the sun on his face, and then demand to be taken outside for his 'morning constitutional' (if anything, the master was regular). Greagoir was still robust for his age and walked briskly with the aid of an ominous-looking black staff, supposedly a gift from a wizard named Pallando (although Tatya was never quite sure if he was serious); but on excessively rainy or cold days he was near lame (with a mood to match the foul weather), and got about haltingly with a pronounced limp in his step. As sleep finally overtook Tatya he wished he had accompanied his master on some of his high adventures, for the apprentice secretly yearned to set out and explore that wondrous world that could be only seen now through Greagoir's blind eyes; unfortunately, that was no longer possible.

Later that morning, while Tatya was doing his chores (as an indentured apprentice, he not only was assistant scrivener, but chopped wood, milked goats, made cheese and tended the garden), Greagoir, who was humming contentedly (there wasn't a cloud in the sky), called his apprentice in from pulling weeds from around the turnips. "Tatya, let that damnable garden be," the master said with a mock-scowl, "I despise turnips anyway!"

Greagoir tapped his staff in front of him, and carefully made his way to a weather-beaten wooden chair that sat in rickety neglect on the front stoop. Finding his seat with an arduous grunt, the master exclaimed, "Tatya, the tale of the Dark Elves was a tonic for my tired, old bones! Forget your chores and let us continue where we left off last night."

Tatya grinned with relief and ran to fetch his quill and parchment, and also the book of the Dark Elves lying on the master's bed. He might dislike recitation, but it was a sight better than being stabbed by thorny weeds and being eaten alive by blueflies. Besides, it was a beautiful day to do nothing, and transcribing the master's works out in the bright sunshine really was not work at all. Tatya took a seat on the stoop, but before beginning he propped his master's feet up on a stool (the master tended to doze more quickly while reclining). With his nefarious preparations complete, the apprentice took up the book and read:

Many seasons of peaceful obscurity passed for the Elves of the Sidhe in their mountain fastness. Perhaps it was that Sauron believed he had destroyed the Elves of Cuifhiainan on the frozen peaks of the Orruacarnais, or it may have been the remoteness of their location, hidden as they were in the impassable wilds of the northeast; whatever the case, the Sidhe were gratefully forgotten, thriving and secretly laying the foundations for a mighty enclave in the forested vales of the great Red Range. In that time, their realm extended to the unpopulated high-plains of Hildorien where they herded the wild scions of Naihaer Gan Athair, the immortal stallion of Araugh the Hunter, and a remarkable bond of friendship grew between the Elves and the horses.

When those Elves who were but infants during the flight from Cuifhiainan had grown to full stature, the Sidhe first noted with disdain the arrival of the stunted folk, the Dwarves, or the Khazad as they called themselves, who began delving their vast mansions in the central regions of the Orruacarnais. The Elves did not begrudge the Dwarves their dank and dreary halls, for the Sidhe made no claim on the region of the mountains where the Dwarves had chosen to live. Nevertheless, the Elves were mistrusting of these dark, secretive folk, with their strange tales of Mahal the Maker, a Bailard who is said to have formed the fathers of Dwarves from clay and spittle, and more so since, like Morgadh's evil minions, the Dwarves lived underground. Yet for all their misgivings, the Elves did not harry or harass the Dwarves, preferring to watch and ware instead. The Dwarves, for their part, cared little for the doings of the Sidhe, for they hated the trees and the forests, and they did not much care for the tall and sorcerous-seeming Elves either. So an uneasy peace ensued, with neither race having anything whatsoever to do with the other.

But while the Elves and Dwarves clung stubbornly to a creed of blessed segregation, others there were who disturbed their splendid indifference. Of Men, little was known, for they tended to avoid the forbidding mountains, choosing to travel across the wide expanses of the Hildorien plains to the south of the Orruacarnais. In large tribes or clans they came, heading ever westward; but little could Men recall of their origins, for a darkness clouded their memories. But the Elves treated Men more kindly than they did the Dwarves, for the Firstborn and the Aftercomers were much alike, and Men were not yet as faithless as they eventually would become.

And the Dark Elves took pity on the tribes of Men they chanced to meet, huddled, starving, and fearful of the night. The Elves fed and clothed these wandering bands, and taught them what speech the sickly race could understand. But these first Men were ever driven by a yearning to continue on westward, which suited the Elves fine, as they had no wish for competing kingdoms rising along their borders; therefore, the Elves treated these bands of wayward Men hospitably, but they continued to point them southwestward, to Altan dul Anoir, the great mountain pass the Elves had discovered in earlier explorations.

So it was that Men continued to pass from the East in endless migrations, in search of what, they knew not; but they made no permanent homes along the foreboding Orruacarnais. Out of the West, however, there came a terrible swarm of invaders that settled in the mountains, and caused much woe among Elves and Dwarves alike. For the West of Middle-earth was in a constant state of warfare, fed, no doubt, by the continuous influx of Men from the East; and ever did Morgadh assail the sundered Elves of the West in his quest for complete domination. But such were the fortunes of war that Morgadh's legions would sometimes be utterly routed, and his creatures driven far and wide.

It was in this long age of upheaval that the Dragons first descended like a plague on the Orruacarnais. Of the dragons, there were three orders, each a lethal variant in Morgadh's ongoing and vile breeding schemes: the oldest and most numerous of the dragon clans were the Drochanail Nathrach, the Worms, flightless serpents of great size and cunning; next, the Dragunaerog Colg-Draiochts, or Cold-drakes, of all the orders the darkest bane of the mountains, were winged serpents with poisonous venom; and last, the Draguntine Morgoradh, massive bat-winged Fire-drakes, the greatest but by far the least numerous of the dragons, whose progeny came to brood in the Orruacarnais only after Morgadh's final and utter defeat.

For many centuries the peril grew unabated, as the threat lay yet undiscovered; for the dragons chose to make their lairs on the western slopes of the mountains, where, after the rape of Cuifhiainan, the Elves never ventured again. So too, the dragons were still embroiled in the wars of Morgadh, and must ever answer the summons of the Dark Lord when need pressed him; therefore, the dragon clans had little interest in the lands east of the mountains, and it was not in their lazy nature to tax themselves overmuch with such a daunting flight above the towering spires of the Orruacarnais. But the Dwarves, whose great gates faced to the west, first felt the brunt of the dragon's fierce envy. For dragons have a voracious lust for gold, greedily hoarding all they can amass or steal, and since they neither mine nor seek to make an honest living, theft is their primary method for acquiring wealth. Thus the dragons, having heard rumor of the treasuries of the Eastern Dwarves, scaled up and down the mountainside, plundering many of the lesser manses of the minor Houses of Dwarves, and driving off or devouring the inhabitants.

But the dragons were repelled at the great iron gates of the Dwarvish halls of the Mountain King, whose greed for gold was no less than the dragons, and who was in no mood to lightly surrender his hoard into the hands of these roguish scavengers. Although the Blacklock Dwarves of the East eventually proved themselves to be lesser sons of greater sires in ages to come, they were still a formidable force in ancient times, and with their war-axes and heat-impervious masks, they stubbornly stood their ground. The DwarvenKing was prideful, and was loathe to ask for aid, but the love for his gold soon overcame the love of his dignity. With the situation becoming direr every day, the DwarvenKing at last decided to send an embassy to the Dark Elves. The DwarvenKing's mansion was vast, stretching all the way through to the further side of the mountain; thus the Dwarvish embassy essayed out from secret gates on the eastern slopes of the Orruacarnais, and headed north to the hidden vales of the Sidhe.

The Dark Elves wondered greatly at seeing a troop of Dwarves marching in great haste towards their forest realm. The Elvish Marchwardens were none too gentle in their questioning of these intruders, but little could the Elves understand of the Dwarves' guttural tongue, for the stunted folk were gruff in both speech and manner. But the Sidhe Lord was of kinder disposition in those days, and he commanded his border guards to allow them entrance into his domain, fearing that only the gravest news would send the Dwarves hence on any errand.

And MorThoiriol rode out to meet them, thereby lessening the bitterness the Dwarves felt for their rough handling by the Marchwardens. The Sidhe Lord had the Firstborn's gift of speech, and after slow and careful discussion with the Dwarves, he amazed them all by readily speaking in Khuzdul, which is the unlovely tongue of the Dwarves. Now, MorThoiriol had never seen nor heard of a dragun 'ere that moment, but by the Dwarves' animated descriptions and the fear in their voices, he knew the threat to be real and the Dwarves' imminent destruction a certainty. Realizing how easily these draguns had overcome the war-like Dwarves, the Sidhe Lord also shrewdly surmised that if he did not aid the Dwarves in their time of need, what then would stop these draguns from coming over the mountain and routing out all the woodland settlements of the Elves?

Having come to this conclusion, the Sidhe Lord answered the Dwarves, "The enemies of my enemy I account as allies, and perhaps friends, if that should be thy choosing. Tell the DwarvenKing that the Sidhe Lord offers strength of arms to aid the Dwarrow-folk in ridding the mountains of these vile creatures of Morgadh."

The Dwarves looked at each other in surprise, unnerved by the unexpected generosity and noble bearing of the Elvish Prince, and they bowed so low as to sweep their beards to the ground. The leader of the embassy replied, "Honor bestowed brings honor in return! For your ready aid and gracious manner, noble Elf-lord, we Dwarrow-folk pledge bonds of eternal friendship to you and your kin."

Lord Thoiriol smiled and nodded in recognition, but with foresight answered thus: "Ever shall we accept a bond of fraternity, friend-Dwarf, but speak not an immortal vow lest ye plan to live as long as the Sidhe!"

MorThoiriol called forth a great riding of the Sidhe, and they passed southward to the eastern gates of the DwarvenKing's halls. Loathe at first were the Elves to follow the Dwarves down into their underground manse, but many of the Elves were pleasantly surprised upon entering the Dwarrow: instead of dank caverns, they beheld a light and airy space with very high ceilings, and smooth walls, with buttresses and columns richly carved. The DwarvenKing came to meet the Sidhe Lord with great pomp and flattery and the giving of gifts, but after the customary prerequisites of noble welcome had been dispensed with, a great debate ensued between the two sovereigns regarding the proper prosecution of the war. It was MorThoiriol's considered opinion that the fight must be taken to the dragons: that the beasts should be hunted in their lairs, and their broods found and destroyed; the DwarvenKing, however, preferred combat of a more defensive nature, with his fortifications buttressed by the archers of the Elves, for at this early period in their history the Dwarves were not adept with the bow. But MorThoiriol wanted no part in a protracted siege that might prove ruinous, and would certainly keep the Dark Elves too long from home.

In the end, the DwarvenKing acquiesced somewhat to MorThoiriol's battle plans, lest his kin brand him a coward; MorThoriol, meanwhile, proposed a more limited engagement, with further offensives to commence based on the success of the first attack. The Dark Elves marched out of the Dwarves' western gate, and blackened the sky with great volleys of arrows. Such was their skill that they aimed exclusively for the dragon's most vulnerable regions, their eyes, mouths, and the soft areas on either side of their breastplates underneath their forearms. In those Elder Days, the dragons were not of full stature, as the serpents of Morgadh required long ages to reach full maturity; nor had they yet accrued the impenetrable horny scale on their underbellies, and thus the stunned dragons reeled from the stinging salvos. Many dropped wounded along the bloody slopes of the mountains, where they were met by the fell axes of the Dwarves, who hewed them where they laid. The Cold-drakes were dismayed to find their ancient enemies, the Elves, pouring forth from the mountains in such great numbers, for they had only previously come upon scattered Avari, the solitary Elves, this far east; but being creatures of cunning, the Cold-drakes had enough sensibility to realize they had been outmaneuvered, and quickly flew to inaccessible peaks far out of bow range.

The Worms were unable to duplicate the Cold-drakes' aerial retreat, and neither could they escape with speed, so they stubbornly advanced with demonic ferocity upon the Elves and Dwarves, who retreated before the dragons' withering attack. Twas there, before the very gates of the DwarvenKing, a great Worm named Baolrunga met MorThoiriol, the Sidhe Lord, in single combat. Thinking he could overawe the Dark Elf with his sheer size, Baolrunga rose to his full height in the manner of a great snake about to strike, but MorThoiriol was undaunted by such a tactic of fear. The Sidhe Lord staved off Baolrunga's initial lunge with his shield, although it was shivered in two from the brutal impact; yet as the haughty Worm reared for a second strike, MorThoiriol buried his spear between a chink in the great serpent's scales. Baolrunga bellowed in pain and inchoate fury, lunging and snapping at the Sidhe Lord like a rabid dog, but the deep wound in his belly left him unable to rise again. Fearlessly, MorThoiriol leaped atop the prone dragon's head, and with all his might drove his spear into the unarmored muscle between Baolrunga's neck and the base of his skull, killing the exposed beast instantly. The Elves and Dwarves, taking heart from the Sidhe Lord's masterful display, chased the remaining Worms and slew them mercilessly wherever they slithered. Soon the carcasses of dragons great and small were strewn up and down the mountainside.

But such a great victory had unseen costs, for the clannish dragons are vengeful creatures, never forgiving and never forgetting. And although the Elves and Dwarves continued to hunt out the lairs of the beasts along the length and breadth of the north and central Orruacarnais, the Cold Drakes removed further to the south, beyond the realms of the two kindreds; and some flew back to Anghabann with the news of a great host of Elves in the East. Hearing of this stunning defeat, the immense Firedrakes bitterly cursed this Black Eagle, this Morthoron, as they assumed he was called in the Elvish tongue of the West, and made vows to the eternal darkness that they would avenge their fallen kin. But worst of all, the rumors came to Sauron himself, who gloated over the tidings in the undying malice of his black thought. He would be patient in planning the Dark Elves' destruction. He would bide his time; for such an immortal evil has time in endless measure.