The company silenced its doubts and contradictions by focusing on action. Gandalf urged them to leave the unhealthy gut. They walked for long hours, pursued by rumors of their own fears that seemed to revive the ravenous hatred of the Dead. Every moment Gerry believed he perceived the stealthy sound of feeble limbs on the stone behind them. Her hair ruffling, Bera walked at the rear guard, her ax in hand. Finally a stream of fresh air told them that the exit was near. They came out in the open, under a starry sky, washed by a cold breeze blowing from the north. The Dúnedain appraised they had moved some eight miles to the north-west, as the crow flies.
Thráin ordered a campsite should be found. Arathorn sent his men to search the area, but they returned without having located any suitable site nearby. Furthermore they had found indications that goblins had passed nearby. Gerry pointed out that the armory located near the exit of the tunnel was probably the safest place. Therefore the company installed there for the night, not allowing any fire. The mounts were aligned in the tunnel and guards were maintained at both extremities. The night passed slowly, the whole company trying to sleep in vain. The alleged proximity of Barum-Nahal made the Dwarves febrile and restless. The Dúnedain slept with one eye open, because of the goblins traces, while Bera was burning with impatience to decimate them. Only our Hobbit seemed to have reasonable anxiety and melancholy feelings. Meanwhile Gandalf was brooding distant and inaccessible plans, and was becoming increasingly moody as the relationship between Arathorn and Thràin was deteriorating.
Dawn came suddenly, cold and sharp. Nàr and Hirgon braved together the bite of the gray hour, wrapped in their blankets and searching the darkness around. Frerin had watched the ponies at the bottom of the tunnel; he had escaped the icy wind but not the pestilential rumors of the Dead. The guards shook themselves and beheld the Misty Mountains.
A high plateau displayed its chaotic mounds all around. From the outside, the exit of their tunnel could not be discerned from the few graves lined hillside. The rugged moorland burst into purple as heathers opened in the morning sun. Some spots of ferns dotted with touches of soft green, the gray pink sandstone beaten by the weather. The shades projected by huge blocks of gneiss striated of anthracite, remained worrisome, but the mounts were particularly grateful to leave the depths.
Arathorn asked Thráin for permission to send his scouts ahead of them. The goal was certainly not orientation, since a large conical mountain blocked up the horizon to the west. The Dwarves made their devotions discovering Barum-Nahal, while the Dúnedain, Bera and Gerry were exploring the area. After two hours of searching, Arathorn had enough information to build a map of the area. He presented his findings to Thráin under the dark look of Gandalf, whom this goodwill made suspicious.
As the wizard insisted, Arathorn explained the discovery of Bera: the eastern edge of the plateau they had reached, had suffered major fractures. One of them, especially deep, provided access to the valley leading to Fram's road. Still a path had to be cleared and the scree was to be consolidated to allow passage for the Dwarves, then expanded and strengthened for the mounts. By means of this huge work, this discovery opened to the Dwarves the prospect of an easier communication line with the Iron Mountains, avoiding the haunted underground. These revelations were received with joy, despite Arathorn's repeated exhortations of caution.
After much discussion and arbitration of Gandalf, the company decided to join a series of tiny lakes which line ran from East to West, South of the exit of the path of the dead. They slowly hobbled in deep coombes, often marshy, sometimes losing track of the river to find it a few miles ahead, in the form of a long pristine lake. Heather then gave way to large bogs, where the Dúnedain could shoot some rabbits.
The companions stopped for a hopeful lunch. The mountain approached, perfect cone streaked with black and gray cast. Its snowy summit was lost in a persistent fog that a wind from the North dishevelled without dispersing. While the Dwarves reveled in roasted snow hare, contemplating Barum-Nahal, some allowed themselves to discuss how they would benefit from the victory and would enjoy their share of the treasure. Gandalf appreciated the attempt to cheer up the atmosphere, but that was rather rough, and even little Gerry noticed the subterfuge. But Màr had questioned each of them.
Barin surprised no one by announcing he would run the inn under the mountain. He detailed the delicacies he would indulge distant visitors with, inspired by elven and Bearning dishes.
- « ... And you will call your inn: 'The Elven Cutlery'! », Launched Bafur. The company benevolently laughed. Riding the wave of good humor, the old Màr encouraged everyone to express, in order to mobilize his people for the incoming goal:
-« Well, what would I do at Barum-Nahal? I think I will finally complete my project of triple blast furnace. The temperature will be perfect to revive the steel that sings of our fathers. And you, Norin?
- I hope to find, the secret ointment of Dùrin in the heart of Barum-Nahal.
- What about you, Forin?
- My workshop will smith golden tiaras and silver ewers, which will be the pride of our kingdom!
- And Bafur?
- I shall crimp gemstones, animated with a living glitter, in my cousins' jewel artwork !
- …and what will our skilled Fràr indulge in? »
The archer's cheeks reddened with a carmine almost as sharp as his cap. Pushed by his brother, he replied:
-« It seems our duty to populate our colony with young Dwarven girls. We believe Mîm could be decided to join us...
- You're so good at devoting yourself to the common cause!, cried Frerin. You have in no way indicated that you asked her for wife!
- To be precise, she agreed to marry both of us, Gràr and I, provided we become rich! »
Bold and loud laughter of the Dwarven companions rang out in front of the puzzled and confused Dùnedain. This time the company was brimming with a joy it had not experienced for a long time.
It should be noted here that few Dwarves ever took the marriage vows. More than half of them are content with a life of travel or work. Forge or chisel gratify Dwarves with joys of creativity and success, better than would passion of love. Dwarven women never show in public, so the absurd legend that Dwarves are spontaneously born among the rose-gems, is still widely believed. But truth is that Dwarves live most of their passion in the creation and control of what rock offers them. Dwarven women, so few, are sometimes to marry several Dwarves. However this practice is rather more tolerated than encouraged. Often derided with sympathy, it was never allowed in the direct royal line. This practice does not cause any estate difficulty, especially when spouses are brothers, which was the case of Gràr and Fràr.
-« And you, Mr. Took, are you getting married? », Màr bounced, hoping to include step by step the Dúnedain in the conversation.
Our Hobbit protested, arguing that picking among so many delightful Hobbit-girls left him undecided. In addition, his gallantry formally forbade him to do so many unhappy girls. Dwarves recognized the bluster and laughed harder. Some were surprised that beauty could be a criterion for choosing a bride - health, lineage honorability and fortune seemed to them much more serious and defensible motives. But Gerry glimpsed the wrinkled brow of the wizard behind a pipeweed cloud. So he tried to change the subject. To remain on the topic of marriage and involve the audience, he told the story of Miss Primrose, the younger daughter of good family from the Marish.
-« The petulant young Hobbit girl was courted by the two prominent bachelors in the East Farthing – and even in the whole young Shire, since one of the two candidates was none other than the heir of the Oldbuck clan. It turns out the two contenders had a rather pleasant face, they were over-confident about it and hated each other heartily. Miss Primrose, who much enjoyed this outbid of gallantry, gifts, surprises and poems, had them dally until her majority.
Meanwhile the opponents indulged in all kinds of covert businesses, alternating small commercial sham, intimidation and smear campaigns. Each family of the Shire had come to side with his "champion." By dint of hate and fighting on all possible grounds, the two lovers finally lost sight of their goal. Their life had turned into a battle for supremacy, for the sake of which they committed all kinds of meannesses.
Miss Primrose, feeling abandoned and finaly wishing to marry neither one nor the other, finally gave her hand to a third one, who is none other than Gerontius Took's forefather. This decision was certainly the cause of the departure of the Oldbucks for Buckland, abandoning the prestigious function of Thain, to the benefit of my own family. »
A respectful silence greeted the end of the tale. The story had first entertained the Dwarves and the Dùnedain. But the end seemed prescient to them. Only young Bera and old Gandalf smiled discreetly. The wisest in the audience, or at least those whose wisdom exceeded their pride, bowed their heads, stirring resolutions of reason. Màr tried to resume his tour of wishes, but the atmosphere was gone. The wizard, squinting with laughter, assessed the effects of the Hobbit's parable, on the two people it had not explicitely named. Arathorn and Thràin finished their meal, each apart. Then Gandalf's eyes became vague. The short story had induced an idea, strange but tenacious, the wizard decided to examine carefully and methodically. He entrenched himself behind a thick cloud of smoke and began to weigh his discovery with an absorbed air.
When the meal was completed, the company resumed its arduous journey among the bogs. After two other miles, Gandalf, Arathorn and Thráin made a detour to explore where Ingold had found the goblins traces.
They approached the coomb cautiously. It seemed that a squad of Gundabad orcs had been ambushed by a rival gang. Arathorn prevented his companions to disturb the signs, and ventured into the ravine, looking to the ground. The defenders had been cut to pieces. Most showed signs of burns, and some bodies had been cut in pieces and scattered. The Dùnadan was surprised that no trace of escape from the coomb was visible. Noting the remains of dead bodies all belonged to the same tribe, he hypothesized that the shooters had decimated by throwing flaming projectiles on troops that were too heavily armed to maneuver at the bottom of the ravine. Unconvinced by his own theory, he hailed his companions:
- « This killing is three days old at most. No goblin came back here later. These bodies belong to a band which den is several nights of running, North of here. There are no casualties among the attackers, which I find very disturbing. If an orc chief was cunning enough to beat his rivals and become a warlord, and proved able to coordinate such effective attacks, the free peoples of Rhudaur and the northern valley of the Anduin would soon fall to him! Furthermore powerful fire weapons were used, and perhaps spells of the enemy! You can get off! » He said to Gandalf and Thràin.
When they were close, he continued:
-« What do you think about these injuries, Gandalf? Could these be firewars of Angmar? Or a wild animal? Or...
- I've never seen anything like this since the elder days, the wizard whispered, sincerely worried. But it does not seem plausible to me to imagine a dragon, if that is what you have in mind.
- So how do you explain these steps? » Asked Arathorn.
A footprint could be seen under a burnt body. The body was moved. There was a clear but only partial print of a big paw, with three crooked fingers, about two palms large. Arathorn carefully explored the area, but the ground was too dry and the track too old. Thus he discovered only several traces, he could still follow on less than a mile, after which they were lost in rubbles of gneiss towards the mountain.
Gandalf, puzzled, dismissed the hypothesis of a Great Eagle: the animal would not have attacked its prey at the bottom of such a deep ravine, surrounded by trees, and would not have moved on land over such a long distance. The only animal that could fit this footprint did not live in the north.
Suddenly a quick cackling was heard behind a thicket along with a soft wrinkling. Arathorn drew his longsword in pure reflex while Thráin adopted a defense position and Gandalf raised his staff.
Two small thrushes hobbled under a bush of broom, swinging their tail. Thráin exclaimed with hope:
-« Once there used to be ancient species of intelligent and faithful birds around the Lonely Mountain. Perhaps the line of Dùrin will have the chance to meet representatives of these noble races? »
But the thrushes took flight to perch, one on Gandalf's shoulder, the other on Arathorn's raised fist. The great Dwarf had believed for a moment these birds were an encouraging sign, some unexpected omen; he scowled when Arathorn flattered the small bird which had approached from time to time throughout their journey. A little apart, Gandalf was vigorously cackling with his bird, perched now on the end of his staff. The trio, shaken by their discovery, joined the company that struggled to a hillside of heather. A tacit agreement bound them immediately: the doubts that arose during their exploration should not weaken their companions' kick.
The thrushes had already gone for discrete scouting. The companions and their pack animals progressed to the mountain, close enough now to distinguish the irregularities of the gray cone. The lower part flared like a duchess gray dress, spreading on the grass of her park. The plateau became more rugged, close to the mountain, and slowly rose up to its lower slopes. Soon Arathorn's bird twirled again around the Dùnadan, who charged Hirgon with a fast race. When the ranger came back a few hours later, he proposed to alter their track to a route that seemed to lead to the mountain.
Thràin and Gandalf hesitated a moment in the waning evening. Their progress was slow but quiet so far. Arathorn cast a wry look at the Dwarves, muddy and tired, struggling to run their mules in a spongy field:
-« I think we had better find a shelter for the night. Our strength declines with the day. You will take a more informed decision in the light of the morning. »
Gandalf endorsed that opinion. The Dwarf even took it upon himself to nod, brooding his resentment towards the Dùnadan, who indeed had not given up command.
The troops settled at the bottom of a ravine, sheltered from the North wind. They allowed two small fires for the night, that promised winter temperatures. The Dwarves took fur coats out of their packages and set oilcloth tents in a few moments. The Hobbit admired this organization and this energy against the elements. Dúnedain showed equally competent, but their lore was more about hiding and melting in the elements.
- « Dwarves take a stand, Dùnedain bypass! », said Gerry, wrapped in blankets from Rivendell.
He was slow to regain his senses when Gilhael and Krorin came and awoke him for his shift.
When he fell asleep, the moon showed a thin nascent crescent, barely discernable. Now the coomb was covered by darkness that only the flickering red ashes could pierce. Dùring the night, a cloud ceiling, low and dense, seemed to have formed. The Hobbit revived the fires and posted himself as usual, on a small hillock sheltered by a bush. The storm broke an hour before dawn, triggering cataracts that swept down the bottom of the ravine. The troops had no choice but to gather their belongings and hobble in the direction suggested by the rangers. After two hours of an exhausting battle against the storm, they finally reached a paved, rutted, slippery and unstable place, but that seemed to them infinitely more sustainable than the slimy bogs they had just left. Dawn was certainly drilled behind the curtain of rain, since they saw each other. However the company had to stand there for two hours longer, until Hirgon and Ingold found Barin and Norin, who had lost in the dark storm.
It was decided to move forward no matter what, since the troops' morale was dropping alarmingly while standing in heavy rain. Gandalf took his famous remedy and distributed the cordial of Imladris. The Hobbit, perched on a pony and invigorated by the precious drink, nibbled a little something, more for to the feeling of a solid food than for its effects on his fighting ability. A pony was suffering from posterior limb; its charge was divided between Dwarves and ponies. Despite Frerin and Ingold's care, it was progressing much too slowly. The pair remained at rearguard along with Bera, while the main body walked ahead faster, without discerning any sign of progression around them. The paved road sometimes disappeared, but the road still facilitated the passage. Twice they had to descend to the bottom of a flooded ravine because the old stone bridge had been destroyed, but overall, they advanced, without realizing it, at a much higher speed than in the moors.
Some encouraging clearings petered out during the day, the rain taking over again. When brightness declined again, the group saw on its left, a bank of heather come out of the fog, strewn with stones either raised or fallen. Their Dwarf warrior form sported helmet and coat, ax in hand. Their beards were cut in three braided strands, that silently dripped on heather. Suddenly the slope faded into a wide and dark opening. Without even consulting, the companions rushed into the providential shelter. Gandalf made a little light. A pack of wolves had once made its den out of the great room. Nothing was left now but a few calcined pelts. Nàr said it was an outpost, a sentry guarding the access road. The "gate" - the dimensions of which still were around three or four poles, was searched, but the Dwarves discovered only some alcoves and looted reserves. Thráin meant to restore some luster to the guardhouse, and ordered to clean it thoroughly. At the entrance, a small broken gargoyle poured rainwater into a cracked pool. After carefully cleaning the premises thanks to a fire concocted by Gandalf, the excited Dwarves were quick to brush, scrape, scrub, scour, sweep and wash every inch of the floor and walls, repairing, straightening and re-caulking here and there as they could.
Finally rain stopped during the night. Shortly before dawn, the troops' sleep was disturbed by howls of wolves, which came from the Southeast. They saw Frerin and Ingold coming, pulling a pony that rolled its eyes in terror. Furtive shadows slipped away when torches showed out of the guardhouse. Ingold explained that they had long walked as slowly as required the state of the pony, he had provided with a splint. The rain had stopped for about an hour, when a hungry pack of wolves had given chase. Luckily, Bera had been able to light torches with her burning coal, which had certainly saved them from a horrible death. In the gaze of the Bearning, still smoldered the heat of battle and her hatred for wolf hordes. They nursed the wounds of their brave rearguard and waited for the morning.
X-X-X
Dawn exceeded all their expectations. Dark clouds broke up just as the sun rose on the eastern horizon. The mountain appeared to them in its virginal splendor, its streaks of black and gray rocks shining beneath the slanting rays. Heathland sub-slopes ablazed with changing malachite, quartz and amethyst lights. The huge conical mass sparkled like a giant jewel washed by the rain. The top disposed an instant of its misty panache, revealing its delicate white petals of arum inclined towards the South. The central hollow glowed with a soft flickering light reminding celestite. It seemed to the Dwarves that the cottony cradle of their whole race was revealed to them in the original splendor of the morning of the world. But soon a clear plume covered the top of the mountain, and spread on its sides, that sported powerful shoulders, streaked with milky marble and dark obsidian. A spur leant against the middle of the cone and ran down to the limit of the fir trees, then split up into a large chevron, in the lap of which bloomed a pleasant valley. A large stag crossed the road swelling out its chest, before its court of does and fearful fawns. The animal paused in the middle of the track, put his proud look on the company, and jumped in the wake of his kin.
A swift river rustled between fir trees and heather, spreading in the hearts the joy of its singing, and sowing in the looks the delight of its diamond sparkling. The warbling of a multicolored fauna filled the musky air with the promises of summer. The Dwarves remained a long time frozen in ecstasy, some kneeling, all speechless. Even big Barin stopped eating while mist slowly rose from thickets bathed in warm rays.
Thràin was the last to exit the guardroom. He stopped shivering. As he set foot on the edge of the valley, she appeared, his mountain, dream of the Dwarves of any lineage, with her slides and her terraces, her sources under the mulberry trees, her bogs dress, her heather necklace and tulle shoulders, wrapped in blue fumaroles, as a mother festively dressed, sitting at the edge of the sky waiting for her son. 1 He felt the big hammer of Dùrin pass through his heart! He had no legs any more, but of smoke, and that could not withstand the sheer weight of his rustling head. He had to rely on a leaning effigy. This mount had given birth to his forefathers. Fragments of memories abounded in flash "not too old,... the road is eaten by moors, the forests have grown... is the door still wide open?...". He slowly slid down to the soft grass, no longer in control of his limbs: the sheer force of his life hastened to his head and leant at the windows of his eyes, gazing at his mountain. The immeasurable mass, transfigured in the shaking air of the morning, overwhelmed him with tender reproaches:
-« Here you are, Lad, she said, you come so late! »
Pain, as vast as the sky, cracked Thràin's chest, anguish closed his throat. A tear weighing at the corner of his eye rolled, hard as a rock. It left a deep furrow on his cheek and came, bitter, melt in the crease of his lips. Another tear fell, then another, a whole source was carrying diamonds and little by little, this fluid stroke melt the salt of pain.
-« Is it really you?, asked the montain. I have watched this dark road for long, and I have been listening to the horn of the Dead. You come so late! »
Thráin overlooked the years of wandering and shame, the servitude in foreign lands, the bitterness of exile. The company, touched by grace, looked at the mountain that reached out her brazen arms to her re-born children.
- « You come so late! But is it still time for you? »
The mountain was looking at the Dwarves with a nostalgic and incredulous smile, as a grandmother contemplates her descendants, steeped in her past history and dubious about the pages to be written.
- « Your sons are back and will revive your blooming lap. », Thràin greeted, his face radiant and his heart washed.
Gandalf's thoughts traveled in happier times, while the subdued Dùnedain silently respected the emotion of their comrades. Noticing the bliss of young Bera, our Hobbit conceived a strange thought. Any fate could befall him, now that he had contemplated the mother of the mountains and shared the fleeting feeling of rebirth. It seemed to him that the Dwarves' reward entirely held in this moment. But soon his instinct for cozy comfort resurfaced. He expected the Dwarves to rush after that moment of reverence; thus he gathered his belongings and found with a frown that his food reserves would not last long.
Nàr, the dean of the troops, went gasping to the luggage and pulled out, with his old shaky hands, a small package wrapped in tissue paper. He awkwardly untied the string and, straightened up wobbling, hobbled to Thràin. The Dwarf lord ceremoniously received the fabric and displayed it: a golden crown topped with silver stars overlooked a hammer striking an anvil on a black field.
Gandalf chose a hunting spear and fixed the standard. Màr took it, held it up, and shouted a warrior march, which the Dwarves, suddenly galvanized, chanted while getting ready. They armed themselves for war and loaded the packets on their backs. Lined by two, they already marched the cobblestone road in quick time, in an exhilarating atmosphere of reconquest. The Dúnedain barely had time to place the mounts on line and send Bera as a scout. Gandalf followed, half amused, half concerned about so sudden and deep a Dwarven faith. But he was careful not to cool their ardor: difficulties would arise soon enough ...
The troops advanced rapidly in bright sunshine, swallowing greedily the few miles to the first steep slopes. Half awake and anxious, the little Hobbit trotted behind, experiencing difficulty staying in the wake of the rush. The Dwarves kicked their heels with enthusiasm, noting here and there some remains of ancestral constructions. Small buildings marked out the heath, bathed in light and morning mists. Insect hummings rose from the woods where echoed the calls of a cuckoo. Gradually, the valley was closing between the two gnarled arms of the eastern spur, while the slope got steeper under the tenuous firs.
Silence suddenly set at the end of the last wood. The Dwarves, sweating under their helmets, stopped to contemplate the final climb. Their deep and heavy breathing produced puffs of steam in the still fresh air. Gandalf pleaded caution, whereupon Thráin ordered a halt. The valley, very deep at the upstream end, poured the powerful flow of the river that was crossed by a series of bridges. The paved road, built with the art of the fathers of the Dwarves, jumped from one side of the fork to the other on seven arches, guarded by defenses anchored into the rock, more and more impressive.
Thráin decided that the Dùnedain, skilled in forest-lore, would keep the horses hidden in the woods, while the Dwarven squad invests the forts. Arathorn gritted his teeth, not to say aloud a disparaging remark about dismissing the best fighters. But Gandalf saw to it that no incident could compromise this critical hour. The captain of the Dúnedain therefore calmed down, while a small thrush jumped on his shoulder.
Bera had to give up following the North Ridge, that became too sharp. She went down to the first defense keep, using her hands, and climbed its wall. This was a castelet controlling the exit of the first bridge and the entrance to the second. Her exploration revealed that it was deserted except for a dead orc, that scorched off a stench in the yard. She joined her companions by the first bridge and informed them of her findings. Dwarves peered the keeps, the bridges and finally the crests, very high and prominent on both sides of the valley. The road approaching the mountain seemed deserted. Some crows hovered nonchalantly in the air flowing up the mountainside.
Small Gerry tried to be forgotten, hidden on top of a young fir tree and busy scrutinizing the South ridge. Màr came on behalf of Thràin and begged him in style to assist the Dwarves in their approach. Arathorn interjected:
- « The Dùnedain stand ready for their allies and comrades. Gerry will scout ahead as you ask. »
Even if it meant to temporarily play the second role, Arathorn was not to abandon credit.
X-X-X
Gandalf had a twinge of heart. Therefore his protege would go to war, sent by two bold captains who failed to agree. Gerry took shelter behind a relaxed composure. Tiny details in the attitude of his companions, especially the vertical wrinkles that had just emphasized on the wizard's brow, warned him that "the joke had gone long enough," as the shiriffe stated in the Shire to the urchin surprised with his plunder in hand. He took the time to check his weapons, then to pocket a few stones suitable for his sling, then to gather some supplies, then to adjust his belt, then to find his handkerchief, and then to put on his blue coat. Finally, having no more preparation that may delay the inevitable, he heaved a deep sigh and walked on the bridge, alone but bearing the blessings of the Dwarves, the Dùnedain, an old wizard and a young woman.
Our Hobbit felt pretty small on the imposing road. He walked with dignity on the first bridge, knowing that Bera had already been there and expecting the queasy stench that assailed him when he entered the courtyard of the gatehouse. Gagging, he ran along the second bridge to escape it. The second keep seemed empty. Gerry went to the wall and looked around cautiously and methodically. He did not realize it, but a small thrush had followed him and passed ahead of him, watching with her shrewd eye, the slightest movement in the narrow valley.
Gerry took a considerable time exploring every keep, in every corner. Although he did not discover anything truly remarkable, he accumulated the evidences of a diffuse presence: the site was occupied in the recent past, but suddenly deserted a few days ago. Loneliness grew as he walked away from his companions, always climbing higher and nearer the base of the rocky chevron. As he stealthily passed the fifth bridge, our Hobbit saw the Great Portal.
Curiously, he had no other horizon than the need to reach it. It reminded him of the entrance of his grand-father's storeroom at Tookburroughs. It was a smial where the old Hobbit took refuge among memories accumulated during his escapades as a youth. The fertile imagination of the younger generation peopled that smial with mathoms, randomly collected when the grandfather committed jokes and petty plunders throughout the Shire in his youth. In the collective unconscious of his offsprings, the storeroom of the old Hobbit was home to some treasures with obscure origins if not positively ill-gotten, to glorious trophies gleaned during memorable meetings, in addition to relics earned during travels outside the borders, in the company of a wizard.
Actually the grandfather had collected, in the nest of his first love, items that reminded him of his late wife, to evoke her memory at peace. Admittedly his best bottles, that were stored there, greatly helped the old Hobbit to support his memory. So the legend of a place full of eclectic treasures was vastly overrated, though lately, his light kleptomania had tended to clutter his smial with small unnecessary but precious and pleasant items. His brownish round door was dotted, in Gerry's memory, with various lucky charms pinned on the old wood. When an urchin dared to hang the bell, a Dwarf carillon rang with a perky look that evoked some distant and exotic destination. Thus this little music echoed in his head, when Gerry beheld the eastern gate of Barum-Nahal.
He shortened the exploration of the fifth gatehouse, then of the sixth, the last and most powerful. The ultimate bridge spanned the river that flowed down a narrow gorge, and led from the South fork to the North ridge. He stepped on a marble platform without making any noise. This esplanade preceded a solemn arch, carved with seven layers of discrete and harmonious geometric patterns. The spur of the mountain separated into two powerful branches, exactly above the door, thus surmounted by an impressive facade of a hundred feet high.
It seemed to the Hobbit he touched the very roots of the world. The steep wall threw creepers of stone from the top two edges, bestowing the cliff the appearance of a rough trunk. These interlaces appeared to reflect the turbulent history of the stone in its youth. The proud and bloody history of the Dwarf folk gazed Gerry from the top of this portal.
- « Never mannish castle nor Hobbit manor had so solemn a portal, thought Gerry. Its view would discourage the enemies of the King under the Mountain in the old days! »
But Gerry was not an enemy and did not lose courage. He beheld at length the porch of the King. After he somehow lost track of time, a small thrush landed near him, issuing hysterical tweets. The Hobbit recovered and reached for the bird that escaped and landed on the tower to the nearest gatehouse. He cast his inquisitive look around, without discovering any danger nor any enemy trace. The morning was almost over and the air, that stood still between the two stone arms, had warmed up. The small thrush watched, constantly changing her orientation as a weathervane in a storm.
Gerry went to the porch and entered the arch, which proved to be much larger than he had imagined. The smooth arch, twenty feet high, beautifully engineered, showed plumes of carved stone that captured light as knitted lace on Hobbit windows. Almost every thirty feet, two panels of shiny metal adorned the walls of the corridor, face to face. The panels assured a nice lighting of the avenue, by simple reflection. Gerry had the feeling of walking in the lap of mother earth and thus, in quite an irrational way, he felt no fear, but extreme exaltation. In front of the twelfth set of panels, he stopped. The majestic avenue, fourty feet wide, was being prolonged further, equal to itself into complete darkness.
The Hobbit tried to calm the beating of his heart, and get in harmony with the deep silence under the mountain. He focused extensively, as he had become accustomed, with the help of his little gold ring. Once again, the precious jewel came to his aid. Gerry held it before him, facing a metal panel. The small stones were reflected as in a slightly frosted mirror. The Hobbit realized that stones and reflections were animated at a regular interval, with a small blip, at the rate of blood circulation. Although his heart beat wildly, he had not imagined being in such a state of excitement. And suddenly he realized - the muffled beats he heard and the pulsation he felt did not follow the same rhythm. He bolted like a rabbit to warn his companions. He did not see the pair of predator eyes blinking behind him.
X-X-X
Gerry met his friends ambushed in the fourth keep. He almost managed to finish as a pincushion, since his frantic race differed from his previous stealthy and competent scouting. The archers had formed a squad to shoot volleys like the Elves of old. Arathorn had suspended shooting at the last second, with an imperious gesture, a small thrush on his shoulder.
The Hobbit described in a few words what he had discovered. Comments and speculations blossomed. The pessimists interpreted orc drums were beating the muster of underground hordes. The extravagants feared it was a dragon slumbering in the Great Hall. The pragmatics stipulated that the volcano was announcing a rash. But the mystics prevailed, and it was admitted, against all reason and despite Gandalf's admonitions, that the heart of the mountain had begun to beat for the return of her sons. The Dúnedain remained safely off the debate. They formed the rear guard of course, with baggage and horses, while the Dwarves rushed, fevered and impatient, hardly maintaining battle formation, toward the porch.
The persistent lack of opponents did not let Thràin's circumspection doze, however. Once on the marble porch, he put some order in his troops. Before the lined company, he gave a fine "speech for the occasion", holding forth the sacred duty of the Dwarves, the exorbitant privilege to have regained the gate, shining tomorrows of fame and wealth, as long as secular qualities of Dùrin race were tested in accordance with tradition. A short passage alluded to noble Dùnedain and Bearning allies. Overall it did not come to basic tactical considerations, nor even to organization to ensure the company's survival, but to allegiance and commitment. The group of Dwarves, uniting in ecstatic satisfaction, was forging the legitimacy of the future King under the Mountain.
Then, driven by his self-sacrifice instinct, Nàr, the dean of the Dwarves, ceremoniously broke his Elven egg on the porch. He probably considered this an act of atonement or gratitude, because he expected to receive no other blessing than the feeling of fullness and excitement they were granted here. With some disbelief, he rose, from the pile of shell, a small silver lantern, enclosed on three sides. When he opened the window of the fourth side, a soft moonlight fell out. But the lantern contained nothing else but a bright and clear opal stone, shaped like a large drop encased in a silver flower. Gandalf approached; after all magic items were his domain. After careful consideration, he informed Nàr with an incredulous pout, that it was indeed a moon lantern, a toy the Dwarves of Nogrod once forged for the Elf King of Doriath. Its heart was made of ithildîn2 and restored the light of the moon. It was said that its carrier, the bailiff of the king, saw beyond appearances and thwarted obfuscation for the sake of his sovereign.
This royal gift could not be more appropriate on such occasions. After a respectful thought to master Elrond, Thráin ceremoniously invested his uncle to the bailiff function. Tearfully, Nàr remembered his despair and rage when he attended the ignominious murder of Thrór in front of another Dwarven portal, very long ago. The bliss and the solemnity of the moment brought him an unexpected compensation. Younger Dwarves Norin, Frorin and Krorin, improvised a royal march on their instruments. The old Dwarf stepped forward, holding high the open lantern before him, at the head of the Dwarven troop. When Nàr crossed the threshold, the semicircular tympanum appeared to gain clarity, as if a new lighting revived its engravings. The usher continued. The lantern revealed ornamentation of great delicacy that ran along the avenue. When he got to the first metal panels, it produced an unexpected event: the panels glazed suddenly with a white, slightly bluish light, which seemed to answer the call of the lantern moon. After a moment of intense light, both frames ceased to shine. When the sensation of glare left the Dwarves, they realized that the amounts seemed to have disconnected from the wall. Pushing the panels, they discovered new passages.
The company was enthusiastic about this Dwarven art prodigy. Thráin quickly visited the revealed rooms and immediately decided to install their base refuge there, without waiting for further exploration. He entrusted the Dúnedain the task of organizing the camp and continued exploration alongside Nàr. Arathorn was happy to control the front door, but he was eager to assess both dangers and treasures concealed in Barum-Nahal. Thus he discreetly ordered the Hobbit to slip into the group of Dwarves.
The discovered rooms allowed an effective defense of the entrance: the guards who stood there once had observation and shooting posts overlooking the esplanade. Invisible arrow slits, hidden in the ridges of the rock, commanded the entrance of the fortress. Besides bedding and standard amenities, which at present laid rotten on the floor, the rooms guards enjoyed piped water, fire pits, coolers and latrines. Only a few tools and some metal weapons had survived, but it seemed that no evil had reached these places. Dwarven art had preserved them from any defilement. The Dúnedain established the camp in the northern room, using the South room as a stable. They unloaded the mounts and distributed fodder; they arranged the equipment at best, leaving the tool boxes and Gandalf's mysterious cases with the horses. Then they went foraging with one mule, leaving Bera as a guard.
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The dúnedain had returned for two hours when the Dwarves, Gandalf and Gerry emerged from the bowels of the mountain. Arathorn's lieges had provided the group with plenty of fodder and game, and had racked a deer. Thus the guard room almost looked like a welcoming and illuminated inn, perfumed with aromas of rotisserie. The Dwarves, delighted with their expedition and exhausted, felt a deep gratitude. Even Gandalf gave a word of satisfaction. Thràin, who had not given a thought to these stewardship contingencies, inwardly recognized their need and accused himself of lightness. As a sudden result, he resented Arathorn for taking an initiative so obviously useful and publicly ignored by him. Nobody knew, but his grudge grew.
That night, Gandalf described what the Dwarves had explored.
- « The avenue extends from the entry on a great distance below the spur, leading to the heart of the mountain. From time to time, a well brings a little light, but progress has only been possible thanks to the moon lantern of master Elrond. Thanks to this treasure, a few side rooms were revealed to us. These were mostly guard posts or stores. »
Norin clarified that one of them harbored a large amount of tin and lead. So the mountain showed prolix in useful metals.
-« What shall we not find when we have cleared access to the goldsmith workshops! »
Gandalf resumed after a few conciliatory puffs from his pipe:
- « After a half mile or so, our company has reached a vault of considerable size, probably the ceremonial room of the Dwarf King. Three steel candelabra, which would allow to light hundreds of candles, hang from the ceiling. Powerful chains still allow them to be lowered from a height of fourty feet. The ceiling is lower on the perimeter of this room, which is decorated with many alcoves.
- One of them is a small kitchen, thoughtlessly interrupted Barin. But barely enough to keep food and drinks at proper temperature, mind you! A small spiral staircase leads to a more serious kitchen. And what a room! You can not imagine the size of the hearths, the number of marble sinks, and the quality of the water flow!
The big Dwarf, driven by enthusiasm, would not have stopped if Thràin had not requested him to postpone his detailed description of the royal kitchens.
Gandalf, always liberal with a pipe in his mouth, said after two smoke rings:
-« As a matter of fact, the throne room seems quite central. The main avenue crosses it through and continues further West, but we do not have continued our investigations very far in that direction, which seems to lead to western mines. Although many routes are now blocked around the throne room, we managed to locate some of the main districts. First, as Barin said, the royal apartments lie North-west, with obviously, chambers and service rooms located just above the apartments. Opposite, on the other side of the avenue, to the South, we found ceremonial rooms and smaller apartments, on several levels. But I doubt this is the entire residential area. »
Dwalor in turn succumbed to the temptation to brag about their findings:
-« One of the rooms was beautiful, because the lantern revealed it intact to us, soiled neither by time nor by orcs, cursed be their clawed hands! Furnitures of precious wood, rich tapestries of ancient silk and linen of great finesse! Look what I brought… »
When Thráin had intervened again, Gandalf took his time to blow some smoke rings that assembled into a beautiful sparkling crown, which came floating over the head of the great Dwarf, under the impassive gaze of Arathorn. When Thráin reached a tentative hand to seize it, the crown of smoke broke up. Gandalf replied again:
-« Finally we have clearly located armories, workshops and forges, to the Southeast. They span on several levels and are powered by a complex network of canals that divert some of the water from the underground river, before to dispose it there again. This district was looted and modified by the new occupants. You'll have to come and look around there, Arathorn. »
-« Dwarves do not need help to recognize vicious orcs doings!, exclaimed Thráin. This repugnant brood diverted the Stiffbeard's installations to their ignoble purposes. Goblins do not make beautiful things, but for killing and cruelty, they show cleverness and imagination. In a foundry, we found a dead orc tortured and filled with molten metal! »
The company shivered. Arathorn took advantage of the pause to ask:
-« Have you noticed any recent signs of goblins or other creatures? »
His inquisitor look went from Thràin to Gandalf and clearly referred to their discovery on the heathland plateau, a few miles before the entrance of the mine. The great Dwarf spoke:
-« The place seemed deserted. At one point, Fràr believed he saw a movement in a secondary gallery, but research has given nothing. Admittedly, many galleries are damaged or even impassable. Tomorrow, Nàr will draw an accurate map of our findings and arrange a systematic exploration plan. Thus we shall be able to secure our possessions by blocking passages or keep guards at strategic locations. »
Arathorn showed a skeptical face. The size of the company did not allow to control such a great fortress if the enemy stood in great number. Though he was eager to ask the second question, the Dùnadan refrained for fear of showing precipitate.
Little Gerry, who began to collect roleplays and antagonisms as much as characters, forestalled him knowingly:
-« And we did not find any treasure, but Gandalf sais the lower levels, where it is possible that the Stiffbeards stored some of which, all seem inaccessible, and it is a tremendous work to clear a path. »
Unlike the Dúnedain, the Dwarves experienced no disappointment at having yet found no treasure. It seemed that such a huge task as was required of them, was considered an essential and necessary phase, an initiatory or redeeming rite, that would increase in their own eyes the legitimacy of recovering the site and its treasures.
Dwarves at work showed an inflexible determination. The absence of armed opposition had surprised the youngest, but the wisest Dwarves, who also happened to be the oldest, were confused, wondering by what miracle a site in the Misty Mountains had escaped the goblin spawn, capable of spreading like woodlice and could not have been driven from the North despite the exploits of the seven Dwarven houses. Thus Nàr and Màr sustained Thràin when he distributed the roles that night and organized the exploration teams, bringing the Dwarves to more realistic and immediate objectives. Arathorn, adhering fully, thought wise not to interfere, especially as the interests of the dúnedain required he retained some of his autonomy of action.
Thus, the next day, Hirgon and his lord went on an expedition around the mountain to find a path to the western side of the Misty Mountains. The next day they multiplied expeditions to both West and East and even managed to find an old way leading to the road of Fram. So they paved ways around with their signs while hunting and foraging for the company. The dúnedain shortened and roughly cleared the Eastward route, but they failed to discover a truly feasible way beyond a string of sharp peaks that blocked the western horizon at three leagues from the volcano.
The Dwarves meanwhile frantically explored the mountain, unearthing some forgotten rooms filled with wonders in ruins and extending the map of Nàr on several levels in a few days. The first real works were to block some passages beyond which they felt momentarily useless to venture. Thus, they concentrated their efforts on the districts adjacent to the throne room and secured all the accesses leading to it. Thráin himself conducted the masons who built a wall and a door blocking the avenue beyond the throne room. The door, reinforced with steel specially forged for the occasion, was crafted with all the art Màr was able of, instilling the vow it would had the vault collapse if it happened the door was forced.
Gandalf had ventured alone to the western mines. He came back dirty and tired, and disappointed with the results: he had found no exit, but miles of galleries for coal and iron mining. He entrusted his notes to Nàr but not very heartily. He had encountered no alive goblin, but he had to repell large disgusting worms. He conversed with Thràin about dead orcs, almost entirely burnt, that he had also found, and he insisted that the dangerous and collapsed passages leading to the depths of the northern district, should be sealed as long as a guard could not be established there. The great Dwarf consented, impressed by the anguish he perceived behind the insistent demands of the wizard.
As these works had progressed well throughout the day, Thráin left Frerin and Dwalor in front of the final pass to be closed as the company took some rest in its quarters. All were snoring for a few hours, when they were awakened by a commotion coming from the stables. The Dwarves and Dùnedain rushed and found a ripped and burned pony, in the middle of its terrorized congeners. Under the critical eye of Arathorn, whose men had assured the guard outside, Thráin declared a hunt for the predator. They found traces of a dark fluid that led them to the north, at the bottom of a gallery that had obviously been neglected. It plunged into the depths and then separated into three smaller tunnels, one of which was half-collapsed. Thráin dared not continue; but he had that gallery walled that very night, the Dwarves pulling from the walls, the raw material for their work.
The next day, the great Dwarf convened a counsel; He revealed that some subterranean monster, that had probably already ventured outside the mine, had attacked a horse. He sternly rebuked the explorers and made them promise more rigor. The next day, the map had enriched with three side passages that had been overlooked, and the corresponding galleries, with three additional walls.
Finally the Dwarves assessed their new quarters to be secure enough. The Dúnedain persevered in their research westward, without much success, but regularly catered food for all the company with goodwill. The rangers had discovered, in the valley overgrown with forest and crossed by the river, several remains of subsistence agriculture: a chestnut grove, several fruit trees and some vegetable varieties that had returned to the wild, the cabbage being the most common.
Thràin planned for the next day, a breakthrough to the north, beyond the passage Gandalf and Màr had identified as the most likely to lead to the gold mines. The active phase of exploration approached, the most exciting and the common goal of the allies. Therefore Thráin invited the Dùnedain to join the Dwarves for this first expedition. This is the moment Gandalf chose to declare that he had an errand to run.
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The great Dwarf felt betrayed at the moment he most needed his allies. But the wizard was not to be influenced, despite Thràin pleas.
-« Do you imagine that a wizard has nothing else to do but watch the back of a clique of dreamers? Important matters demand my attention!
- But will you come back?
- The recovery of a fortress is a thing too serious to be left to warriors! 3 I do not think wise to let you on your own for too long...
- But we are far from everything. It will take forever for you to come and go, wherever you mean to!
- If this is a roundabout way of asking me where I am to go to, you will get nothing for your trouble! A wizard is never short of resources, especially when you least expect it! Do not try to unravel the wizard's mysteries, dear Thráin! »
The next morning Gandalf left them on the porch, sending ahead a little twittering thrush, apparently happy that the wizard should resume his travels.
-« May you get along before, during and after the troubles, without provoking them yourself! And make sure not to damage Mr. Took! », He shouted at the two captains.
Maybe the shrewd Wise had guessed that the Hobbit, beloved and respected by all, may play despite himself, a conciliator role in this perilous enterprise. Gandalf walked away with his regular stride, jingling his staff on the pavement of the bridge. Gerry waved while his Hobbit heart ached and the wizard disappeared without looking back.
Arathorn took advantage of the company gathered in full force, to step in with one of his manipulative ploys. He appeared before Thràin, flanked by Bera and Gerry, proposing their help for the expedition. He argued that the three Dúnedain were needed, according to him, for hunting and guarding the entrance. Thráin wondered for a moment if he was proposed the most dispensable Dúnadan resources, but he remembered the warring fury of the Bearning, the flawless fencing of the ranger and the strange burglar talents of "Mr. Took." He could not decently refuse an offer both thoughtful and generous.
Thus the companions armed themselves for underground war. Bows were put away in favor of heavy axes and "shields of nine skins" of Dùrin's Folk. Torches, a few picks, stone scissors and mortar powder completed their gear, in addition to food and water for a day of walking.
Gerry received his share of tackles, but Arathorn left him only his food to bring:
- « Dwarves laugh at burdens, but Hobbits snoop around fleet-footed and ears open! »
The company began to move, greeted by the Dúnedain with serious faces. They walked in silence to the door that Thràin had erected. "In silence" simply means they uttered not a word, but a dozen ironclad Dwarves can not help producing various rattling, squeaking, rubbing, and other grinding with every step. Thràin ceremoniously took a large carved and shiny key. He slipped it into the lock and strained for a while. The lock suddenly gave way when Nàr added his powerful grip with Thorin's. To open the oaken door covered with steel, the Dwarves had to give a thrust, only could a Dùrin squad welded by blood ties. Suddenly a loud crash was heard, and a mass of seven Dwarves were left indiscriminately piled a few feet beyond the swinging door.
Some laughter rang out, but choked when the torches revealed burn marks. On several places, rock had melted to large viscous lava slides. The layer of hammered steel that covered the North side of the door was streaked with smoky puffs that had sealed the door to its wrought steel frame. The united strength of many Dwarves had been necessary to have it yield. The Dwarves silently gazed the damages, their surprise giving way to anxiety. Thráin launched defiantly, trying to show optimistic:
- « Whatever this creature may be, it can not unlock our doors! »
However the great Dwarf ordered to strengthen it. The South face of the wall was lined with thick stone and a fast cooling system, the secret of which Norin held. This took a few hours during which Bera, Gerry and Arathorn, helped by the idle Dwarves, explored a bit ahead. The gallery seemed to have collapsed at the point where it crossed a larger cavity. Whole sections of the collapsed ceiling blocked the passage with a dangerous maze. When Gràr saw the ceiling, he had himself hoisted there by Bera to examine at length the breaking edges of the rock. When Thráin returned, his mind relieved they had enhanced and secured the door, Gràr revealed his strange discovery:
-« The ceiling of this room was deliberately destroyed by mine fires. I must say they were not placed appropriately. It seems shoddy work to me... Orc work, if I am to guess. »
The revelation weighed on the company. Therefore even goblins feared what the depths of Barum-Nahal concealed. Thràin's heart was heavy, but he did not show it:
-« Someone, probably goblins, felt the need to isolate what is hiding inside those tunnels. That is a good sign! The mountain spirit must have driven our enemies out! »
Thràin's enthusiasm and faith had more effect on his companions than his arguments' insight and likelyhood. The Dwarves took a psychological refuge into work, clearing a passage and consolidating the height of the room. The hours passed, laborious, while Bera, Arathorn and Gerry stood guard to protect the Dwarves who took turns. Màr had the idea to install a kind of harrow, a trap that would befall a heavy panel to block the passage by simply pushing a wedge. Thráin nodded gravely. Finally, the passage was secured. The Dwarves were boiling to move forward. Arathorn had anticipated this feeling, asked Gerry to suggest the expedition should be postponed until the next morning, sice it was so late.
Thràin could only be convinced in condition Gerry would accept a small scouting ahead. Arathorn, caught in his own trap, could not refuse and proposed Gerry to accompany him. But the Halfling was upset at having been manipulated. Since he was unwilling to share the company of one of the Big Folk, heavy and noisy, in circumstances when finesse and discretion were required, he declined the offer bluntly.
Therefore our Hobbit found himself once again forced to the hard and lonely job of hero. He drew a little courage in the comforting presence of his ring and in the hope that this time would redeem all the others. He went ahead with the weasel's felted step, without light and bare hands to feel the obstacles before him. After a few steps, he took out his ring and found that the small stones radiated a dim light.
Gerry walked constantly down for a time he was unable to evaluate, but his companions, well after the whole episode was over, said he came back after two hours. This long delay suggests how irritated could Thràin and Arathorn be, arguing over what to do to rescue the Hobbit. At the time he noticed no crossing. In fact he saw on his return that he had missed two, and his chance made him choose his way unerringly.
Here is what happened. When he saw an orange glow obviously emanating from a fairly large room, he knew immediately that he was nearing his goal. He moved forward, as fluid and flowing as a stream of air, to have a look.
The cave was strewn with gold coins, silver cups and all sorts of valuable equipment and apparently formidable weapons. Bars heaps and a few chests full of precious stones laid on the side. One could guess several corridors accessing the place, but they seemed cluttered by rockfalls. At the back of the room, a crack let drip a kind of orange magma, which had formed by filling up a small pool of viscous liquid with opaline reflections. One large egg, about the size of a Hobbit, dipped in the pond that emanated hot vapors. Its upper part was shredded, and some sort of croaking could be heard out of it. Suddenly a form that Gerry had taken for a gold heap stained by magma, came out of the pond. The creature looked like a huge volatile, but without feathers and scaly. The hind legs, long and muscular, supported a lithe body ending in the likeness of a giant lizard tail. The front legs, atrophied and ridiculous, could not obscure the enormous mouth filled with sharp fangs. The animal, about the size of a Dwarf, walked on its hind legs with an unsteady balance, out of the phosporescent mud. When the creature leaned on the egg to monitor the fuss, the Hobbit slipped away without even trying to steal the slightest coin.
He did very well. He had not walked six poles, when he heard a growl behind him. The animal followed him, either by hearing or smell. Gerry accelerated as much as his short legs could, but still in complete silence. His ring now cast an orange radiance, sufficient to light his high speed run. He chose in a flash one of the two passages that were available in front of him. For a time he thought his pursuer had abandoned. But soon he heard two raucous croaking answering each other a few perches behind him. When he heard a third, he knew that the kill was launched. He accelerated to the maximum, abandoning any attempt to go unnoticed, almost exactly at the moment when he saw the flickering light of torches. He shouted, leaping:
– « Help, they run after me! »
He heard behind him a confused stampede that was gaining on him. But the Hobbit's luck did not abandon him – one of the predators tripped at the last turn and its fall impeded its congeners. Thus the little Hobbit escaped a shower of flames that would have instantly turned him into a roasted rabbit. He fell at the feet of Arathorn who had advanced to the end of the hall. The Dúnadan grabbed him by the neck and threw him over a block of granite, safe from the attackers. The ranger, also targeted by an acid shot on fire, was forced to dodge in extremis, and took cover behind a boulder. Predators came, sure of their victory.
But Thràin had not remained idle. Possessed by the authority of the King under the Mountain, he brandished his mace in his mailed fist that radiated with a burst of sunshine and blood, as if his fingers had been clad with gold and rubies. Inspired by his majesty, the Dwarves had donned their war masks and seized their shields of nine skins. The squad advanced as one Dwarf, screaming:
-« Khazad i Dùnadan4 »
The three creatures appeared clearly in the torchlight. They were similar but with some important differences: the head of one was thinner and with two side fans, the other wore a proud crest, which ended with a powerful prickly mass at the end of its tail. They turned toward the squad in close formation, vainly fencing on this shell of steel and leather, driven by a perfect cohesion. At that time Thráin was indeed revealed as the heir of Dùrin, bearer of the treasure of his house.
Bera could therefore bypass the frontal attack; she jumped out of the shadows in the back of a creature, crushing her ax on the spine of the monster, which staggered a few moments. Arathorn also seized the opportunity - his sword, surrounded by a border of red light, burst from its cache and fell on a long neck, stretched to launch its flame. Neck and head fell heavily to the ground, bursting into flames. The speed of the attack surprised the biggest monster, which turned heavily to Bera then Arathorn. It was its loss - the Dwarven scrum fell on him with a single leap and reduced it to pieces, as well as its congener shaken by Bera.
The body Arathorn had decapitated continued to stand, striding randomly to the hallway. The Dwarves caught it and hewn it down, while the cries of victory echoed after the Battle of Barum-Nahal. The cohesion of the Dwarven squad had done wonders under the leadership of the King under the Mountain, bearer of the ring of the house of Dùrin.
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The company, covered in glory, returned to its quarters in quick time. Arathorn, his face closed, carried Gerry stunned in his arms. No serious injuries had been reported, but all suffered burns to their armor joints. The joy at its height, the Dwarves sang drinking songs. Gràr, more playful than others, decided to break his Elven egg to celebrate. He discovered a rounded flask, he suspiciously sniffed before tasting it. His face lit up:
-« My friends, we are all entitled to a drop of this most excellent vintage of Dorwinion! »
A concert of approval greeted the news. After enjoying his swig, Gràr gave the flask to his brother and then to Thràin, who had it circulate. The Dúnedain who were present tasted it gratefully and sparingly. Bera smelled the drink, found aromas of red fruits, and tasted it shyly. Mr. Took, great connoisseur, made the liquid gurgle and clicked his tongue. Barin was allowed to drink, but last. All were surprised that some wine remained after his long swig. After one more round, the Dúnedain declined and Gerry could not see since he was already snoring, the round bottle was still not empty. No doubt each Dwarf proved more altruistic and parsimonious than he thought about the wisest of his peers. After the next round, it was suspected that the majority of the Dwarves sacrificed for the sake of the others. Yet their meeting in gaiety gradually gained and their faces, especially the solid Dwarven nose, gradually tinged with scarlet. Between vapors, Thráin caught the mocking expression of Arathorn. He interrupted the tour and gave his flask back to Gràr, who was grateful. Needless to say, that night, only the Dúnedain and Bera assured the guard. Moreover, none could have slept in the deafening roar of a Dwarven snorers' squad.
The next morning, the company was noisily got up by Thràin who intended to leave no doubt about the ability of his people to endure some libations. The same team went back to the North galleries. The door opened easily. The company stepped forward cautiously and invaded the first room without resistance. They immediately noticed that something was wrong. The bodies of the creatures with jets of fire were gone! A few viscous and phosphorescent liquid lingered on the ground where they had been. Only the head Arathorn had put on fire, now burned, had left a lasting mark on the ground. Puzzled, Thráin vowed that the corpses of the monsters that would be slain, would from now on pass through fire.
They resumed their advance. The company explored the two ways of the fork Gerry had reported. But it turned out that the two tracks came together a little further. Approaching the next room, the company prepared for the final confrontation. The Dwarves, clad in leather and iron, adopted their assault formation. Once on the center of the room, they stood still, having no enemy to fight. Thráin ordered the defense formation. The dwarves were expecting at any moment to be attacked. But Gerry, who had sneacked into their ranks, suggested Thráin to look into the egg. The great Dwarf approached, followed by Arathorn. Soaking in a pool of viscous liquid it contained a half-dozen small creatures, similar to those that had attacked the previous day. Arathorn avoided a blaze from the most aggressive and slaughtered them systematicaly.
Immediately a creature of great size, almost as high as Arathorn, emerged from a side tunnel and darted a onslaught of fire on him. Bera pushed the Dúnadan behind the squad of dwarves and rolled over him, already tousled and eyes bloodshot. The monster roared, deafening most fighters. Gerry and Arathorn, who wore no helmet, were now laying on the ground, unable to fight. The creature lunged forward to grab Bera, who protected Arathorn's inert body but the Dwarven squad barred its way. The monster hammered the lined shields, trying to break the formation that reeled under the powerful thrusts. Some time a Dwarf fell to the ground, immediately replaced by his comrade from the second row. The creature did not weaken, distributing blows and burns. But Thràin had refined his tactics - the band of Dwarves, while maintaining its cohesion, changed shape and pulled its wings around the creature. Then crossbow bolts flew, disorienting and wounding the monster. Finally all charged together, destroying the legs and neck and obliterating the creature.
This time Krorin had been heavily injured because the creature had crusched him with the full power of its caudal appendage. Arathorn and Bera took care of him, while the dwarves established a defense and obstructed both arteries that opened into the room. Gerry himself got useful by burning the remains of the animals, large and small. He was disgusted with the sticky aspect of these reptiles and found cowardly of him to get rid of the cubs. But their appearance in miniature dragon persuaded him that what he felt like an indignity was a necessity of the ruthless life in the wilderness.
After a long and exhausting work, the company was left fairly unharmed in a safe room full of priceless treasure. A great silence fell over the company; then all were fully aware of the heart of the Mountain, beating distinctly. Orange lava, slimy and translucent, which released acid and stifling fumaroles, seemed animated with soft pulses at the same pace. Bera, who was not the least fascinated by gold, noticed that the orange lava seemed to slightly narrow or contract. The flaw, from which the viscous fluid appeared to have dripped, was now only a thin crack.
Alerted by the Bearning, the companions decided to immediately take a part of the gold. They filled leather bags and made their way back, carrying the injured and the precious metal amid joyful panting. Even poor Krorin tried hard to seem satisfied, though he suffered horribly from his three broken ribs. Finally the crippled troop -indeed all were covered with bruises and burns to varying degrees - reached the door, they bolted behind them. Back in their safe quarters, they hastened to alleviate the pains of the injured and heal their other wounds.
For several days, the Dwarves had recovered gold from the lower room, without encountering any monster. Meanwhile the lava had disappeared, and conjectures about it were rife, especially since the pulsations of the Mountain were now perceived only sporadically. Winds of victory were blowing around the company, to the point that Thráin had his flag hoisted atop the castelet that commanded the last bridge. The Dwarves unearthed a new room overlooking the avenue and were able to repair its secret closure mechanism. Thus was inaugurated the new treasure room of the King. Arathorn lost no opportunity to participate in the carrying chore, as much by taste for the effort as to assess what would be left to his kin.
1 Borrowed to Jean Giono, Naissance de l'Odyssée.
2 Metal forged with a part of mithril. This name means « Silence of moon ». It possesses strange properties, related to the moon.
3 Inspired by Clémenceau : War is too serious a business to be entrusted to soldiers.
4 The Dwarves with the Dùnadan!