Middle-earth, and all who dwell within it, belongs to Tolkien. I am grateful to him for growing this beautiful garden in which our imaginations can play. Please review!

Now, things are getting far too serious around here. Let's have a bit of fun, me lads...

It was six days since the old Sentinel, the snow-troll, had taken both his first and his last view of the sunrise, but his death had not gone unnoticed by his neighbors in that land. When the new, white ice pillar rose up on the edge of the troll's front porch, sparkling in the winter sun, there were many eyes that saw it, and some that knew what it meant.

Two days after the Sentinel had turned to ice, the news finally reached the end of the abandoned road and passed through the gates into the fortress of Carn Dum. Within the capitol city, there were eyes that had seen and ears eager to listen to any rumors that might come their way of enemies new and old.

When the Witchking fell to the wars of the south, his armies fell with him, but many escaped the nets of Earnur and Glorfindel, and of those some returned to the north. Others had always been there, cruel lieutenants and strong guards who had remained behind on orders from their master to guard the fortress and its treasures.

Back to Carn Dum, the survivors fled their master's ruin and with those left behind they built their little kingdoms in his forgotten halls. They drew their bounds down stairwell and hallway, dividing the capitol between them, and at the top of each tall tower, the great orc Chieftains set their throne and each made plans to overthrow their rivals in great and bloody conquest. Down in the deepest dungeons, the small orcs scavenged, fighting and stealing under lesser leaders, defeating and devouring each other when they had the chance and when they were not being conscripted into the service of wars waged by those above.

Throughout the mountains of Middle-earth, orcs had build their kingdoms; beneath Gundabad or in the caverns near to the Redhorn Pass of Hithaeglir, they were all of the same race and had only one leader to follow who crushed all others underfoot. When the power of the Witchking was strong, he gathered to himself many races and tribes of orc, foul creatures who hated each other almost as much as they hated the free peoples and free lands they left behind. Upon his defeat, the different tribes fell back on their old ways, reviving old grudges and bickering amongst themselves.

And so, when news finally came up the road to the fortress that the old Sentinel was dead, the greater Chieftains turned up their noses and turned their thoughts back to the political machinations of their own internal conflicts. What use had they for the long, cold march west to scavenge rusted iron from some troll's filthy pile? The Witchking had left behind gold and iron enough for them to fight over in his city, and so long as there were lesser orc scum breeding in the deeps like rats in a basement, there would be food enough to eat without raiding some snow-troll's icebox.

The higher ups waved off the news, but the little orcs down below, the ones with less to eat and more to fear, listened eagerly to all the rumors. Most were content enough with their lot, thinking only of finding their next meal (and of how to avoid becoming someone else's). They listened and passed on the gossip, but one or two more ambitious orcs took it into their heads to leave the crumbling fortress and try their luck in the wide world outside.

Of that small group, the most determined of all was an orc tall and strong called Balmuk the Greedy by his compatriots (he was called Balmuk the Small by the Chieftains above who laughed at his aspirations and kept him alive for the amusement he gave them and because he could always be counted on to spy on his betters and pass along the information at a cheap price).

Balmuk had long ago made up his mind to improve his lot in life, but as yet he had managed only to browbeat a dozen or so smaller orcs into his service and he was fast growing tired of the condescension heaped on him from above. He was not a young orc anymore, and one or two of his friends had begun to eye him impatiently and to covet the small hoard that he had collected. With a few simpering servants, Balmuk had styled himself a great lord and his heart was full of the desire to carve out a kingdom for himself, somewhere away from the Chieftains where he could set up a throne and finally get the respect that he deserved. When he heard of the old troll's unguarded hoard, he built in his mind the image of a great and rich cavern full of food and weapons, iron and gold. His heart grew greedy once more.

On the third day after the death of the snow-troll, the rumors went wild again. There had been a great avalanche. Several orcs from the fortress had gone ahead to explore the caverns, but they were not careful; they had broken through the snow above and sent a great sheet of it crashing down. The troll's hall was buried and the curious orcs killed; with that news, most of the fortress orcs followed their betters and turned back to their old worries, but not Balmuk. This new turn changed nothing for him. There were plenty of tunnels and caves underground that were, though more dangerous than the main roads above, protected from the burning sun. Indeed, the troll's hall had been made even more tempting to Balmuk by the avalanche that had blocked up the wide-open front door. With no sunlight and no enemies sneaking in from the outside… he needed no more convincing.

Four days after the snow-troll met his end, Balmuk gathered his army. He had only been able to convince ten stout lads to follow him – and to carry his luggage – but they set out from Carn Dum that afternoon and made for the abandoned lair.

Between the fortress and the cavern was not a great distance, if one traveled above ground and along the straight road, but Balmuk led his gang underground, through the winding tunnels and secret paths hidden from the sun. They took the long way 'round, and the tunnels below like the fortress above were full of rival gangs and families battling each other over hotly contested borders. Of all the disputes of that region, the most dangerous and fiercely fought were between the Gnolls, Gitna and Gatna. The sisters took it as a matter of pride that they hated each other more ferociously than they hated anyone else (and more than anyone else hated either of them). Each sister was matriarch over a great hill of orc soldiers, most were their own sons, grandsons and great-grandsons, but some were also their brothers, husbands and cousins. The Gnolls were a small, weak race by orc standards, but their strength was in numbers and they often banded together in a great army, washing through the tunnels like a wave, drowning any living thing they found in a flood of sharp claws and sharper teeth. They scrambled over the bodies of their dead and came on always unstoppable, as frightening as the red-ant swarms that stalked the deserts of southern Harad.

For the most part, the Gnolls fought only with themselves and if others felt the bite of their teeth it was as hunted prey rather than as enemies. Gitna in particular prided herself on having never declared war on any orc but her own sister, though she was fat with the spoils of undeclared battle brought back to her by her children; Gatna, however, would fight anyone, orcs to dwarves, if she thought she could win.

There was no knowing what exactly had first divided the sisters and turned them one against the other, but the grudge was at least as old as they were, and Balmuk's gang stumbled straight into it as they made their way through the tunnels.

Almost at the very first crossing they came to, they blundered into a party of scouts sent from Gatna's hill in the south to spy on her sister's folk. The Gnoll-orcs hissed their curses at the invaders from the fortress and, against orders, Balmuk's lieutenant sliced open the belly of the nearest one with his blunt scimitar.

The other scouts shrieked with rage and set upon Balmuk's gang. They had no weapons and the orcs from the fortress would have won the day, but the noise and scent of blood woke the whole southern hill and within moments the tunnels echoed with the shrieking of reinforcements.

"Curse the little maggots," Balmuk shouted and took off running north along the tunnels. His gang followed as best they could, chased by a swarm of the swift, red-eyed Gnoll-orcs.

One of the orcs from the fortress tripped and fell, taking down a second who ran behind him. The Gnoll-orcs washed over them and even their screams were drowned in the noise of running feet and battle cries.

Soon, Balmuk's whole gang would have been destroyed, but they reached the northern tunnels that belonged to Gitna's folk, and a few of her fighters were there, hunting along the borders. At the sight of their sworn enemies, the fortress spies were forgotten and both sides sent up a shriek of anger and hatred. Balmuk covered his ears to keep out the piercing noise. For a moment he stood between the two warring factions and nearly was destroyed by them, but a narrow tunnel was just ahead and he dove through it with all that was left of his gang just as the clans converged.

Like two tremendous, crushing waves, the Gnoll-orcs came together, but Balmuk left them far behind, tearing through the tunnels as fast as he could. The walls around him trembled with the sound; great stones fell from above. A few straggling Gnolls ran towards them, hurrying to join the fight, but Balmuk cut them down and ran on, escaping into the dark.

He had lost four good lads to that fight, two to the Gnolls and two more to falling boulders from above, but with six left behind him, they hurried on, taking more care now and sending their own scouts ahead to avoid any more unwanted attention. There were many rumors of the western hills, dangerous creatures worse than orc tribes and trolls, but Balmuk was not afraid. He regretted the loss of his lads only because it lessened his strength. The old Sentinel had kept the tunnels around his home clean of vermin for many miles, but it had been days since he died, and there could be other gangs of orcs looking to claim the hoard left behind. Balmuk could not take the risk that all the earlier adventurers had been killed in the snow fall.

And so, as much as he hated to creep along like a frightened mouse, twitching at every shadow, he took care. In his mind, the cavern was already his, but there may yet be a fight and he would be ready for it.

The slow march took time, but the night of the fifth day since the death of the troll – the second night after Fili, Kili and Betta had crossing the bridge over the chasm – on that night, the orcs from Carn Dum arrived in the cavern above.

They came up through the wide, eastern passage and entered the troll's hall, while Fili and Kili were sitting in the dark and worrying over Betta's breathlessness down below. Balmuk set up his throne at the top of the cavern and ordered a great fire to be lit in celebration of his new kingdom. He bore yet the bloody wounds of battles fought in the tunnels. One particular cave troll, a stunted thing that had been startled out of its hole by the passing orcs, had nearly taken his eye out, but the victory was all the sweeter for the price he had paid for it. He was king now, if only of a handful of lads, but that would soon be amended. Others would flock to his rule once they heard how well of he was.

There was no one to contest his claim over the cavern and the hoard within. He laughed as his lads feasted on the great mound of rotten meat that the dwarves had been unable to stomach. They piled all the iron and rusted steel in a heap before Balmuk's throne and then set to singing such loud and terrible songs that not even the torrent of the falling waters would have prevented them from being heard by the sharp-eared dwarves if they had not already moved on. Fili and Kili were too far away to have their blood chilled by the knowledge of what dangers had just arrived over their heads.

Tonight, the orcs would celebrate – Balmuk knew enough of leadership to give his lads their due – but tomorrow, he would order a search of all the tunnels and caves below his new home. He was eager to know what other dainties the old troll might have left behind for him to find, what sweeter meats there may be, what gold and treasures tucked away.

.

But that was last night, and it was now noon today. More than a mile below the troll's cavern, but many miles along the winding tunnels, Fili and Kili stood in a small cave and stared down at a crack in the wall. The tokens that the orcs had left behind – not Balmuk's orcs, but others, for there are always others in the mountains – lay on the floor in front of them, warning them of the danger that they had hoped to leave behind at Evendim. The brothers spoke together quietly, considering the few options that they had left while Betta stood alone beside the flat stone and looked down into the shallow pool. Her thoughts were far away from theirs, wandering along forgotten paths.

A Dwarf might have been able to guess at what minerals were soaked into the water that dripped down from the ceiling and built slowly over the years the marching ranks of stalactite and stalagmite, but Betta could not, and she did not know why those pillars had grown only around the perimeter of the room while the ceiling over the pool was shaped like the bottom of a gently curving bowl. The light and shadow in the room mingled on the surface of the pool and turned the still water to silver glass reflecting the image of Betta's face, but it was some time before she recognized herself.

She was paler now, and thinner, the dark circles under her eyes made her appear far older than she knew she was, but those eyes were too empty to be her own, her mind insisted. That woman down there had no family, but she had no hope either and no meaning, no quest to carry her along through her life like the current that had carried Betta. That woman there lay under the waters, drowning peacefully and Betta could not.

A drop fell from the ceiling and struck the still pool with a single, soft tap. It broke the surface tension of the water, sending ripples running in all directions and breaking Betta's reflection into a hundred pieces of shadow. The sound of the droplet echoed in Betta's ears and she looked up suddenly. The darkness of the tunnels had driven from her mind the dream that she had had two nights ago on the moonlit shelf in the chasm. At once, she remembered the face that had looked up at her, and the voice that had spoken to her from the waters.

"Let go," it had told her then, and she had thought that it tempted her to let go of the cliff's edge and let her body fall into the river. Why had she refused? At least then she might have died never knowing that her quest had failed.

Another droplet fell, another tap on the pond as if someone were tapping his impatient fingers against a table.

Betta frowned. The voice had not said to let go and let her quest fail. It had said that her quest would fail if she did not let go. She would gladly have given her life if it meant finding the hope and satisfaction that she had sought for so long, but if she died now, then her quest would end, and that would mean failure… wouldn't it? Or, would it? Was that was she was being told to do, to let go of her quest? To let it end.

Lost in the maze of her thoughts, her eyes drifted slowly toward the dwarves. She knew that they had found something. She could tell by the set of their shoulders that they were worried, but she couldn't think what worse could happen to them than being buried alive. Fili's pale hair shone like silver in the dim sunlight, and her frown deepened when she thought of the danger that she had put him in, him and his brother. If anything happened to Kili, Fili would never forgive her.

.

Balmuk's throne was, in truth, little more than a pile of iron and cloth fashioned into a chair. It had held up well throughout the night while he tossed and turned, growling in his sleep, but the same could not be said of Balmuk. He woke with a knot in his back and a foul taste in his mouth. The six lads that were left to him had thrown themselves down upon the ground to sleep after last night's revelries.

After sucking his tongue sullenly for awhile, Balmuk realized what it was that he was missing. In this place, there was no ale, not even the thick grog that they brewed in the dungeons of Carn Dum. His gang had drunk all that they had brought with them from home. His head ached, and he muttered a curse, heaving himself up off his throne and kicking the lad nearest to him which turned out to be his lieutenant.

"Get up now, me lad. There's work to be done," he shouted. He had never taken the time to learn his lieutenant's name. The rank was conveyed by the fact that Balmuk called him 'me lad' instead of scum or vermin or whatever curse he chose to give the others.

Me'lad grunted in his sleep and opened his eyes. "Not until we've had a drink," he muttered.

"Then drag yourself to that fetid stream down below and dunk your head in it. I'll have you up," Balmuk said, kicking him again. "There's work to do and caves to search."

Me'lad grunted again, but he sat up and looked around. "This place is a hole," he grumbled, climbing slowly to his feet.

Balmuk let that go. It was a hole, he thought, looking around. A bad night's sleep had done wonders to open his eyes to the place. There was meat, certainly, but no drink, and there were no little orcs for his lads to bully. If he could not keep them busy, there'd be trouble and no mistake.

"Up then, you scum!" he shouted to the rest of them. "We've got caves to search."

A chorus of grumbling answered him and he saw Me'lad smirk.

"As you please, then, maggots," Balmuk hissed through clenched teeth, "but if there's another gang or an army of dwarves hidden in this hill, I'll not lift a finger to stop them gutting you." He threw himself down on his throne again, ignoring the sharp iron that poked into his back, and tried to look indifferent.

It was enough, at least, to get the others moving. Five of his lads were up and searching the cavern with torches in hand. Every cave was explored and every tunnel looked into, but Me'lad stood, kicking his heels in the corner, and watching the bustle. Balmuk glared at him. He had known that that one would be trouble one day. The rest of them were small and skittish worms, and the few lads he'd had with any spirit had stayed behind at the fortress. Of the ones who came along, only Me'lad had any brains in his head, but he'd also shown the greatest interest in taking over the gang after Balmuk was gone.

"Well, Me'lad, get at it," Balmuk snapped.

But his lieutenant only smiled and bowed. "What manner of king would you be if you sat on your little stool without your guard to attend you?" he sneered.

"Attend me! By Melga's hairy, black mole! The only thing you guard is your own back, now be off or I'll stick a knife in you!"

Me'lad bared his teeth and set his hand on the hilt of his blunt scimitar. It was he who had skewered the Gnoll scout and brought the wrath of Gatna's folk upon them, but before he had made up his mind whether to give the same treatment to Balmuk, a great cry went up from the western side of the cavern. The other lads had gathered around a cave and were fighting over something.

"Dirty maggots!" Balmuk shouted. "What are you on about?"

He jumped down from his throne and rushed across the cavern, but already one of his lads had stuck a knife into the other, killing him. The remaining four fought over something square and brown and would soon have killed each other for it if Balmuk had not intervened.

"What is that? Give it here!" He snatched the thing away from them and the rest of the lads cowered down as he swung his blade over their heads.

"I found it in the cave, captain," one of them said.

"Nah, you didn't! I found it there!" another protested.

"You'll find a knife in your belly if you don't shut your mouth. Which cave was it?" Balmuk demanded.

"There." All four pointed to the small opening near to where they stood.

Several torches had been dropped inside during the scuffle but they still burned bright enough to show a small cave, a dozen feet deep. Inside were several rusted iron bars and a handful of leather ties. The blackened remains of a campfire lay scattered about the center of the cave, but it was clear the place had been lived in.

"Spies!" Me'lad shouted, and the others crowded around.

"Not spies," Balmuk muttered, looking down at the thing in his hands. He held up the prize, eager to distract his gang from their internal squabbles. "This is the work of Dwarf-scum!" he cried.

The square, brown thing was in fact Kili's discarded quiver. His bow had been broken by the troll and the few arrows that he had left were damaged beyond repair. With all the wood and supplies that they had bundled together, the quiver itself would have gotten in the way of the pack that he carried. Reluctantly, he had cut off the belt – that, at least, they might have a use for – and left the quiver behind.

Hearing the name of Dwarf, the other orcs gave a shout and cursed. One of them made as if to spit on the quiver, but Balmuk snatched it back again. "No," he said. "This thing is mine, but I offer it as reward to the first of you who stains his sword with the blood of the Dwarf who left it here!"

Again, the orcs cried out, each one shouting that he would draw first blood. Me'lad was silent, however, and eyed the quiver with a gleam in his eyes. As worn and ugly as it was, it was a prize that would mark any orc that carried it as a Dwarf-killer, a title that would win him respect from all the orcs of the fortress.

"It should be mine," he growled. "I am second here and if you do not want it for yourself, then it should be mine!"

"And it will be yours, Me'lad, if you kill the dwarf first," Balmuk said with mock kindness in his voice. "And you'll only do that if you search with the rest of the maggots."

Me'lad glared at Balmuk and fingered his knife, but he was not ready to challenge his captain yet. The others were still loyal enough and might stick a knife in him to earn favor with their 'king'.

"Breakfast first, and then we'll be off," Balmuk said, waving his arm down at the body of the freshly killed orc. With luck, they'd find dwarf flesh to chew on for dinner, but for now, he was eager for a bit of fun. With a bit of careful planning, by the end of the day's hunt, Me'lad would be biting cold steel instead of bread and that would be the end of Balmuk's troubles.

I've always found strict adherence to a timeline to be a bit restrictive (read: boring), so I can't promise that all the two-days-ago-this and three-nights-later-that will be exactly right from here on out (if anyone wants to go back and count the days of their quest for me, don't think I wouldn't be grateful). If you notice any mistakes, let me know ASAP and I'll try to fix them, but for now, it might be simpler for you to draw upon one of Tolkien's own tricks, the Unreliable Narrator... which I suppose I honestly am.

A word of advice to all you young writers: do not try to edit your chapters while drunk. It will only end in tears and some very strangely spelt adjectives.

-Paint