The Lost Colony

by poulin.b23

Readers of The Lord of the Rings have long known the fate of the Mines of Moria. The dwarves dug too greedily and too deep, awakening a Balrog, the demon of the ancient world which destroyed the once thriving subterranean city of Khazad-dûm. When the Fellowship journeys through the mines, they come across the skeletal remains of the brave dwarves who tried to recolonize the ancien

To John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, whose work has helped me navigate through many Morias.

PREFACE

Concerning Dwarves

(1 ) Dark Dreams

(2) Durin's Day

(3) A Kingdom Divided

(4) Drawing Lines

(5) Exodus From Erebor

(6) The Grey Mountains

(7) Along the Anduin

(8) The East Gate

(9) Treasures in the Dark

(10) Truesilver

(11) Relics Found

(12) Nameless Things

(13) The Way is Shut

(14) The Collapse

(15) Silence

(16) Sorrow

(17) Crowned at Last

(18) Drums in the Deep

(19) Shadow and Flame

(20) Flight to the Hollin Gate

(21) The End Comes

Epilogue

Preface

When I was eleven years old, a friend of mine gave a presentation in front of our class about a book he had read recently. I remember my friend nervously fumbling over his words while trying to explain a long and complex story involving Dwarves, a dragon and something called a hobbit. As he tried in vain to tell the class what a hobbit was, the book's cover caught my eye; green and blue with mysterious symbols around the edges. After he sat down beside me, convinced that his presentation had been a flop, I asked to borrow the book, and thankfully, he agreed to lend it to me. This marked the beginning of my fascination with the world J.R.R. Tolkein created which became an important part of my own world for the rest of my life.

After reading The Hobbit, I was pleased to learn that there was more, much more to this story, and went back to the library and borrowed The Fellowship of the Ring. When I finished that book and went to check out the next in the series, I was disappointed to find that someone else had already borrowed the library's sole copy of The Two Towers and I would just have to wait until they returned it.

Not wanting to leave Middle Earth while I waited for some unknown reader to finish, I went back and reread my favorite parts again and again. The Fellowship's journey through the Mines of Moria was one of the parts that I couldn't get enough of. Something about its labyrinthine passages, hidden treasures, and unseen dangers ensnared my imagination. There seemed to be something new around every corner. But, like many other readers, my list of questions continued to grow with every reading. Many of these questions, I still don't have answers for (who is Tom Bombadil, anyway?).

I respect that, in Tolkein's words, "even in a mythical Age there must be some enigmas, as there always are," but that does little to quell my curiosity, especially after the Peter Jackson films portrayed Moria in such a mysterious and awe-inspiring way. The scene when the Fellowship discover Balin's tomb in the Chamber of Mazarbul was as moving as it was thought-provoking. Why did Balin undertake such a dangerous expedition in the first place? What calamities had befallen the colony, and how did it all go so wrong?

The Fellowship, especially relating to the fate of the Ring, seemed to be guided by unseen forces intent on aiding our heroes in their quest. Despite hardship, loss and encircling evils, the Ring still finds its way into the fires of Mount Doom as if unable to escape its fate. Even with the Scouring of the Shire among other casualties of the War of the Ring, the Fellowship's mission was an overall success despite the terrible cost.

However, not all stories have happy endings, and sometimes the rewards are not worth the price paid for them. Some quests are destined to suffer the fate of unavoidable catastrophe. As J.R.R. Tolkien described in his writings in "The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm's Son," a would-be hero can fall victim to ofermod, an Old English word meaning something akin to a dangerous overconfidence or fool hardiness. Tolkien goes on to describe how one motive for these individuals doomed to failure is tied to lofgeornost, another Old English word which summarizes the relentless desire for glory that drives these leaders and their equally ill-fated followers ever closer to an inescapable tragedy. The Lost Colony is the story of how one individual's destructive quest for glory, pride, and honor leads himself and others to one inexorable end.

Concerning Dwarves

In the Dwarvish traditions of the Third Age, the seven fathers of the Dwarves were created by the Vala Aule, and were later "awakened" at various points across Middle Earth, though only two of these were known to Elves and Men. In the West of Middle Earth, the ancestors of the Firebeards and the Broadbeams awoke near the Blue Mountains. In the wide lands to the East, the fathers of four other houses (the Ironfists, Stiffbeards, Blacklocks and Stonefoots) awoke:. Little is known about these sundered eastern kindreds and they would often face suspicion from other clans. Durin, the ancestor of the Longbeards, awoke at Mount Gundabad in the far North and here the seven clans would later hold assemblies until the sacred mountain was taken by Orcs. In times of great need even the most distant would send help to any of their people; as was the case in the great War against the Orcs (Third Age 2793 to 2799).

Aule himself created Khuzdul, the secret language of the Dwarves and taught it to Durin and the other six fathers of the Dwarves when they first awoke. The Dwarves do teach their tongue to other races and guard it like their other prized treasures. It is a harsh and intricate language, so that even their closest friends rarely learn to speak it. Khuzdul changed little over the years and served as a lingua franca for the disparate tribes of wandering Dwarves. By the late Third Age, it had become a tongue of lore rather than a first language. All the same, the Dwarves tended it and guarded it as a relic of the past. Conversely, the Dwarves learned other languages quickly, to conduct business with their neighbors and eventually came to use these tongues more often than their own.

The Dwarves had "inner" names in their own language which were only used among themselves (on solemn occasions) and kept strictly secret from other peoples, and therefore never spelt them out in writing or inscriptions meant for or likely to be seen by strangers. Not even on their tombs do they inscribe them for fear of revealing their true names to outsiders. Because of this, you will not find any of the Dwarves' "inner names" revealed in the following account.

In times or places where they had dealings, in trade or friendship, with their neighbors, they adopted "outer" names such as Balin or Thorin. These were usually names that were easier to pronounce in nearby native tongues and made interactions easier while allowing the secretive Dwarves to retain possession of their coveted inner identities.

Although many of the Dwarves in this story are males, there were indeed Dwarf women. However, only approximately one-third of their population consisted of women, which was the reason for the slow increase in population of the race. Moreover, while Dwarf-men outnumbered Dwarf-women two to one, less than half of Dwarf-men actually married: many preferred to spend their time with their crafts instead. Meanwhile, many Dwarf-women never took a husband either: some desire none, or desired one who could not or would not marry them, in which case they would have no other and lived a solitary life instead.

Dwarves wanted their women to be protected from other races, so they usually kept them concealed inside their mountain halls. They seldom traveled in the outside world, only in great need, and when they did, they were dressed as men; with similar voice and appearance as male Dwarves, even when they are rarely seen, they were usually mistaken for a male.

It is then said that Dwarves marry late, seldom before they are ninety or more, and that they have few children. To these they are devoted, often rather fiercely: that is, they may treat them with apparent harshness (especially in the desire to ensure that they shall grow up tough, hardy, unyielding), but they defend them with all their power and resent injuries to them even more than to themselves. The same is true of the attitude of children to parents. For an injury to a father a Dwarf may spend a life-time in achieving revenge. Since the kings or heads of lines are regarded as parents of the whole group, it will be understood how it was that the whole of Durin's Race gathered and marshaled itself to avenge the death of King Thrór.

The Longbeards, the proudest of the seven kindreds, considered themselves the wisest and the most farseeing. Men held them in awe and were eager to learn from them; and the Longbeards were very willing to use Men for their own purposes. Dwarves found no joy in tilling the land or growing their own food and would gladly trade their wares to avoid this toil.

In the First Age of Middle Earth, Durin came upon the valley of Azanulbizar beneath the Misty Mountains. He looked into a shimmering lake and saw a crown of stars reflected in its waters. He named that lake Kheled-zâram, the Mirrormere, and it remained a revered place among Dwarves of all houses ever afterwards, and the Durin's Stone was erected on the location of that event.

There, in the caves above, Durin and his people started the delving and building of the Great Gates of Khazad-dûm and the First Hall leading to a bridge over a chasm. From there began the expansion, both to Levels above and to Deeps below, and mines expanding out from the inhabited areas of the city proper.

As the centuries passed, the realm of Durin became the greatest of all their mansions and became famous even in distant lands. Durin the Deathless died before the end of the First Age and was buried in a tomb in Khazad-dûm, and his descendants continued to rule, spreading down the Vales of Anduin and also eastward to the Iron Hills, where the mines were their chief source of iron-ore. They regarded the Iron Hills, the Ered Mithrin, and the east dales of the Misty Mountains as their own land.

In the second age, Sauron gifted Rings of power to each of the Dwarf kings in an attempt to bring the seven clans under his control. The Dwarf Lords proved resistant to the malevolent magic of the Rings, as they are hard to tame, and the thoughts of their hearts are hidden. Rumors and suspicion spread among the seven dwarven clans in these dark days. A rift grew between the kingdoms when Longbeards accused the eastern tribes of aiding Sauon. Whether true or not, the scars of this divide would linger long into the future.

The seven Rings were used only for the gaining of wealth, amplifying their wearer's natural skills and desire for dominion. As a consequence, the Dwarves became greedy and exceedingly rich; the Rings gave them the power to multiply whatever they mined. The most famous was the Ring of Thrór, which remained in the house of Durin for thousands of years, becoming a symbol of authority and right to rule.

Most of Khazad-dûm's great wealth was based on the rare metal Mithril that was found in its mines, and as the centuries passed, the Dwarves delved deeper and deeper for the precious material. In the year 1980 of the Third Age, their greedy delving unleashed a terror from the Elder Days that wreaked dreadful destruction, and in slaying the King, Durin VI, became known as Durin's Bane.

In the following year, Durin's son, Náin I, was also lost, and the Dwarves fled their ancient home. Years later, when Thráin set out on an ill-fated quest to regain his kingdom, he was captured by the spies of Sauron, and the Ring of Thrór was lost forever. Many Dwarves, however, did not know the fate of the priceless heirloom, but held out hope that it could one day be reclaimed. With four of the dwarven rings consumed by dragons and two already reclaimed by Sauron, the Ring of Thrór was the Dwarves' last chance to regain an ancient symbol of regal authority. Hopeful Dwarves believed the missing Ring to have been lost in Moria when Thrór was killed by Azog. To those seeking power and fame, no price would be too high to attain the last dwarven Ring of power.

After millennia as one of the richest cities in Middle-earth, Khazad-dûm stood dark and empty, but for the brooding menace the Dwarves had released. In that time it was given a new name, Moria, the Black Pit. The monster - a Balrog of Morgoth, as was later known - lurked alone in Moria for nearly five hundred years. After that time, Orcs made secret strongholds in the Mountains and Sauron started to populate the old city of Khazad-dûm with his creatures. Orcs from the North began to enter the abandoned city to raid its treasuries, and occupy it. Though the Orcs' numbers were greatly reduced in the Battle of Azanulbizar fought in the valley beneath Moria's East-gate, the Balrog could not be bested, and Khazad-dûm remained a place of darkness.

Among other tales, The Red Book of Westmarch contains the story of the Fellowship of the Ring, including their passage through the Mines of Moria. The account was mostly written by Frodo Baggins along with corrections and additions from his faithful companion Samwise Gamgee. Although the Fellowship spent more than three days traversing through the mines, the account of their harrowing adventures may seem abbreviated to those readers wanting to know more about Khazad-dûm's unseen mysteries that lay just beyond the hobbits' perspective. Fortunately for those so interested, the Fellowship came across the Book of Mazarbul, a lengthy, albeit heavily damaged, chronicle recounting the mysterious colony briefly mentioned by Glóin at the Council of Elrond. Balin had set off to reclaim Moria almost thirty years prior but after initial successes had not been heard from for many years. Balin's concerned kin came to Rivendell seeking answers but left with even more questions. It was only when the Fellowship discovered Balin's tomb that the tragic truth was revealed.

Due to untimely interruptions from Orcs, trolls and even a demon of the ancient world, we the readers are treated to only a few tantalizing lines from the massive tome. Snippets such as "gold" and "Mithril" invoke visions of the fantastic wealth the colonists found within Moria. However, when Gandalf reads lines such as "We cannot get out. The end comes," "Drums, drums in the deep," and finally, "They are coming." We are left to imagine the colonists' terrible fate.

What became of the Book of Mazarbul is unclear, but when Durin VII finally reclaimed Moria in the Fourth Age, the Longbeards discovered many other documents that had survived the colony's calamitous destruction. We must remember that, for seven years, Balin's colony was a living community made up of individuals, each with their own hopes, dreams, and fears. Although the Book of Mazarbul is often attributed to Ori, he was by no means the only Dwarf in the colony who recorded his thoughts and experiences. What follows is a narrative retelling of the rise and fall of the Lost Colony, based in part on these written accounts as well as the many mysterious clues left behind in the dark labyrinth of Moria.

1

Dark Dreams

Thousands of marching Dwarves kicked clouds of dust into the air, obscuring the sun and making the dark winter day even more somber. The host of stomping warriors rattled up the ascending path though a stand of pines stunted by harsh winters. Beside the trail, a frigid stream trickled over broken stones. Dwarves from all seven kindreds marched side by side, hungry for the climactic battle that awaited them. Towering above them, the three peaks of Khazad-dûm frowned down at the advancing army, unimpressed with their keen axes and bright mail.

"Hurry up, you two," Fundin called to his two sons.

The young Balin hopped nimbly over a fallen oak tree and hurried forward to march in step on his father's right side, while his younger brother Dwalin took his place on the left. The three Dwarves marched along immersed in the middle of the massive host. A cold wind rushed down from the mountaintops and into their faces. Balin and Dwalin bent their heads to hide from the icy blast, but their father did not flinch. His face remained hard and resolute like a stone that had weathered many storms.

"Are we close?" Balin asked his father.

Before Fundin could answer, a great noise came from the front of the army which had just reached the top of the steep slope. The roar grew louder until all around Balin, fierce-faced Dwarves were joining into the wordless battle cry. The pace quickened, and Balin was pushed up the path with the others until he reached the crest and looked upon in a wide valley. Balin knew from many dwarven songs and tales that before him lay the Dimrill Dale or Azanulbizar, as they would say in their secretive tongue. At the bottom of the dale was a long lake, whose glasslike surface reflected the overcast sky and looked like a spearpoint of cold steel thrusted into the heart of the mountains to where it was fed by the stair falls rushing down from unseen heights.

The host of Dwarves continued to howl wildly as if they were trying to bring down mountains with their voices. Balin stood on his toes to see what had excited such a hearty reaction. At first, Balin could not believe his eyes. He had thought the western slopes had come to life and the stones were writhing with fervent energy. To his horror, Balin then realized that what he saw were thousands of Orcs amassing for a mighty battle while still more poured out of the mountains from an ominous gate less than a mile away.

Even without counting, Balin knew the Dwarves were outnumbered many times over. He had been told that they were going to meet other dwarven forces before the battle began. King Thrain's force now seemed pitifully overmatched by so many entrenched enemies. At thirty-six years of age (still a youth by Dwarf standards), Balin had never before seen combat and the sight of so many Orcs utterly terrified him. Fear and despair grasped his heart with their cold fingers and his body began to shake in fear.

Up ahead, King Thráin stepped forward near a tall stone column. He paced along the dwarven lines, fuming with righteous fury as he addressed his assembled army. The clamor sent up by so many insensenced warriors was so loud that Balin could not hear a single word his king was saying. He could only guess that it had something to do with the grizzly murder of the king's father which had started this calamitous war in the first place. Balin glanced to his left and saw his father gripping the shaft of his axe tightly and knew that the great battle was about to begin. He looked to his brother, who was staring at the distant slope with wide eyes. He tried to ask his father what was going on, but suddenly, the whole mass of Dwarves started moving forward together as if it was one solid angry animal, bristling with thousands of sharp spines. Balin was pushed forward in the charge, crushed between strangers and stumbling over loose stones he could not see. The ground beneath his feet began to rise, and their pace quickened. In the galloping chaos, Balin tried to glance around for his father but saw only a blur of steel and dust. On the higher ground ahead, Balin could see Thráin and the vanguard rushing toward the awaiting Orcs.

There was a loud crash as the lines met upon the slope, and so began the Battle of Azanulbizar, at the memory of which the Orcs still shudder and the Dwarves weep. Balin was forced headlong into the immovable mass of bodies in front of him as more Dwarves pressed him from behind. Balin could not see the front lines, but he could hear the howls of Orcs and the throaty yells of the vanguard locked in deadly combat. Eager for their share of blood and glory, the mass of Dwarves continued pushing forward, pressing hard onto the immovable enemy line. Balin felt as though he was caught in a vice with nowhere to go. He felt the pressure of countless bodies squeezing the air from his lungs and pinning his arms to his sides. It was all he could to keep his feet under him. At times, he was even lifted clear off the ground in the relentless ebb and flow of the surging throng. Balin called frantically for his father and brother, but he could not even hear his own voice over the cacophony, let alone find them in the chaos. Balin was pushed ever closer to the fray and the sounds of battle grew louder, and although he could still not see the front lines, he knew he was getting close to the violent heart of the battle. His own heart pounded in his chest and his head felt light. Any second now, he would be face to face with countless bloodthirsty Orcs. At the thought, he began breathing rapidly, his head twisting from one side to the other, desperately searching for an escape.

Suddenly, several horns began to blow, and Balin felt the constricting wall of bodies give way around him. He stumbled on his shaky legs and fell to the ground, dropping his axe and shield. Balin crawled on trembling hands, searching for his lost weapon, but before he could find it, a stampede of Dwarves were now rushing back down the slope in a hasty retreat. Unable to escape, Balin was trampled by his fleeing comrades and his iron helm was knocked from his head. Heavy footfalls pounded the young Dwarf into the sharp stones until he was bloodied and battered. Balin grasped desperately at passing legs, clawing for any way to raise himself off the unforgiving ground. Finally, a passing Dwarf tripped over him, and Balin used this moment to spring to his feet as quickly as he could. He gasped for air and wiped the blood and sweat from his bleary eyes.

Balin caught a glimpse of the black wall of Orcs careening down the slope towards him. He saw sharp fangs gnashing and notched scimitars grasped in clawed hands. He spun around and joined the retreat as quickly as he could. So terrified was he that he did not feel his many wounds. The only thing in Balin's mind at that time, was outrunning his pursuers. He frantically followed the flow of his retreating compatriots all the way past the lake and the standing stone. He then tripped over a loose rock and tumbled down the steep slope. Struggling to his feet, he saw the pursuing Orcs routing any stragglers they could catch. Balin recoiled in horror as he saw the slow and injured Dwarves being hacked to pieces by the evil-eyed Orcs.

Balin hurried to rejoin the other Dwarves, who were now reforming their lines among the stand of short bent pine trees. He dove between the line of shields and fell upon a soft floor of dry orange needles. Balin remained like this for a moment catching his breath and wishing he had never come along on this terrible crusade.

"Where is your weapon?" boomed a harsh voice from above.

Balin rolled onto his back and saw his father looking down at him through his raised cowering hands. Fundin held in his hands a heavy axe, dripping with dark orc blood. His grim face was carved with deep lines of disgust. Silhouetted against the overcast sky, Fundin frowned down at his frightened son, who quaked at his feet with tears in his eyes. Balin tried to speak, but his mouth could not form the words. His chest felt tight, and his lungs refused to fill with air.

Just then, the wave of Orcs smashed into the dwarven lines and chaos reigned under the mountain's shadow. Fundin turned away from to join the raging battle, leaving Balin alone upon the forest floor. Balin rose to his feet once again, eager to rush to his father's side and prove his worth. Balin was soon surrounded by scenes of slaughter. He watched the king's son Thorin, though bleeding from many wounds, fight furiously against uncounted enemies. With a splintering shield, the young prince flailed his axe wildly while trying to defend his younger brother Ferin, whose lifeless body lay slumped against the fallen oak tree. In his search for his father, Balin passed the king himself, blinded in one eye and suffering a terrible wound to his leg, still standing and fending off many foes.

Balin spotted a knot of several eastern Dwarves locked in combat with a pack of long armed Orcs. Their distinctive braided beards, adorned with gold, dripped with blood and sweat. The easterners were vastly outnumbered and were at the brink of being completely surrounded by the ammassing Orcs. Their leader shouted orders in a foreign tongue, and the Dwarves broke from the fight, running away to a safer position closer to the other skirmishers. One Dwarf remained fighting and did not retreat while the others fled.

It was Fundin, fighting alone and surrounded on all sides by Orcs. Balin watched in awe as his father took the challengers single handedly. With mighty strokes, the elder Dwarf lopped off limbs and heads like a farmer reaping a gruesome harvest.

Weaponless and without his helm, Balin rushed forward and tackled one of his father's attackers just before the Orc could bring down his crooked blade. Balin wrestled on the ground with his powerful foe. The Orc snapped his fierce jaws in Balin's face and dug his claws into his flesh. Balin struggled mightily, but the orc was too strong and soon began to overpower him. The Orc pinned Balin to the ground by his throat and raised his blade for the killing blow. Balin whimpered and closed his eyes, feebly pawing at his assailant. Balin heard the swift swish of an axe blade. Although the Orc's hand still gripped him tightly, when Balin opened his eyes, he saw that his enemy had lost his head, and all that was left was the bloody stump of a neck.

"Get up!" Fundin shouted, bending over to push the lifeless corpse off his son.

Balin fearfully clutched Fundin's leg and looked up at his father. Bent over the quivering Balin, Fundin's disgusted face was terrible to behold. His helm had slid forward obscuring his glaring eyes in shadow. His jaw was clenched and beneath his beard, his mouth was a tight frown.

"Father…," Balin began, coughing out the words "I…I…"

Just then, an arrow from an unseen orc struck Fundin in the base of the neck, just below his canted helmet. He was dead before his limp body fell onto Balin.

"Hurry!" cried Náin. "Dwarves are dying!"

The Lord of the Iron Hills led his army in an uphill charge toward a wooded slope where a horrific slaughter was underway. His young son Dáin followed close behind. The oversized axe in Dain's hands felt impossibly heavy after marching all day, but he made sure not to let his father see his weariness. They were supposed to have combined forces with King Thráin before attacking the gates of Moria, but Dáin could tell by the sounds of battle and death echoing out from the dark trees, that clearly things had not gone according to plan. He followed his father into the pines and saw the last surviving Dwarves fighting for their lives against a stream of Orcs that continued to pour into the wood. Bodies littered the forest floor, staining the orange needles with pools of fresh blood.

Náin was the first to engage the enemy, felling Orcs with every stroke of his axe. His heavy armor turned aside many blades and barbs and his mailed soldiers saw their lord as an unstoppable force that would surely lead them to victory. The fresh troops advanced among the trees, eager to gain glory in the historic battle.

Dáin was fighting at his father's side when he saw a familiar face in the chaos. A relative of his, Thorin, son of the king, was standing over a corpse, defending himself with a thick tree branch as Orcs jabbed at him with their sharp swordpoints. The young prince was pierced with many wounds but refused to give up an inch of ground to his attackers. Dáin rushed to his kinsman's aid, scrambling over a tangle of bodies, both Dwarf and Orc. When he reached Thorin's side, he cut the legs out from under a tall orc chieftain and then made quick work of the rest. Years of training under his father's close direction served him well until he stood alone with Thorin. Without a word, Thorin fell to the ground and wrapped his arms around the motionless body that lay upon the needles. Dáin saw then that Thorin was cradling his slain brother Frerin. Thorin wept and cursed the Orcs who had cut down the young prince.

Dáin struggled to find words to comfort his cousin, but could think of none. What could he say to one grieving such a terrible loss. He looked back towards his father and saw that he had battled his way far up the pathway. He and his forces had pushed the Orcs out of the woods and were pursuing them over the crest of the slope. Dáin left Thorin and ran to join in the assault.

Catching up to his father's forces at the top of the incline, Dáin looked upon the Dimrill Dale for the first time in his waking life. He had seen Azanulbizar so clearly in his imagination as a youth, but never did he expect the reality to look so terrible. Scenes of horrible violence and bloodlust filled the wide valley. The clear waters of the Mirrormere were stained with clouds of dark blood, and everywhere he looked, Dáin saw Dwarves and Orcs hacking away at each other. As one body fell, two more stepped forward to throw themselves into the incarnadine carnage. One voice rose above the rest.

"AZOG! AZOG! AZOG!" Náin bellowed, cutting through the Orc lines surrounded by a contingent of mattock wielding warriors.

Even after nine years of war, fought for the most part in dark places beneath the earth, Náin's hatred for the Orc who murdered King Thrór and carved his name upon his severed head had only grown stronger with time. His blinding rage could not be quelled until he brought down his sworn enemy.

"Wait!" cried Dáin.

But his voice was lost in the racket of battle while his father continued his charge toward the very threshold of Moria under the mountains' shadow, cutting down all who stood in his way.

Dáin set off in pursuit but was waylaid by many Orcs who leaped at him from both sides of the narrow roadway. He tumbled over and upon countless corpses on his wretched ascent until he came near to the great gates. Looking both exhausted and murderous with fury Náin stood upon the ancient steps with his bodyguard. His feet were spread wide and his hungry mattock dripped with dark blood.

"Azog! If you are in, come out! Or is the play in the valley too rough?" he called.

Out from the shadowy depths of Moria emerged a great and powerful orc. His huge head was iron-clad, and he appeared agile and strong. With him came many like him, the most ferocious fighters of his guard. They threw themselves at the Dwarves, and a terrible melee was waged upon the ancient steps of Moria. Dáin saw this and fought harder through a gauntlet of remaining Orcs to come to his father's aid. He saw Náin slay several of the Orc chief's warriors but could tell by his labored movements that the lord was growing weary.

Azog cut down the last of Náin's companions and the pair of foes found themselves alone upon the steps. Then the great Orc called to the Dwarf in an evil voice,

"What? Yet another beggar at my doors? Must I brand you, too?" he cackled.

With that, he rushed at Náin and they fought alone upon the threshold of Moria. While the old lord grew weaker with each attack and parry, Azog was fresh and fell and full of guile. Soon, Náin made a great stroke with all his strength that remained, but Azog darted aside and kicked his opponent's leg. Náin overswung and missed Azog completely, splintering his mattock on the stone. Pushing another slain orc aside, Dáin saw his father stumble forward on exhausted legs. Then Azog, with a swift swing, hewed Náin's neck. The Dwarf's mail-collar withstood the edge, but so heavy was the blow that his neck was broken and he fell upon the top stair like a corpse.

Azog laughed with a hideous howl, and he lifted up his head to let forth a great yell of triumph, but the cry died in his throat as he saw that all his host in the valley was in a rout. King Thráin and his son Thorin had led a counteroffensive out of the pines. The surviving Dwarves and their matchless weapons were utterly destroying Azog's forces, slaughtering some ten thousand Orcs in the valley below. The few Orcs that could escape from them were flying south, shrieking as they ran. Alone and vulnerable, Azog turned to flee back inside the gate to hide in one of Moria's darkest voids.

With the lightning-quick speed of vengeful youth, a Dwarf with a red axe sprang up the stairs before Azog could escape. With one powerful swing, Dáin hewed the head from Azog's shoulders. With a heavy thud, Azog's head struck the hard stone and tumbled down the steps past the Náin's stone-still body. Hundreds of Dwarves bellowed roars of victory with their notched axes held high knowing that the young Dáin had just ended the war with a single stroke.

But the Dwarves' victory had come at a terrible cost. So many Dwarves had perished in the fighting that it was beyond the count of grief. The wailing sobs of mourners mingled with the relieved ovations of the survivors that the whole Dimrill Dale was a sad symphony of sound.

Standing alone in the shadow of the gate, Dáin let his red axe fall to the ground and rushed to his fallen father whose head was turned at a sickening angle. Dáin gently turned the body over and gazed into Náin's eyes that were open wide. The lifeless orbs stared into the nothingness of Moria behind his weeping son. Dáin's tears fell upon his father's face that was frozen in a look of horror stricken shock. Dáin was appalled by the awful sight and looked away. He wiped stinging tears from his tired eyes and looked within the open gate of Moria. Like an open mouth hungry for prey, it gaped over and around Dáin as if trying to consume him.

Then, out of the impossibly dense darkness came a light from deep inside the mountain. Dáin held his father's body tightly and quaked in fear as the menacing light came toward him out of the gloom. Faint at first but growing like a red ember stoked in a forge, the fiery blaze took a shape wreathed in shadow. Greater and more terrible than any monster an imagination could summon, Dáin alone saw for himself the ancient demon that yet lurked in Moria.

Dáin woke up gasping for air. His heart raced and his brow was beaded with cold sweat. For some time, the old king remained motionless in darkness, his whole body stiff with panic. His eyes darted back and forth, trying to make sense of his surroundings. After a moment, he recognized the ceiling of his bedchamber, vaulted and hewn from the living stone of the Lonely Mountain, and then slowly, the here and now took shape. The tormenting visions that had haunted his nightmares retreated to the past and survived only in each night's inescapable reveries.

With a trembling hand, he reached across his bed but felt nothing but tangled blankets. The present was not without its own pains. Dáin sighed, remembering his late wife who had once slept beside him. No longer could she hold his hand when the demons came to haunt his dreams. Now the old widower had to face the monsters alone each night. He wondered how long he could keep up this solitary fight. Unlike the other battles he had suffered through, this one seemed to be without end. He ran his hands over his face and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Sitting up, he reflexively reached for a goblet that stood on a table beside his lonely bed.

Dáin took several deep gulps of strong wine, hoping to sweep away the spectors that hung around in his head like cobwebs in a dark corner. The wine tasted old and stale, but to him, that mattered little. He threw off his covers and swung his feet onto the floor. With an effort, the ancient Dwarf straightened his legs as best he could. Joints popped and creaked like rusted machinery long past its prime. A lifetime of battle had not been kind to his body, and now he was feeling every one of his two hundred years.

He shuffled slowly over to the fireplace on the opposite side of the chamber and stood before the dying flames, letting the hot coals warm his skin while the wine warmed his veins. He sipped pensively from his goblet and watched the silver smoke fade into nothingness. The smell reminded him of funeral pyres from years gone by, choking his throat and burning his eyes. His head felt light, and he grasped the mantle for support. He looked up at the mighty red axe that was proudly displayed above the hearth. Dáin's stomach lurched, and for a moment, the king thought he would become ill.

How he hated that cursed weapon and all that it had brought him. He pushed away from the mantle and staggered toward a pair of doors on the far side of the room. Dáin pulled one of them open and was met by a blast of cold mountain air, though at this point, it felt only as a cool breeze. He stepped outside onto the terrace that jutted out from the steep mountainside. From this perch high on the Lonely Mountain, the king looked eastwards to where the first smudges of dawn were visible behind a line of distant hills.

He remembered leaving his home in those same Iron Hills many years before, when his cousin Thorin had called for aid. Dáin had rushed to fight beside his kinsman, bringing with him five hundred grim warriors. Another battle won at another terribly high cost. Visions of Thorin as well as Fíli and Kíli dead and dying, recalled the bloody fighting that took so many of Durin's royal line and cursed Dáin with a kingship he had never sought, and now, could not escape.

Stars faded and disappeared into the growing glow, but the moon remained high in the sky. This particular last moon of autumn on the threshold of winter was a significant and auspicious day for all Dwarves, especially the Longbeards. But Dáin's thoughts remained fixed upon the cursed day long ago when the crown had finally fallen to him. He had never wanted this. This was supposed to be Thorin's destiny, not his. Today, he would have to stand before his subjects, many of whom saw him as an upstart or, at best, outsider.

How he wished he could give them what they wanted and return to the Iron Hills to live out the twilight of his life in peaceful retirement. Dáin knew, however, that his royal responsibilities carried a life sentence of duty, and there was only one way for him to be relieved of his charge.

He leaned forward and looked over the railing at a dizzying drop, terminating on the sharp stony slope far below. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the still silence. The harsh caw of a raven brought Dáin back to the present and the day ahead.

"Not today," he whispered to himself before opening his tired eyes.

An icy wind blew down from the snow capped peak sending a shiver down Dáin's spine. After one last look to the east, he turned and stepped away from the perilous precipice. He drained his cup and returned to the shelter of his chamber where he dressed himself in the appropriate attire befitting a king on Durin's Day. He felt silly in such luxurious fabrics, but he had to dress the part if he was going to appear a monarch to his people.

Lastly, he walked over to a wall that had been carved into a delicate relief. The intricate artistry depicted the fabled scene where the Valar Aule first created the seven fathers of the Dwarves. Every minute detail was depicted in the artwork, bringing the stone figures to life. Dáin bent closer to the miniature Durin and studied his tiny stone forebear carefully.

"And yet, I still feel smaller," Dáin concluded, picking up a simple crown that rested on a shelf just below the relief.

He took a few steps toward the door and then placed the heavy crown upon his weary head. Although it fit him snugly, Dáin never felt comfortable wearing the crown and was always happy to remove it after a long day at court. The old king placed his hand on the door's iron ring and hesitated for a moment, contorting his mouth until his muscles remembered how to put on a convincing smile. Finally feeling adequately in character, Dáin pulled open the door and stepped into the world.

Far below the mansions and halls of Erebor, deep within the Lonely Mountain, at the end of a long torchlit passage, Frár and Lóni stood on either side of an arched doorway. Dwarves are exceedingly strong for their height, but these two were sturdy even by the measure of their own folk. Although still young by Dwarf reckoning, they cut impressive figures to anyone who happened to approach their doorway. The two guards wielded heavy two-handed mattocks, and each of them had also a short broadsword at his side and a round shield slung at his back. Their beards were forked and plaited and thrust into their belts. Their caps were of iron as were the soles of their heavy boots. Their faces, although young, looked grim in the flickering torchlight.

Their watch shift had been as uneventful as any of the many nights they had passed standing as sentinels in this gloomy dungeon. They had seen nobody else for hours on end and they would not be relieved from their duties until the sun rose in the outside world. Time ticked by slowly, and the two youths were beginning to get bored. They idly paced the polished stone floors and then began chatting to pass the remaining time on their shift.

"Will you be at the feast tonight?" asked Frár.

"Alas, I'll be on duty here with Flói," answered Lóni mournfully. "My older brother Náli will be there, though."

"Well at least you'll have a good partner," said Frár. "Flói is a dear friend of mine."

"I heard all the great lords will be there," said Lóni, unphased by Frár's comment.

"I hope so. I'm going to try and get close enough to hear them," said Frár.

"Have you met any of them?" asked Lóni. "I've only seen Master Óin and Master Glóin down here."

"Oh, sure," said Frár with an air of importance. "Those two come here from time to time. Even Master Bombur was carried down here on a litter once. Master Dwalin came here not long ago too. Masters Dori and Nori came here last year. That Master Dori seemed like a really decent fellow."

"Did he speak to you?" asked Lóni, now very interested.

"Well, no, not exactly, but he did nod at me as he walked into the tomb," said Frár.

"That's still impressive. I hope I get to see them all someday," said Lóni

"You will if you keep this up long enough. I've seen all of them down here at one point or another. Everyone, that is, except for…"

Frár stopped and they both turned to look down the long passageway where a lone figure could be seen approaching. DOOM. DOOM. DOOM. Heavy footfalls echoed off the vaulted ceiling, pounding like a subterranean drum, growing louder as the figure got closer and closer. Even in the dim torch light, Frár and Lóni could tell that this stranger looked nothing like the great lords they were discussing. Approaching them was an ancient Dwarf in a weather stained cloak and a filthy hood that, at one time, may have been scarlet. His long white beard was a tangled mess and only half tucked into his belt. He stank of stale ale and wet horse. It looked as though this ragged relic had just arrived after a long journey in the Wild.

"Halt," commanded Frár in his most intimidating voice.

"Step aside, young pup; you don't get to tell me what to do," answered the stranger in a croaky voice.

"This tomb is off-limits except for…" began Lóni.

"Except for whom?" interrupted the stranger, sounding annoyed. "Dáin's bootlickers?"

Both guards gasped at this stranger's haughty disrespect for their king.

"Except for the companions of King Thorin Oaken…" said Frár

The stranger interrupted again, this time forcefully and staring piercingly up at the armored guards.

"I was Thorin's companion on the day the Dragon came. I was Thorin's companion for years of poverty and exile. I was Thorin's companion when we took back this kingdom for ungrateful fools like yourselves!"

At this, both guards dropped to one knee with bowed heads.

"Please forgive us, Master Balin," stammered Frár.

"We didn't know…" said Lóni, fearing that he was about to lose his job, or worse.

They trembled in silence for some time before Balin finally spoke.

"Get up, you oafs," he said at last.

As they glanced upwards, they saw the stern face and keen eyes staring down at them. They clambered to their feet and returned to their positions on either side of the doorway. Balin at first eyed them both severely but his gaze soon softened and the two youths were surprised to see the hint of a smirk underneath the dirty tangle of a beard.

"Longbeards?" he asked at last.

"Yes, sir," answered the guards proudly and in unison. They were indeed both from ancient, although minor lineages within the larger Longbeard clan; distant descendants of Durin.

"Good, good," nodded Balin.

This seemed to please him and temper his fiery mood even further.

"I've been gone for a long time and I'll admit, I don't look all that lordly at the moment" said Balin looking down at his dusty and torn clothes.

The two guards chuckled nervously, relieved at their superior's forgiving demeanor.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I need some time with my companion…my king," stated Balin.

At this, the guards turned smartly inwards and gently pushed open the thick stone doors for Balin. Although they weighed several tons each, the doors swung smoothly upon hidden hinges, as all well-made Dwarf doors are meant to do.

Balin stepped inside the tomb and removed his tattered hood. The simple room was round with a domed ceiling. During the daytime, this chamber was illuminated by daylight coming through a deep shaft in the mountain, but in the dark moments just before the break of dawn, the only light was coming from the flickering torches in the hallway. In the center of the room was a stone sarcophagus carved from the roots of the Lonely Mountain itself. On the lid of the stone box were carved crisp, clear runes:

THORIN OAKENSHIELD

SON OF THRAIN

KING UNDER THE MOUNTAIN

Balin approached the tomb and placed his hand on the lid. He remained like this for some time, lost in thought. He thought about the brave and noble Dwarf that lay before him. He pictured the Arkenstone upon his breast and his mighty sword Orcist at his side. He thought back to all their adventures that had taken them back to their mountain home all those years ago.

"I miss you, old friend," he said finally, looking down at the cold stone lid.

With his voice wavering, he went on.

"This was supposed to be your kingdom," he said, looking around the tomb. "How I wish you were here today. Our people need you. I need you. More than ever."

He turned his head upwards and wiped away a tear. As he looked toward the ceiling, he could see a small square of rose colored morning sky peeking town at him through the deep shaft. The rosy sight did nothing to brighten Balin's dark mood. He lowered his gaze back to the tomb of his noble fallen friend. Here he sat for a long time, contemplating, plotting, questioning. Finally, after the small square above him had turned golden with morning light, he rose to his feet.

"Until I see you again, my king," he said.

Balin turned away and strode out through the stone doors. Frár and Lóni watched Balin disappear into the darkness until he disappeared, leaving behind only his heavy footfalls pounding like drum beats.

DOOM. DOOM. DOOM.

2

Durin's Day

Later that day, as the sun sank towards the western horizon and the first stars appeared in the darkening sky, The Great Chamber of Thrór was teeming with life and buzzing with activity. The large hall, typically used for councils and court business had been rearranged and redecorated with all possible extravagance in preparation for the Durin's Day festivities. On this day of reverence, every Dwarf in Erebor would be celebrating with their friends and family throughout the cavernous kingdom, but only a select few of the mountain's greatest names were invited to the king's feast.

The great doors were thrown open, and the honored guests poured inside. Long tables filled the room, piled high with the best food and drink the king's coffers could afford. Dwarves are not known to be farmers or shepherds so most of the menu had come from their many trading partners. The Elves of Mirkwood had sent nuts and mushrooms from their forest realm. From the newly rebuilt Laketown came many types of fish, and from the Men of Dale, fresh bread and cheese. Even more exotic tastes were catered to with barrels of heady wine from the vineyards of Dorwinion being rolled into the hall.

By the time Balin approached the doorway to the great chamber, most of the other guests were already inside, mingling and chatting over drinks while waiting for their king to arrive. Standing guard outside the open doors, Frár spotted Balin approaching and gave his partner Náli a sharp nudge with his elbow.

"See," he whispered, "I told you."

Náli's eyes widened as Balin walked directly up to them and came to a halt.

"Do I look lordly enough for you now?" Balin asked with a smirk.

He stood proudly with his hands on his hips, letting the two guards take a good look at him. He was dressed in fine fabrics and wore many pounds of bright golden jewelry beset with gems of all colors. His white beard and hair were neatly brushed, and even his old hood was now recognizebly scarlet.

"I'm sorry again about that, Master Balin," said Frár, blushing nervously.

"Not to worry, lad," said Balin. "It was an honest mistake."

He seemed in a much better mood than when Frár had last seen him several hours earlier. He was grinning, and his eyes shone bright with life. Frár returned Balin's smile, relieved that he had not made an enemy of such a powerful Dwarf. Balin then turned to Náli and looked the young Dwarf up and down

"Do you have a brother?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Náli. "I believe you met Lóni early this morning."

"Ah, yes," said Balin "Good strapping Longbeard like yourself. If you'll excuse me, I need to suprise my own brother."

"Master Dwalin is already inside, sir." said Frár.

"Excellent," said Balin. "Keep up the good work, you two."

With that, he passed through the doorway, patting Frár and Náli on the shoulders, leaving the two starstruck youths excitedly chatting about their new celebrity acquaintance. As soon as Balin entered the Great Chamber of Thrór, gasps went up from the assembled notables who were shocked to see the unexpected guest. Many Dwarves began whispering to one another in hushed tones, but several of the most prominent figures rushed toward Balin and greeted him warmly. A Dwarf with a dark green hood was the first to reach him. His bright eyes glistened as he wrapped his arms around Balin in a tight embrace.

"Welcome back, dear brother!" he cried.

"Thank you, Dwalin," said Balin, returning the embrace. "I see you are doing well."

Indeed, Dwalin's blue beard was adorned with many fine ornaments and tucked into a new golden belt.

"We all are!" said Dwalin with a hearty laugh.

He clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder while more Dwarves rushed forward to greet their old friend.

"Welcome back, cousin!" exclaimed a richly dressed Dwarf of important appearance. His beard, very long and forked, was white, nearly as white as the snow-white cloth of his garments.

"Thank you, Glóin," said Balin, returning his kinsman's warm smile.

"You remember my son, Gimli," said Glóin, gesturing to a young Dwarf at his side.

The youth removed his hood and bowed respectfully to Balin.

"I never forget a Longbeard," Balin said, nodding approvingly at the youth.

"He's by far my favorite nephew," said another nearby Dwarf with a brown hood, coming forward to shake Balin's hand.

"As I recall, Óin," said Balin with a chuckle, "he is your only nephew."

"True enough," Óin laughed.

"When did you arrive?" he asked, surprised to see the old Dwarf after such a long absence.

"Only just this morning," replied Balin, while glancing around the room at all the familiar faces.

"I heard you went to visit old Bilbo," said a Dwarf with a purple hood and a silver belt.

"I hope he is doing well," said another Dwarf dressed in the same fashion.

"Nori! Dori!" said Balin, happy to see more of his old friends.

"Yes, Master Baggins is enjoying a comfortable retirement like the rest of you," he told them.

"Glad to hear it," said Dori. "He really is a decent fellow."

"When are you going to settle down and retire yourself?" asked a Dwarf with a gray hood and a silver belt.

"Why would I retire, Ori?" Balin chided. "I can't sit and read all day like you."

Balin escaped the knot of friends and walked over to two exhausted-looking Dwarves who were each tugging an arm belonging to an exceedingly corpulent individual, struggling to rise from a comically undersized sofa.

"Get up, Bombur!" said one of them.

"Come say hello to Balin!" said the other.

"Bifur, Bofur, please, don't bother! I'm right here!" said Balin, trying to hide a chuckle at their expense.

The two cousins released their heavy burden and gave Balin relieved smiles. They welcomed their old friend gladly, but were surprised to see him so unexpectedly after such a long absence.

"It's been too long!" said the rotund Bombur, slumping back into his seat with a sigh.

"We were getting worried about you," said Bofur.

"Are you back here for good this time?" asked Bifur.

"I certainly hope not," said a haughty voice, interrupting the happy reunion.

Balin recognized the voice at once, and his face contorted into an angry frown. He spun around and glared at the heckler.

"Thorin," Balin grumbled through clenched teeth. He gave the prince a tiny, almost imperceptible nod that seemed to require great effort. It was the closest thing he could summon in lieu of a proper bow. He had always hated the thought that Dáin had named his spoiled son after such a noble Dwarf.

"Does my father know you've returned?" Prince Thorin asked with a sneer. "I thought you were still in exile."

Balin's face was reddening to the point that it was about to match the ruddy shade of his hood.

"Nay! I was never exiled" he argued, trying hard to remain calm in front of so many onlookers. "I simply chose to visit the Blue Mountains for a time."

"I heard you were working in lead mines there," goaded Thorin. "Did all those poisons get to your head? Is that why you wore out your welcome there, just as you did here?"

Balin was now fuming mad and stepped forward to yell right in Thorin's smug face.

"If you take the word of those Firebeards and Broadbeams, you're as big a fool as your father!" spat Balin.

His fists were clenched, and the old adventurer looked ready to trade blows with the insolent prince. Thorin, for his part, kept a temptingly punchable smile on his face, daring Balin to make the first move. Balin's patience had almost reached its breaking point when the sound of trumpets filled the air, putting a lid on any boiling tensions.

"Dáin son of Náin, ruler of Durin's folk and King Under the Mountain!" cried the clear voice of a herald.

The sea of attendees silenced themselves and dutifully parted to make way for their king as he entered the hall leaving Thorin and Balin on opposing sides of the narrow divide.

Dáin entered with a broad smile on his face that he flashed to every bejeweled Dwarf he passed. His tired eyes, however, revealed his weariness and fatigue that slowed his walk to a meandering plod. Spotting his son among the guests, his smile faded quickly.

"What was all that yelling about?" he asked. "I could hear it from the hallway."

Prince Thorin said nothing to his father but merely gestured with the nod of his head. Dáin looked over his shoulder and flinched in surprise when he saw an angry red face poking out from a frazzled white beard.

"Balin!" Dáin croaked horsley as if he had seen a monster.

Quickly, he worked to compose himself, feeling the hundreds of eyes boring holes into him.

"What a surprise," he said.

The old king forced another uncomfortable smile and turned to face Balin.

"You're back just in time," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, "Won't you join us for the feast?"

"But father…" protested Thorin.

But Dáin cut his son off before he could say more.

"Master Balin is a hero among Longbeards and always welcome in these halls," he said.

He shot his son a look that told the prince very clearly to remain silent before extending a hand towards Balin. Dáin put on his kindest smile, hoping desperately to avoid antagonizing Balin any further. Dáin knew all eyes were on the two of them and could feel his own heart beating fast underneath his royal robes.

There was a tense moment when the entire hall stood still waiting to see how the irascible Balin would react. He took several deep breaths, and his crimson coloring faded like a hot coal cooking off its last bit of heat. Finally Balin nodded and the entire hall seemed to let out a sigh of relief as the two elders shook hands.

"Thank you," Dáin whispered so that only Balin could hear.

Then, in a louder and more kingly voice, he called out, "Make ready a seat for our special guest. He shall sit in a place of honor at my right hand."

Cheers went up from the audience who were overjoyed to see the often sundered pair getting along so well together. Many of the notable attendees recalled their past arguments and hoped that a few years apart had finally healed the divisions between them. Now that everyone was in attendance, Frár and Náli stepped inside the chamber and shut the great doors behind them before silently taking their places at either doorpost.

Balin said nothing but enjoyed the admiration heaped upon him by the crowd. He let his king lead him up a few steps onto a raised dais. Once elevated above the other guests, they approached a long table that overlooked the entire hall. The king's place was at the center of the table and on either side of him were reserved places for the surviving members of the wildly famous Company, now numbering only ten, even with the unexpected addition of Balin. Prince Thorin, conversely, having lost his seat at his father's side, was unceremoniously ushered to one of the lower tables. Everyone in the chamber remained standing. Even though the heavily laden tables looked deliciously tempting, they knew the king would want to speak his piece before tucking into the meal.

Dáin cleared his throat and looked out over the many tables, packed with his patiently waiting subjects. His crown felt heavy, as if it were made of lead, pressing down upon his skill. Undaunted, he kept his eyes forward, intent on keeping his gaze away from Balin at his side. Balin, for his part, looked out over the crowd and did not turn to face the king.

Finally, the king spoke, retelling a tale known by every Longbeard in attendance and most of those from other clans as well.

"My dear Dwarves," he began. "Today we celebrate Durin's Day to honor our history. Durin, the eldest of the seven fathers, wandered alone when the world was young, naming the hills and dells as he went. He looked into the waters of Kheled-zâram and saw seven stars shining like a crown above him. He took this as a sign and erected Durin's Stone where he had seen his destiny. There, in the caves above the lake, he founded the city of Khazad-dûm, and for many years, it was the greatest city the world had ever known. Dwarves from other kindreds joined him from the east and west to found Durin's Folk, or as we call ourselves, the Longbeards."

Cries went up from the crowd at the mention of their clan. Even Frár and Náli joined in the prideful moment of celebration with subdued cheers of their own. Balin himself nodded in approval at the mention of his illustrious ancestor. Many assumed that Dáin's dutiful retelling of their history was complete and they could now sit down to the feast, but just as the hungry Dwarves began to pull out their chairs in anticipation, the king spoke again, calling a halt to any premature picking.

"I would be remiss if I did not mention another Longbeard," said Dáin. "One of Durin's noble line whom I…we owe an incredible debt."

Balin's head turned slightly to the left, and his eyes strained to steal a peek at the king without him noticing.

"We would not be here today if it were not for the determination, vision, and courage of King Thorin Oakenshield," said Dáin.

"Yes! Yes! Hail, Thorin!" came cries from the lower tables.

Since his heroic death, Thorin's legend had grown in the telling, and even his name had a sort of semi-divine resonance within the dwarven world. Dáin nodded in agreement, happy to see his people's respect for his fallen kinsman.

"King Thorin and his sister's sons, Fíli and Kíli, paid the ultimate price fighting for our people's future," the king explained.

"Along with the other brave members of the Company, they won back our Kingdom Under the Mountain."

Dáin then spread his arms wide, extending them towards the Dwarves on either side of him.

"Please join me in honoring these ten heroes to whom we owe so much," he said loudly.

The great chamber roared to life. Their hearty applause and shouts shook the very roots of the Lonely Mountain. The members of The Company removed their hoods and bowed proudly to the adoring assembly. Despite his efforts to remain stern-faced and serious, Balin broke into a wide grin as he could not help but revel in the moment. After the noise gradually subsided, Dáin addressed the crowd again.

"Thank you all for letting an old Dwarf ramble on," said Dáin. "I'm sure you are all very hungry. Enjoy!"

Dáin sat down heavily upon his chair and Balin plopped down beside him. Dáin kept up his uneasy smile, but Balin's face again looked serious and stern, now that the applause had ended abruptly. The rest of the guests likewise found their places and sat down to a sumptuous feast and the meal began in earnest.

Dwarves are capable of incredible feats of strength and endurance when they are focused on their work. Feasting is no exception to this principle. Food and drink were consumed at a ferocious pace and for such a length of time that it would seem impossible for those unaccustomed to the appetites of Dwarves. The arched ceiling, carved like tree branches, echoed with the sounds of talk and laughter as the meal wore on deep into the night. During all the hours of revelry though, Dáin and Balin did not share a look or a word; instead, they turned and spoke only to those on the opposite side from their counterpart. Dáin happily chatted with the Dwarves on his side of the table; Glóin, who had in the past few decades, become a close advisor and diplomat in the king's service as well as Dori and Nori. At the end of the king's side of the table, Bifur and Bofur were retelling the well known tale of their encounter with a trio of trolls, complete with well rehearsed impressions.

Likewise, Balin kept his conversations on his half of the table with his brother Dwalin at his side, followed by his cousin Óin and then their loyal friend Ori. Because of his mighty girth, Bombur had to be seated at the end of the table and was too focused on the continuous courses of delicious food to be distracted by something as unsavory as idle conversation.

Like every other Durin's Day celebration, there was various entertainment to be enjoyed by the revelers. Actors, mimes and minstrels circulated around the great chamber, amusing the guests with harrowing tales of gallant heroes. One Dwarf-woman with a voice that rang clearer than all the other singers, stepped before the dais to perform for the king and his lords. Dáin raised a hand for the chamber to quiet and the song began.

The thirteen heroes, Dwarves so bold

Journeyed here but not for gold,

'Twas to retake our home of old

From wicked worm in withered wold.

Past elven spells and secret rune,

And hungry wolves 'neath mountain moon,

Then wicked woven webs were hewn

'Til many strands were lying strewn.

The Company was then beset

By forces closing like a net,

But Thorin charged into the threat.

To him we owe a mighty debt.

Oh Oakenshield, you fought so brave

With Orcrist blade from distant cave.

Alas it was your life you gave.

Your kin as well, they could not save.

The battle raged upon the plain

And there fought our most noble Dáin

A'cutting his foes down like grain

'til no other orc did remain

With battle won and dragon slain

Our Lonely Mountain home again

A place of pride and Longbeard reign

For evermore we will remain.

The audience applauded enthusiastically at the conclusion of the song. Although the tale was well known to all, and a favorite of many, the singer's fair voice garnered praise from all except for Balin, who remained silent while others called for an encore. Dáin raised hand again for silence and addressed the talented musician.

"Such a lovely song," he said with a kind smile. "But I must say for the record, that it was indeed a Battle of Five Armies in which I was only a small part of one of them."

Dáin stole a glance to his right, but Balin's head was turned away from his gaze.

"It took the efforts of many to win back our home, and to all of those who played their part, I am eternally grateful," said Dáin, but still, Balin did not return his gaze.

The many tables, tightly packed with revealing Dwarves erupted in applause for their humble king. The singer bowed respectfully to the high table and the feast continued merrily. The feast wore on later into the night, and soon, more barrels of drink needed to be carted into the chamber for the insatiable guests.

Balin and the other Dwarves on his side of the long table clinked together their tankards and drank deeply from casks of the best beer the Lonely Mountain had to offer. Over many fine courses, the old companions reminisced about past adventures and swapped news from far afield. As the feast progressed though, Balin's mood became darker and more brooding and after a few hours, his snowy beard was wet with spilled drink and sprinkled with seed cake crumbs. Before long, he was in a sour mood despite his friends' attempts to liven the mood.

"What's the matter, Balin?" Dwalin finally asked when he noticed that his brother had been stewing over something.

"This place has really gone downhill since I've been away," Balin said in a loud voice, making sure that Dáin could hear on his other side.

The king's ears perked up, but he pretended not to hear critical comment. Instead, he continued listening to Dori explain how plentiful meals such as this should be more frequent.

"What do you mean?" asked Dwalin, in confusion. "Erebor is thriving. It is not as though we have been idle since you left."

"No?," asked Balin, refilling his drink. "What have any of you done since settling down here?"

Dwalin did not have an answer to this and looked down at his plate with a frown. He tried to mumble a few words about having important duties at court, but he had to admit that The Company's retirement after the Battle of Five Armies was one of wealth and luxury. At this, Óin put his fork down and interjected. "We stay busy," he told Balin. "We all serve the king in different roles."

Balin scoffed at this. "You mean you fatten yourselves at feasts telling the same worn out stories, while he gives away our people's fortune to foreigners."

"Are you still upset about that?" said Ori, joining the conversation from farther down the table. "You know he had to share the treasure with the Elves and Men after the battle. We owed them as much."

"And besides," added Dwalin, "it was trade with our neighbors that brought us all this food."

Balin shook his head in disagreement and pushed away his plate.

"He's running this kingdom into the ground, I tell you," he said, folding his arms resolutely.

Behind him, Dáin's face slowly reddened, and he had to summon all his patience not to turn around and respond to Balin's bluster. He forced himself to ignore the matter and went on pretending to listen to his side of the table, keeping his back towards his rival.

"And another thing: why does he let in so many foreign Dwarves in the first place?" Balin grumbled.

His companions said nothing, but merely stared at Balin, surprised to hear their friend speak with such resentment and bitterness about Dwarves from other kindreds.

"Erebor used to be a Longbeard realm," he explained, "and today, I saw scores of filthy outsiders crowding up our streets. Even some of those eastern savages from Rhûn!"

"They're really a pleasant bunch," chimed in Bombur through a mouthful of food.

"What do you know?" snapped Balin,

Bombur shrugged off the retort and returned to his plate.

"They are refugees who were forced from their homes," said Óin. "Surely, you can sympathize with that."

"Well, I never wandered around with my hands out like a beggar," said Balin, who was growing more upset by the moment. "I actually had to work for everything I got."

At this, he looked over his shoulder and cast his voice towards the back of Dáin's head. "I wasn't lucky enough to be handed a crown I didn't deserve!"

The king had finally had enough. He sprung to his feet and spun around with astonishing quickness for such an old Dwarf. Balin had anticipated the reaction and was soon standing with his fists clenched. The entire feast screeched to a halt and every head spun to stare at the two old Dwarves. Their heated faces came so close that their quivering beards were almost touching, but still, neither Dwarf flinched. Everyone stood still and silent, like miners afraid to move lest the crumbling tunnel come crashing down around them.

"If you have something to say, Balin, you can say it to my face!" shouted Dáin.

"Alright then!" shouted Balin just as loud. "You don't deserve to wear Thorin's crown!"

"And how is that?" Dáin challenged. "I am the rightful king."

"You are unworthy of that title," Balin spat. "You merely inherited it by chance."

"And…?" Dáin said impatiently.

"I am also of Durin's line!" fumed Balin. "And older than you!"

"So, you want to be king? Is that it?" Dáin asked, growing more upset. Murmurs began to fill the heavy air inside the chamber. This was better theater than any performance they had yet seen that evening.

"I would be a better one than you," said Balin.

"You? A king?" scoffed Dáin. "You were supposed to protect our last two kings, and you lost them both."

Balin was now shaking with rage. Clearly, Dáin's comment had struck a chord deep within him. Noticing this, Dwalin stood up and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, to try and force him back to his seat before blows were exchanged. Despite his best efforts, Balin remained resolute, standing defiantly in front of the king.

"And in case you have forgotten," said Dáin, pointing to himself, "I've fought for our people my entire life," he jabbed his finger into Balin's chest, "while you've been nothing but a coward and a failure."

Balin's temper finally boiled over, and he tried to pounce on Dáin in a fit of rage. Before he could land a blow, Balin was restrained by Dwalin's strong arms, pulling him away from a fatal mistake while Glóin jumped up to defend his king. Unable to escape his brother's firm grasp, Balin thrashed and clawed like an animal. His lifelong friends watched in revulsion. Óin bounced to his feet and stepped around an overturned chair. He brought himself close to the constrained Balin and spoke in a gentle voice.

"Please calm yourself, cousin," he said softly, but Balin continued to squirm angrily.

Ori rose from his place and approached King Dáin.

"Please forgive him," Ori pleaded. "He…"
"He is an angry old fool!" the king interrupted loudly. "If he wants a crown, so be it, but it will not be this one," he said, pointing to his own.

Dáin signaled for Dwalin to release his grasp and Balin straightened up, having regained some composure, but the fiery malice in his eyes was still yet to be quenched. Dáin then pointed at Balin.

"If you want to rule, you will have to and find a new kingdom for yourself," he said.

There was a long pause and the whole chamber waited for Balin's response. He slowed his breathing and straightened his wrinkled clothes.

Finally, he looked into Dáin's eyes and said simply, "Fine. I will."

With that said and without another word, Balin turned his back on the king and walked away around the end of the long table. Each of his heavy footfalls echoed in the silent chamber as hundreds of Dwarves held their breath in anticipation. Without rushing or even acknowledging the hundreds of eyes fixed upon him, he calmly descended the dais steps and walked confidently toward the doors where Frár and Náli were standing wide-eyed and slack jawed. The two young guards had stood in shocked silence while Balin openly insulted their king to his face. They had never heard anyone speak so freely to King Dáin. Surely, they thought, the ferocious Balin was every bit as tough as the stories made him out to be. Just as he approached, they opened the chamber doors wide and stared in awe at the living legend passing between them.

As soon as the doors were shut with a loud DOOM, the levee holding back eager conversion burst and a flood of conversation filled the Chamber of Thrór. Dáin remained as still as stone while his closest advisors clamored at his side.

"This cannot stand!" shouted Gloin. "He must be arrested at once!"

Hearing this, Óin rushed before his king and bowed deeply.

"Please forgive Balin, sire," he begged. "Let me try to talk some sense into him."

But Dáin's eyes were not on the pleading Óin. He was looking out across the lower tables, packed with Dwarves, all chatting to each other, stopping only briefly to glance up at the high table from time to time. The king fell back into his chair with his hands lying limply in his lap. He rested his bearded chin on his chest and heaved a great sigh. To all those crowded around him, he looked utterly exhausted. His eyes closed, and Óin thought for a moment the ancient Dwarf had fallen asleep. Finally, Dáin opened his tired eyes and gave Óin a weak nod of approval. Óin looked to his brother at the king's side and mouthed a silent apology before racing out of the chamber to catch up to his wayward cousin.

3

A Kingdom Divided

For several days after the feast, every Dwarf under the mountain was talking about the heated exchange between their king and the newly returned wanderer. Rumors spread like dragonfire with each retelling of the tale. Soon, rumors of murder, betrayal and rebellion sprung from the lips of gossipers and the halls and lanes of Erebor were rife with intrigue. All of these were, of course, unfounded as only a few of the kingdom's wealthiest subjects had actually seen the spat firsthand, and those that did generally kept to their own distinguished circle. Nevertheless, there was nothing Dáin could do to stop the wagging tongues. For his own part, the king felt wretched about the whole affair, and wished to speak with Balin to settle their dispute peacefully and put an end to the embarrassing scandal.

He sent Toki and his other guards to gently inquire about Balin's whereabouts; not to arrest him, but to try and to extend the olive branch of peace to the offended adventurer. The guards asked around on the king's behalf, but nobody seemed to know where Balin had gone after his dramatic departure from the Durin's Day feast. Dáin, as well as his closest advisors, came to the conclusion that Balin must have left the kingdom clandestinely to continue his wanderings in some far away and remote realm.

A week passed and the speculations about Balin's departure were slowly becoming old news. It was around this time, that handwritten signs started appearing on alley walls and in market squares. Interest in the topic surged back to life and curious Dwarves crowded around the mysterious signs.

Dwarves wanted for hazardous journey.
Vast distances, bitter cold, blazing heat,

long months of complete darkness,

and constant danger.

Safe return doubtful,

honor and wealth in case of success.

Meet in bottommost cellar

Midnight after new moon

-Balin, son of Fundin

Gimli was one of the many Dwarves intrigued and excited by the tempting allure of adventure even though his father, Glóin, had been outspoken against Balin's discourteous defiance. After reading one of the signs several times and committing it to memory, Gimli returned home with visions of exotic lands and harrowing escapades playing out in his mind. As he entered the door of his family's residence, he was surprised to see his father already there. Glóin typically worked long days in the king's court and usually only returned home late in the evening, but now he sat at a small stone table, as if he had been waiting patiently for his son to come in.

"You're home early," said Gimli "Is everything alright?"

"I'm not sure," said Glóin. "Please, come sit with me."

Gimli dutifully obeyed his father and pulled up a chair to sit across from him at the table.

"I take it you have seen the signs posted around the mountain?" asked Glóin.

"I have!" said Gimli, poorly concealing his burning enthusiasm.

"And what do you think of these advertisements?" Glóin asked, his face was gravely serious beneath his white beard.

"I think it's a rare opportunity in these days of peace," explained Gimli. "Ever since Erebor was retaken, there have been precious few chances for real adventure."

Glóin heaved a heavy sigh, as if this was the response he was dreading to hear, but his old eyes were kind as he looked upon his excited son.

"Real adventure? Is that what you really want?" Glóin asked.

"Yes!" said Gimli. "More than anything!"

"Why do you want this so badly?" his father questioned, leaning forward to listen.

Gimli fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Come now, son," said Glóin "You can be honest."

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful," Gimli began, "and I am certainly thankful for all that we have here, but…" he paused.

"But…" said Glóin, trying to ease out the truth.

"It can be hard being the son of a legend, that's all," said Gimli, who blushed red in shame.

"I can understand that," said Glóin, nodding knowingly. "You feel as though you need to write your own story?"

"Exactly!" exclaimed Gimli.

"And do you expect that story to have a happy ending?" asked Glóin.

"All of yours do," suggested Gimli.

"I want you to understand something, my son," said Glóin. "Adventures may sound marvelous to the listener, but the tales you have heard are only part of the story. There is much else that may be told about adventures."

"What do you mean?" asked Gimli.

"I mean that the minstrels rarely sing about the horrors and hardships that come along with these expeditions, especially when they come to an ill end."

"I am not afraid of danger," said Gimli. "I am fully grown, yet I have never seen the world. You, on the other hand, saw battle at only sixteen."

"And every day, I wish I had not," interrupted Glóin. "I wish I had not seen any of the battles nor other dangers that still haunt me to this day."

Gimli shook his head impatiently and failing to understand his father.

"Then why did you do it?" challenged Gimli raising his hands.

"Not because I wanted to, not to have an adventure, but because I had to!" shouted Gimli.

Gimli sank into his chair, ashamed that he had spoken so rashly to his father. He looked up and saw his father's eyes full of tears, as if he was being tortured by the pain of those untold stories.

In a softer voice, Glóin said, "I did all those things for our people's future, our family's future. I went through all that so that you wouldn't have to."

Glóin calmed himself and took his son's hands in his own.

"Please, Gimli," he said, "don't make my life's work be in vain. Our people's future is here. Please do not abandon it."

Gimli nodded in agreement, eager to please his distraught father.

"I will stay," said Gimli.

Glóin, now very relieved, rose and embraced his son warmly.

"Thank you," he said, wiping away tears and noticing that Gilmi looked disappointed about the missed opportunity.

"Trust me," he added, placing a hand on Gimli's shoulder. "When the day comes and our people need someone for an adventure, you will have my blessing to serve them."

Gimli nodded and returned his father's loving smile.

Although Gilmi obeyed his father's wishes to avoid Balin's call to adventure, there were many other Dwarves in Erebor who eagerly awaited the new moon. Well before the scheduled midnight meeting, excited Dwarves descended the two great stairways that led down to the lowest reaches of the mountain's roots. The early attendees filed out of arched doorways on the eastern wall and into an immense dungeon. The cavernous space was almost dark so that its vastness can only be dimly guessed by the growing crowd of Dwarves, many of whom had never been to this forgotten corner of the kingdom, although they had all heard of it in stories, whether they realized it or not.

Not so many years before, this empty pit was once full of precious things; gold wrought and unwrought, gems and jewels, and silver, all lustily guarded by the dragon Smaug. However, no longer did the floor glitter with piles of riches. The massive hoard had been removed soon after Smaug's death. Some had been shared with allies and neighbors, but most of it had been locked away in hidden vaults; out of sight and grasp. All that remained was cold stone and empty chests.

Dwarves from all classes and tribes trickled down into the dungeon and even Dori and Nori Company fame were in attendance, but King Dáin and his closest advisors were nowhere to be seen. Midnight struck, and a tense silence washed over the crowd. Then out of the thickest shadows at the far end of the hall, a small light appeared. Its luminance grew as it neared the assembled mass.

Three shapes emerged from the gloom. In the center, dressed in plain clothing without jewelry or decoration, strode Balin. To his right walked Óin, carrying a lantern. Ori was on Balin's left, carrying several scrolls beneath each arm. The trio stopped before the audience and halted. Óin set the lantern onto the stone floor which sent a dull thud echoing throughout the cellar.

"DOOM."

The noise rolled like thunder until it faded into the darkness. Everyone stood silent, their eyes fixed upon Balin, who looked proud and fierce in the eerie lantern light. Finally, after a long tense moment, he spoke in a calm, clear voice.

"When I was but seven years old, my home was destroyed by the dragon," he began. "After that, we were driven into the wild to live as paupers in Dunland."

He paced slowly in front of the assembled onlookers, speaking slowly, so that his voice could echo around the stone cellar.

"While still young, I fought at the Battle of Azanulbizar and lost my father there."

He paused and looked at his feet for a moment as if composing himself before continuing.

"For many years after that, I served King Thráin and then his son after him. I was the first to join Thorin when he set out to take back this kingdom and the last to leave his side."

He paused again here and gazed into the darkness as if he had slipped into a memory. When he turned back to the crowd, his face was pained and creased by many lines.

"If noble Thorin could see what has become of his kingdom, he would be ashamed," snarled Balin.

Many were taken aback by this change of tone, none more so than those who had known him the longest.

Dori stepped out of the crowd toward his old friend.

"Please, Balin, what is the meaning of all this?" he asked with a concerned look on his face. "You should be proud of the kingdom you helped to reclaim."

His comment irritated Balin, but the old Dwarf remained outwardly calm.

"Nay," said Balin, shaking his head. "I am not proud to see my old friends grow soft and idle, even if they have become rich."

"What's wrong with settling down to retirement?" asked Nori, coming to Dori's side.

"Retirement? Is that what you call this? You galavant around these halls, dressed like princes, while Dáin gives away all of our people's wealth," said Balin.

"Our king is most generous," explained Dori.

Balin nodded as if he had expected such a response. Dáin was indeed known far and wide for his generosity.

"And you all just rest easily on your share of the treasure as if there is nothing left to fight for," said Balin, pointing to the two brothers, who were both wearing spectacular gold belts and jeweled rings on every finger.

"The dragon is dead and the mountain is ours. We won!" said Dori, throwing up his hands.

"We took back one kingdom, yes," said Balin, "but there is yet a greater prize waiting to be seized."

Dori and Nori looked at each other in confusion. Neither one of them had a clue what Balin was talking about.

"The greatest dwarven city ever to exist lies not beneath the Lonely Mountain but far to the south," said Balin in a louder voice, now speaking to the assembled crowd rather than to his friends.

Some of the more educated onlookers must have foreseen Balin's next words as whispers fluttered from excited lips to eager ears.

"I speak, of course, of Khazad-dûm," announced Balin.

Gasps went up from even the stoutest of Dwarves. The name alone conjured tales of vast riches, but also a darker past that still haunted the memories of Dwarves. Balin gestured to Ori, who stepped and unrolled several scrolls on an overturned chest, revealing ancient writing as well as a faded map. The crowd pushed forward to peer at the artifacts, jostling for a peek in the weak lamplight. Balin raised a hand for silence before continuing on with his idea, knowing now that he had their undivided attention.

"For thousands of years, Khazad-dûm was the center of our world, but today it lies abandoned. Even with Erebor reclaimed, King Thorin would not have been content until Longbeard hammers rang once again in Durin's Mansion, and neither will I."

Balin stepped to the collections of documents and tapped his knobbly finger onto them.

"It's all right here," he told them, "riches, treasure, even Mithr–"

"You cannot be serious," interrupted Dori, convinced that this was all some crude joke. He looked at Óin and Ori in disbelief but saw by their stern faces that this was no laughing matter.

"I am deadly serious," retorted Balin.

"But so many Dwarves died there," said Nori.

"And just as many died before the East Gate, just to turn aside at the moment of victory!" Balin barked.

"We turned aside because Khazad-dûm was abandoned but not empty," said a loud Dwarf from the back of the crowd near the base of the stairs.

Recognizing the voice, the audience parted to make way for their king. Dáin stepped forward, flanked by Glóin and Dwalin until he was within a few paces of Balin. If Balin was surprised by the king's unexpected attendance, he did not show it.

"Ah, yes," said Balin, bending forward in a mocking bow. "I have heard this tale before. You are the one who convinced King Thráin not to take Khazad-dûm when he had the chance."

"That place has not been called Khazad-dûm for many long years," said Dáin. "With good reason, it is now called Moria, the Black Pit."

"It seems to me," challenged Balin, "that you are trying to frighten our people from talking back what is rightfully ours."

"If they knew what awaited them in Moria, they would have every reason to be afraid," said Dain.

"Why do you really want them to avoid Khazad-dûm?" asked Balin.

Before Dáin could answer, Balin spoke again."Could it be that you are afraid that someone will retake that realm and then you would not be the only one with a crown?"

"No, that's not it!" exclaimed Dáin.

Balin turned to Dwalin before the king could say more.

"Surely brother, you do not believe these old ghost stories meant to keep us meek and afraid?" he said.

"From what I've heard about Moria," said Dwalin, glancing at his king. "It seems like a terrible place. I wish you would not go."

Balin frowned and waved his hand as if he were brushing away a pestering fly.

At the king's right side, Glóin spoke to his own brother Óin who was standing behind Balin.

"You are not going along with this madness, are you?" he asked.

Óin shrugged. "I'll admit that when Balin first told me about this plan, I had my doubts," he said. "But, if we were ever going to have a chance at starting a colony, now is our moment. There are hardly any Orcs left in the mountains after the great battle, and besides," he smiled at his brother, "you've already carried on the family line. I intended on aiding our cousin as best I can."

Glóin gaped at the unbelievable words he was hearing.

"You, too?" he asked, turning to Ori.

"Well, actually…" Ori began.

"Enough!" shouted Dáin. "This meeting is over! I want everyone out of here at once!"

Many of the Dwarves present had never heard their king yell so loudly, and they began to disperse towards stairs en masse. Some groaned with disappointment, having their enticing evening cut short, but many more wore excited smiles on their faces, chatting with their friends about Balin's audacious plan and the idea of wealth and adventure ripe for the picking. Dáin gave Balin a stern look and shook his head in frustration.

Balin returned his stare and asked, "Is my king going to throw me out in the cold for having a meeting?"

"No, but I want you out of here as soon as spring comes," Dáin said in a low voice "and this time, keep your madness far away from here,"

He turned and walked away with Glóin and Dwalin close behind. Despite his impending exile, Balin appeared calm and content, assured that he had kindled flames in the hearts of many of the king's subjects. In truth, he had already planned to leave in the spring and had no intention of returning to Erebor ever again, so Dáin's order actually had little effect on his grand scheme.

As the last of the attendees left the cellar, Óin hoisted the lantern and said to Balin, "I think that went well enough, but you really should be kinder to Dáin."

"He's a fool," spat Balin, "but hopefully, some others have more sense than him."

He watched as the last of the Dwarves mounted the stairs and disappeared into darkness.

"Keep those close," Balin said to Ori, who was rolling up the scrolls. "You're going to need to bring those when we depart."

"What's this now?" said Ori in surprise.

Balin's keen eyes fixed on him intensely, making Ori feel ill at ease.

"You just asked me for these scrolls," explained Ori. "I never said I was coming."

"Well, you are, aren't you?" asked Óin.

"I'm not sure," said Ori indecisively.

"You would rather waste your days here with Dáin?" asked Balin.

"Perhaps I could find a wife here and have children," said Ori.

Balin waved his hand again as if the idea of a quiet life surrounded by a loving family utterly disgusted him.

"You are still young," said Óin. "You will have plenty of time for all that after we take back Khazad-dûm."

Ori toyed with the scrolls and fidgeted uncomfortably under the eyes of his comrades.

"Are you with us, or against us?" asked Balin sharply.

For a long moment, the three stood together in the small circle of light cast by the flickering lantern. Finally, Ori looked at Óin and gave him the smallest of grins. Óin then broke into a wide smile, knowing his friend's answer before he spoke it.

"I am with you," Ori finally said , nodding to his friends.

Balin and Óin patted their newest recruit on the back, welcoming him warmly into their new company.

Snows came from the North, and the Lonely Mountain was buried deep, gleaming like a white tooth jutting into the dark sky. All the land was frozen and still, but below the earth, the kingdom of Erebor was as busy as ever. Per the king's decree, all secret meetings were strictly prohibited, but this did not stop the tenacious Balin and his two loyal followers, Óin and Ori, from clandestinely recruiting comrades for their upcoming adventure.

The Dwarves under the mountain with the most experience in dangerous missions of this sort were of course the surviving members of the Company. Balin was still upset with his brother Dwalin for siding with Dáin during their altercation in the dungeon and refused to speak to him, let alone ask for his membership into their new company. The would-be adventurers considered Glóin to be too close to the king, and besides, he would never abandon his family to go on another quest, even if it grieved him to see his brother Óin go without him. Dori and Nori had made their thoughts on the colony clear at the meeting, but even the irascible Balin had to admit that brothers were still very decent fellows in anyone's opinion.

This left only three surviving company members left to recruit. Ori and Óin were optimistic about their chances of convincing their old friends to join. They had received an unexpected message inviting them to Bombur's home to discuss the matter. Interestingly, the invitation was addressed only to the two of them and did not include Balin. The old Dwarf grumbled at this exclusion but claimed he had other promising recruits to speak to elsewhere in the kingdom anyway.

Ori and Óin did not have to travel far to reach their destination. All the wealthiest Dwarves in the kingdom had luxurious mansions near the royal court, and Bombur's was no exception. When they came to his doorstep, they admired the best dwarven craftsmanship dragon gold could buy. Bombur's front door was flanked by stone columns carved to resemble trees and polished to shine like mirrors. They knocked on the double stone doors, which swung inward, opened by unseen hands.

As they entered the foyer, they were met by exquisite reliefs carved in the stone walls, proudly displaying scenes from the resident's past adventures. The largest of these depicted a surprisingly thin and athletic Bombur fighting off three trolls single handedly. Ori and Óin hid their chuckles from a servant, who showed them further into the splendid home.

Walking down a hallway decorated with bright tapestries, they heard loud music coming from up ahead. As they neared, they could make out the sound of clarinets accompanied by the deep bass of a drum.

"DOOM. DOOM. DOOM." The pounding thundered away rhythmically like a great beating heart. They came into a great round room and saw three well dressed Dwarves reclined on comfortable couches merrily making music illuminated by westward facing windows framing the early winter sunset

"What do your poor neighbors think of all this noise?" joked Óin when he spotted his friends.

"I haven't heard any complaints!" cried Bombur, beating his drum louder.

"DOOM. DOOM. DOOM."

Bofur pulled his clarinet from his mouth and laughed. "Bifur and I bought the houses on either side!"

After concluding their song with a thundering finale, the three musicians set down their instruments and bowed playfully to their applauding guests. The quintet then sat down together, and Bombur called for his servants to bring over food and drink.

"Thank you for the invitation," said Ori.

"Always a pleasure to see old friends," said Bombur, removing his pale green hood and wiping his sweaty brow. He looked uncomfortable as he tried to settle his swollen body into the soft cushions.

"After we didn't see you at the meeting the other night, we were surprised to hear that you were interested in our little scheme," said Óin.

Bifur and Bofur shared a concerned look but said nothing. Bombur was about to speak but was distracted by the servants who had just entered the room carrying heavily laden silver platters. The servants set out the food for Bombur and his guests before leaving the company members to their private conversation. Each Dwarf nibbled on his favorite dish before settling into an uneasy quiet until Bifur set down his apple tart with raspberry jam and broke the silence.

"We wanted to talk to you about Balin," he said.

"I know he lost his temper at the feast," explained Ori, "but you know that is really not his way."

"Is that so?" asked Bofur through a mouthful of mince pie and cheese.

"Balin is proud, sometimes too much so. He reminds me of Thorin at times," said Óin.

At this, Bombur slammed his silver plate against the table with a crash like a cymbal, startling his friends and sending bits of pork pie and salad in all directions.

"Too much like Thorin," he said, letting his fine silverware clatter onto his half-cleared plate.

Óin, never knowing his portulent friend to stop eating halfway through a meal, turned and gave Bombur his full attention.

"What do you mean?" he asked "Look at all the good Thorin did,"

Bombur crossed his heavy arms and wore a sullen expression on his wide face.

"He was always a Dwarf with a stiff neck," said Bombur, shaking his head.

Óin and Ori shared a confused look. They remembered Thorin as proud and sometimes even haughty, but to hear Bombur talk of their late king this way was unsettling.

"But, you joined the company…" began Ori.

"Joined?" Bifur scoffed. "You may have joined, but we were ordered to follow Thorin," he said.

Óin and Ori remained silent, not understanding what was being said.

"All though my cousins and I are Longbeards" explained Bifur, "we are not descended from Durin's line like Balin or Thorin, or even yourselves for that matter."

"What difference does that make?" asked Óin.

"It means that Thorin never saw us as equals," said Bofur.

"If I remember, you served as Thorin's honor guard before the adventure," said Óin.

"Not that there was much honor in it," said Bombur.

"When he became king after his father went missing, all Thorin did was boss us around like we were lowly servants," said Bifur.

"When he got the idea in his head to retake Erebor, he told us we had to come, and that was it," said Bofur.

"We never had a choice," added Bifur.

"I was always afraid to speak up to Thorin, even when he was cruel to me," said Bombur. "I never told you this, but there was a time when I wished that I had never woken up from my enchanted sleep."

He shook his head, ashamed.

"A sorry business altogether," he murmured.

There was a long pause, and the five companions sat in silence, letting the words hang in the air. Bombur's servants returned to clear the plates and sweep away the scattered food. The sun had set outside and the arched windows of Bombur's mansion were now empty portals looking into the void of night. Dwarves have keen eyes in the dark, and so only a few sparse candles were lit, mere pinpricks of light in the gloom.

"Dark for dark business," said Bifur.

"I'm so sorry," said Óin. "I had no idea you all felt that way about Thorin."

"It's alright," said Bombur. "You two, at least, were always very kind to us."

"Water under the bridge now, as they say," added Bofur.

"Balin would treat you with respect if you decided to join us," said Óin, remembering the purpose of his visit.

"He has some grand ideas," said Ori.

"And going to Moria is one of them?" asked Bofur.

"I have heard that there are still forgotten treasures of old to be found in the deserted caverns of Khazad-dûm," said Óin.

"There's more than treasures to be found in Moria," said Bombur.

"And if you're concerned about Orcs," said Ori, "there are hardly any left since the great battle."

Bombur leaned forward closer to the candlelight. The faint flame emphasized the lines on his stern face.

"I'm not talking about Orcs," he said with raised eyebrows.

For a moment Óin thought that perhaps, Bombur was joking, but when he looked at Bifur and Bofur, both looked stone faced and serious, he knew that it was no lighthearted jest.

"Do you mean…?" began Ori.

"I do," Bombur said flatly.

"You don't believe…" said Óin with a skeptical smirk.

"We do," said Bofur, wiping the smile from Óin's face.

"But it can't be," stammered Ori.

"It is," said Bifur, nodding slowly.

Utterly defeated and at a complete loss for words, Ori and Óin slumped back into their seats.

"Then why did you invite us here if you're so afraid of those old scary bedtime stories?" asked Óin, throwing up his hands incredulously.

"We may not be of Durin's line like yourselves, but our family originally came from Khazad-dûm before it was abandoned," said Bifur, "and those 'old scary bedtime stories,' as you call them, are part of our people's history."

"I see," said Ori thoughtfully.

"You didn't invite us here so we could convince you to join," he guessed.

"You invited us here so you could convince us to stay," concluded Óin.

"Exactly," said Bombur.

"I don't know what to say," said Ori.

"Say you will stay," suggested Bifur.

"It's not too late to turn away from this path you are on," said Bofur.

"But we've already promised Balin we would go," said Ori, glancing at Óin beside him.

"Promises can be broken," said Bifur.

"He needs us," insisted Óin. "He cannot succeed alone,"

"You will be saving him from himself," said Bombur.

"I know my cousin better than all of you all do," said Óin. "He will go to Khazad-dûm. Alone, if needs be."

He stared at the lone candle burning between them, collecting his thoughts and thinking through all that had been said that night. He watched drips of melted wax trickle down the sides of the candle like sweat beading on a nervous brow. He watched the small orange light dance around the thin black wick, letting his mind wander down the perilous paths ahead. His dark eyes remained fixed until they saw nothing but shadow and flame. Finally, he looked up from the candle and into Bombur's eyes.

"I will go with Balin," said Óin resolutely.

Bombur closed his eyes and flinched like he had just suffered a grievous wound.

Óin and the others then turned to face Ori, awaiting his answer.

"And I will go with you," Ori said to Óin in a voice that did little to mask his trepidation.

Bombur looked to Bifur and Bofur who shrugged meekly, knowing there was nothing they could do to change their friends' minds.

"So be it," concluded Bombur. "I truly hope that we are wrong about Moria and nothing but fame and fortune awaits you."

"Thank you," said Ori, but Óin was again looking into the flame, as if entranced by its flickering light. With an effort, he wrestled his gaze away from the flame and looked up at Bombur again.

"I will send you a letter once we are settled in," he said, making an effort to smile.

"I look forward to reading it," Bombur said to his friend with a smile tinged with sadness.

4

Drawing Lines

Balin was not happy when Ori and Óin returned without the commitment of their old comrades.

"Dáin must have gotten to them first," he surmised.

"I don't think the king had anything to do with their decision," said Óin. "Their minds have been made up about Khazad-dûm for a long time."

"It doesn't matter," said Balin with a wave of his hand. "They'll regret their decision once we establish our colony. How about that nephew of yours?"

"Gimli won't disobey his father's wishes," answered Óin.

Balin groaned

"Well, were you able to get anyone at all?" he asked.

"We tried," said Óin, "but most of the Dwarves we know wouldn't even consider hearing us out, let alone consider joining."

Balin shook his head and grumbled to himself.

"How about Mr. Baggins?" suggested Ori. "Do you think he would be up for another adventure?"

"I never trusted him after he lied to me about that trinket of his" said Balin "I wouldn't let that burglar anywhere near Durin's Halls."

"Very well," said Óin, seeing no point in arguing with the already annoyed Balin. "Perhaps we could reach out to Gandalf. He was awfully helpful last time."

"Wizards should not meddle in the affairs of Dwarves," said Balin "We don't need him sticking his crooked nose into our business."

Óin shook his head but said nothing.

"Were you able to enlist anyone, Balin?" Ori asked.

"Not yet," answered Balin sourly through clenched teeth.

"But I have some irons in the fire," he added quickly. "They might need some more convincing though."

For once, a hint of worry crept into his usually self-assured voice.

"There are plenty of other Dwarves in Erebor," suggested Óin optimistically. "Why don't we ask the newcomers from other tribes?"

"Are we really that desperate?" Balin asked dejectedly.

"Unless you think the three of us can take Khazad-dûm ourselves, we will need to take along anyone who is willing," said Óin.

"He's right," added Ori. "Spring will be here soon, and you can't afford to be picky at this point."

Balin reluctantly agreed with a silent nod, and the three conspirators set off in different directions to promote their cause beneath the Lonely Mountain.

Another cold month passed in the outer world and Balin was forced to admit that they had finally exhausted their recruiting efforts, having canvassed the entire kingdom; from the wide avenues of the wealthy to the narrow alleys crowded with poor refugees. He decided that if they were going to leave as soon as spring had sprung, they needed to hold another secret meeting to formally establish their new company to begin planning their expedition and hope beyond hope that at least some other Dwarves were willing to answer the call.

The three old adventures crept down to the lowest dungeon where they had held their first meeting earlier the season. As they descended the steps, Ori fumbled with the bundle of loose papers under his arm. He leaned towards Óin and whispered timidly.

"Should we not hold the meeting somewhere else?" he asked worriedly. "What if Dáin finds out?"

Before Óin could answer, Balin snapped harshly.

"I don't care what he thinks," said Balin. "I am done following his orders."

His voice was strained and agitated. Clearly, the stress was getting to him and making his already short temper even shorter. Ori laid a hand on Óin's arm, and they let Balin stomp ahead of them down the stairs. When the old Dwarf had descended a few steps, Ori leaned closer.

"How many do you have coming?" he asked.

"Hard to say," confessed Óin. "A few Dwarves I spoke to seemed interested enough, but I'm not sure how many of them would actually join. How about you?"

"Much the same," said Ori fretfully.

They paused and listened to Balin's footfalls as they faded into the depths below.

"But what if nobody else shows up to the meeting?" Ori asked.

Óin had been pondering the same troubling possibility for some time and had already come up with an answer for when his dear friend would inevitably ask.

"More treasure for us then," he said, patting Ori on the back and ushering him down the stairs.

They stepped off of the last stair and peered into the gloomy distance. They saw in the center of the immense dungeon, Balin's silhouette outlined against the glow of a single lantern. As they approached the light, they were relieved to see ten other Dwarves huddled around a small table, waiting for the meeting to begin. Some they recognized from their recruiting, while others were strangers to them. The two friends came to a halt on either side of Balin who was standing silently, intensely surveying each of the Dwarves in turn. When he had scrutinized the last one, he spoke.

"If you are standing here, then that means you are willing to join our company," said Balin.

He paused and counted all ten heads, nodding in the affirmative.

"Our mission is simple," he continued. "We will travel to Khazad-dûm and establish a colony there."

At this, two of the younger Dwarves glanced at each other, suppressing excited smiles.

"I won't lie to you," Balin said in a serious tone. "The road will be long and there's no telling what dangers might be waiting for us past the great gates."

The smiles of the younger Dwarves quickly disappeared, and they averted their gazes toward the stone floor.

Pacing around the small circle of light, Balin said, "If any of you lack the fortitude for such a perilous journey, now is the time to walk away."

Balin stopped and sneered at a nervous looking Easterner who, according to the customs of his distant land, wore no hood upon his shaggy head, a practice Balin could never wrap his mind around. The eastern Dwarf hardened his demeanor and withstood Balin's wrathful gaze resolutely.

Balin turned away and gestured to Ori, who unfolded a long piece of paper and spread it flat upon the table. He then uncorked a small bottle of ink and set down a quill before stepping back to his place at Balin's side.

"For those of you brave enough to join our new company," said Balin, "please introduce yourselves and then sign the contract to formally commit to our cause."

The first to step forward was an athletic youth. With a confidence bordering on bravado, he spoke to the assembled Dwarves without the slightest hint of uncertainty.

"Flói, at your service," he said, removing his hood and bowing with a flourish.

He then rushed forward eagerly to sign the contract. Balin's signature was already on the document, as were those of Óin and Ori. Flói proudly added his name just below those of his childhood heroes. After he set down the quill, he turned to Balin.

"Thank you for the opportunity, sir," he said. "I won't let you down."

Balin nodded in approval but said nothing. He gestured for Flói to stand beside him and the young Dwarf dutifully obeyed. Swift to follow was another one of Balin's personal recruits. Frár stepped forward, clearly excited to join his best friend Flói on a quest like those they grew up hearing by the fireside.

"Frár, at your service," he told his new companions. "I've been waiting my whole life for something like this."

"So not very long," Óin whispered to Ori lightheartedly.

The young Frár stepped forward and signed his name just below his friend's.

"Náli, at your service," said another young Dwarf, "and this is my brother Lóni,"

"Thank you for having us, Master Balin," added Lóni, bowing alongside his older brother.

They too signed their names and stood proudly near Flói and Frár.

Two older Dwarves were next to come forward. One had a flaming red beard and a head of hair to match.

"Gamil of the Firebeards, at your service," he announced.

At his side, the other Dwarf was thickset with bright eyes stared longingly at the contract in the lantern glow.

"Onar of the Broadbeams, also at your service," he added, wrenching his eyes away from the light at last.

They both removed their hoods and bowed respectfully. Balin was pleased to see these two western Dwarves respecting Longbeard customs and gave them a small but approving nod.

"Two of the best miners to come from the Blue Mountains," Ori said to Balin.

"Very well," said Balin, gesturing to the table.

Gamil and Onar each signed their names and stood beside Ori.

"Thank you for the invitation, Master Ori" said Gamil.

Ori patted Gamil and Onar on the back. "You two will certainly have your hands full."

"This will be our first time mining for…" Onar began.

"We need to get there first," snapped Balin with a frown, putting an end to the conversation.

He kept his unwelcoming face and turned to the four remaining Dwarves, all of whom were dressed in the types of "exotic" eastern styles Balin disapproved of.

"And who are you?" Balin asked coldly.

Óin rushed forward and put his arm around one of the Dwarves, a stooping fellow with a dark braided beard.

"I recruited these four fine Dwarves myself," he said proudly. "This here is Lofar of the Blacklocks. Just wait until you hear his exciting stories from the East."

Balin said nothing but merely gave a minute nod. Lofar bowed stiffly and picked up the quill. Ori peered at the contract and was surprised to see that Lofar had signed his name in a foreign script that he did not recognize.

"And this is Anar of the…" Óin said, trying to remember to which tribe his recruit belonged.

"Of the Stiffbeards," said Anar in an unusual accent seldom heard in Erebor.

Balin sighed impatiently, but Anar nonetheless stepped forward to sign his name below Lofar's in the same sort of letters.

"And this fine Stonefoot goes by Hannar," said Óin. "I'm told that he has just the type of skills we need on an expedition like this"

"I doubt that," Balin muttered to himself under his breath.

Hannar said nothing and signed the contract with a crude "X" before taking his place with the three other easterners. One Dwarf remained alone on the other side of the table. The eerie light of the lantern made his gaunt face look corpselike.

"And last, but certainly not least is Nar of the Ironfists," said Óin with a welcoming smile.

Nar, however, did not immediately step forward to sign the contract. Instead, he stood still, with his hands clenched at his sides. His dead eyes were locked on the lantern flame, as if it was the only thing in the vast darkness of the dungeon.

The pause was finally interrupted by Hannar, who barked something at Nar in a foreign tongue that the Longbeards could not understand. Nar, as if woken from a trance, quickly came to the table and signed his name in large letters at the bottom of the page. He took his place beside the others, but his face remained grave. He leaned toward Óin and asked in a low voice, glancing up at the small group, "Where are the others?"

"This is it," Óin said with an uneasy smile and a shrug.

"We took Erebor with a team of thirteen," announced Balin, overhearing them. "We can do it again with Khazad-dûm."

"On the bright side, there are no dragons this time," said Ori, carefully folding the newly signed contract and putting it among his pile of documents. He then produced a large map and laid it upon the table. Old as the parchment looked, the map was still usable. Like all dwarven maps, it was oriented with east at the top rather than north.

"Gather 'round," ordered Balin. "There is no time to waste."

The newly formed company encircled the table and leaned over the map, shoulder to shoulder, their faces illuminated by the lone lantern.

"We will depart on the first day of Spring," he told them.

He pointed a knobbly finger onto the Lonely Mountain and dragged it westwards across the worn surface of the map.

"We will travel along the Gray Mountains, until we reach the…" he began.

"Forgive me, cousin," said Óin, "but I thought we had decided to take the Forest Road."

"I've changed my mind," said Balin without looking up from the map.

"But it will add a tremendous distance to go around Mirkwood," said Ori.

Now, Balin raised his stern eyes and spoke to Ori and Óin in a commanding but not unkind tone. "A small price to pay to avoid those terrible Elves," he said "We can't risk being waylaid like last time."

"That was a misunderstanding," said Óin.

"We will go around the forest," said Balin flatly. "It is not up for discussion."

He turned back to the map and picked up the quill. Óin and Ori stood in silence like the others while Balin drew a rough line westwards above the northern edge of the great forest.

"As I was saying," Balin continued, "we will proceed westward along the Grey Mountains before turning southward, along the Anduin."

He dipped the quill in ink and drew another line following the great river on its southward journey alongside the Misty Mountains, which dominated the center of the map, winding their way like a dark serpent across the map.

"After that, we will come to the crossroads, which I'm sure some of you have passed before," said Balin.

Some nodded, having passed through the ancient meeting place on other travels, while others had never even heard of such a place before. Balin went on.

"After a few more marches, we will arrive at our destination," he said, tapping his knuckles on a cluster of three mountains.

He then bent closer to the map and frowned. He once again dipped the quill in ink and crossed out the word "Moria," which had been written on the map many years ago. In large, rough letters, he wrote instead "Khazad-dûm."

"That's better," he said to nobody in particular.

Balin laid down the quill and stood up straight, looking around the table at the members of his new company. Even on the map, the journey looked daunting.

"And after we arrive at Khazad-dûm?" said Onar. "Then what?"

"We will found a colony," said Balin.

"Yes, but do you have a plan for that?" asked Onar.

"Of course I do," said Balin, sounding annoyed. "Don't worry about that. Just focus on getting yourself to the gates."

Onar nodded and gave a short respectful bow.

"Anything else?" asked Balin, looking around.

"Do you have any maps of Moria, I mean, Khazad-dûm?" asked Gamil.

"Not at the moment," said Ori before Balin could answer. "We might have to make our own once we arrive."

"What if we cannot get inside the gates?" asked Lofar.

"If we sit on the doorstep long enough, I daresay we will think of something," said Óin, giving Balin a playful nudge, but his cousin did not seem to be in the mood for such a jest.

"That's enough for now," Balin said. "We can work out the finer details later."

His eyes wandered down to the page and came to rest on the dark spot of ink where the word "Moria" had for so long stained the map. He stood there in silence, analyzing the map for some time. At last, Ori spoke.

"Well, thank you all for joining us," he said.

"We are proud to have such brave Dwarves joining us," said Óin. "Please begin your preparations. We will let you know when we will meet again."

Balin looked up from the map in time to dismiss the group with a wave of his hand.

The ten newest members dutifully set off up the stairs. The four young Dwarves were giddy with excitement, taking the stairs two at a time. Onar and Gamil engaged in a hushed conversation about what tools to pack while the four eastern Dwarves whispered among themselves.

With the new recruits out of the room, Balin turned to Ori.

"Were you able to find anything about…?" he asked, trailing off.

"Oh right," said Ori. "I'd nearly forgotten."

He shuffled through some of his papers and handled one to Balin.

"This is it?" Balin asked, holding up the single sheet scrawled with Ori's handwritten notes.

"That's all I could find," Ori explained.

Balin grumbled and began scanning the document.

"Unfortunately, it seems that the Ring was lost when King Thrór was killed," said Ori. "I'm afraid there is little hope of finding it now."

"We will see about that," Balin said. He folded the piece of paper and tucked it into his pocket.

"I have much to do," he added. "I must be going."

"Good night," said Ori, bowing politely.

Without a word, Balin turned and headed toward the stairs. Ori returned to the table where Óin was leaning over the map.

"What did you just give Balin?" Óin asked.

"Not enough, it seems," answered Ori.

"Alright then, keep your secrets," said Óin.

He directed Ori's attention to the map.

"I have an idea," he said.

"That worries me," joked Ori.

"No, no," said Óin. "This is a good one."

He gestured to the map and Ori joined him in looking at where he was pointing.

"If we are going to take the long way to Khazad-dûm," he said, tracing their planned route with his finger, "we might as well kill two birds with one stone."

He concluded by tapping his finger at a certain point on the map.

"It's a great idea," Ori laughed. "But perhaps a poor choice of words."

Dáin sat alone in his chambers, staring into the fireplace, lost in thought. The flames had died down, and all that remained was a pile of glowing embers. The room was growing cold, but instead of adding another log, the king remained still in his chair, where he had passed the entire night. Even in the dim light, his great axe gleamed crimson like fresh blood above the mantle. Thoughts swirled in his head like the snowflakes in the darkness outside his window. Faces from the past stalked the dark corners of his mind like lurking phantoms. He saw his father lying lifeless on the threshold of Khazad-dûm, followed by Thorin Oakenshield fading on his deathbed, and then finally Balin wandering alone into shadow. His haunting was then interrupted by a loud beating.

DOOM. DOOM. DOOM.

Dáin clutched the arms of his chair in terror, and his eyes darted to the axe hanging before him. His chest suddenly tightened, and he jerked his head back and forth, looking for the source of the noise.

DOOM. DOOM. DOOM. The beating rumbled again.

"A message for the king," said a muffled voice from behind the thick door.

Dáin breathed a sigh and felt his heart slow. When he rose to his feet, his head felt light. Out of habit, he reached for a nearby goblet but pulled his hand back instead.

"Come in," he commanded.

The heavy door creaked open, and in walked a young Dwarf clothed all in black. He bowed before his king.

"I'm sorry to bother you at this late hour, but you told me to come at once if I learned anything," he said apologetically.

"It's quite alright, Toki," said Dáin. "What do you have to report?"

"Master Balin is still holding secret meetings against your wishes," said Toki.

"I can't say I am surprised," said Dain, returning to his place before the hearth and sinking back into his chair.

"It appears that they have been meeting regularly throughout the winter," added Toki.

"How many of them?" asked Dáin quickly.

"Their number seems to be set at thirteen, counting Master Balin himself," answered Toki.

"So few…" said Dáin softly, sounding both relieved at the small number but also concerned that any of his subjects were needlessly placing themselves in harm's way.

"Anyone I know personally?" he asked louder.

"Masters Ori and Óin," said Toki.

"They are true to their word. They will break their promise to Balin," said Dáin with a slow nod. "And the rest?"

"Mostly foreign folk and a few younger Longbeards," said Toki. "Nobody of note, though."

Dáin sat in silence for a moment, thinking about all the late night visits he had made to convince his subjects to stay in Erebor. He regretted not being able to talk to every Dwarf under the mountain personally. If only they had seen what he had seen, then perhaps they would think twice about such an adventure.

"What were they talking about?" he asked after a long pause.

"I could not hear much from my hiding place," said Toki, "but it is clear that they have formed their own company and intend to leave in the spring."

"I see," said Dain, turning his gaze back to the coals, nearly lifeless now in the hearth.

"Do you want me to put a stop to it?" Toki asked.

"What?" said the king, as if escaping yet another distracting thought.

"No," said Dain. "It's too late."

"Very well sir," said Toki. "Shall I continue to keep an eye on them?"

"I think not," said Dáin in a sorrowful voice, "Spring will be here soon. We should let them prepare in peace."

"As you wish," said Toki, picking up a few logs and setting them into the fireplace for the old king. The dry wood began to kindle and flickering flames began to chase away the chill from the cold room.

"Thank you very much," Dáin said with a tired smile.

"Of course," said Toki, bowing to his king before slipping out through the door.

The heavy door slammed shut with a final DOOM.

Dáin was then alone again, staring into the flames.

5

Exodus From Erebor

Balin stood silently in his personal quarters, staring down at the collection of items before him. Arrayed across the floor of his small chamber were all manner of tools, weapons, and other equipment that might be needed on a long adventure filled with unknown hazards.

But was it enough? He began cramming everything into his pack, trying to keep his mind on the things he was taking along on the journey, and not what he was leaving behind. With a mighty effort, he closed the overstuffed pack and hoisted it onto his shoulders. Even in his advanced age, Balin was undaunted by the tremendous weight. He tightened the straps to cinch the pack a little higher on his shoulders and then turned to the door.

He reached for his scarlet hood hanging from its familiar peg but then hesitated. He turned away from the door and opened a small cupboard. He reached inside and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in fine paper. Removing the paper, he held in his hands a newly sewn hood, sky blue with a silver tassel. He stood in front of a tarnished mirror and donned the hood for the first time. His reflection had never looked older and more shabby despite the new headwear. Nothing like Thorin. Balin frowned and turned away from the mirror. He flung open the door and stomped out, tossing his old scarlet hood over his shoulder on the way out.

When he finally reached the bottommost cellar, the other members of the new company were already present. Scattered about the circle of lantern light, the Dwarves were busily adjusting their equipment and repacking their gear. Without removing his own pack, Balin stalked among them, scrutinizing each of them.

"I told you lot before," he snapped at Hannar, who was tucking a flute into his pack, "no musical instruments allowed. This won't be that kind of journey. Leave it behind."

Hannar looked crestfallen but did not argue. Without a word, he set the slender instrument on the table beside the lantern. Balin gave him another stern look and then continued his inspections. He spotted Óin and Ori kneeling on the stone floor, trying to cram bulky bundles into their already full packs.

"What are you two doing?" Balin asked, pointing at their baggage. "What is that?"

Struggling to press the extra items into place, Óin said, "We told you about this already."

"A promise is a promise," added Ori, finally able to close his bag.

"Oh, right," grumbled Balin, remembering a previous conversation.

"Well, you still have to carry a full load even with those trinkets," Balin added.

"That's what the ponies are for," said Óin, closing his own bag at last.

Balin grumbled and stalked away. He had never liked ponies, or really any animals, for that matter, but saw their utility on such a long journey.

Once everyone was more or less ready, Balin gave the order, and they began following him in a long column. Instead of ascending the stairs up to the heart of Erebor, they set off up an inclined passage that climbed gradually in a smooth straight line. Balin had wanted to leave the Lonely Mountain as discreetly as possible and the Back Door, now a poorly kept secret, was the best alternative to an exit out the front gates. The route was utterly dark, and the Dwarves marched with their hands running along the smooth stone walls, painstakingly carved and polished to a mirror finish by unknown forebears. Only once in the two mile ascent did Balin look backwards. When he did, he saw the bobbing of twelve shadowy silhouettes following him and far, far below, the faint light of the lantern burning alone in the dungeon. It was so distant that it looked like a tiny spark suspended in the dark void.

The column finally halted at a wall of stone which disguised the secret door. The Dwarves groped in the darkness until they found the concealed hand holds. Balin's heart began to beat faster as the door swung inwards. Finally, after all the long years of serving others, he was leading his own company and heading off to found his own realm. The door was only five feet high but wide enough that Balin was able to step outside with Ori and Óin flanking him. Daylight poured in around the edges of the stone door, temporarily blinding the departing Dwarves. Balin blinked in the bright light and could not believe his eyes when he regained his sight. Standing before the Back Door on a terrace adorned with the first blades of spring grass stood a group of familiar faces.

"You didn't think we would let you leave without saying goodbye?" said Dwalin, stepping forward to put his arm around his brother.

"But…how…?" Balin stammered looking around him in disbelief.

"We may have mentioned something to one or two of our closest friends," said Ori at his side.

Instead of being enraged about their spoiled secrecy, Balin seemed to be pleased by all the well-wishers who had come to bid him farewell.

"I hope there are no hard feelings," said Dori, stepping forward to shake Balin's hand.

"Please be safe, and do write soon," added Nori. "We wish you only the best."

Balin was at a loss for words and merely mumbled a few words of thanks.

Bifur and Bofur approached Ori and greeted him warmly.

"Bombur wishes he could be here, but it was an awfully long walk from the front gate," said Bifur.

"None of us are getting any younger," added Bifur.

"We can agree on that at least," said Ori, stooping under the weight of his heavy pack.

"I wish we could have changed your mind," said Bifur.

"Be safe, old friend," said Bofur, "and remember, you can always come back here."

Ori nodded and looked at the ground. He absentmindedly pushed aside a small snail shell with the toe of his boot.

"Thank you," he croaked through a tightening throat.

On the other side of the terrace, Glóin and Óin were sharing some last words together.

"I hope you remember how to light your own fire," said Gloin, producing an elaborately decorated tinderbox and handing it to his brother.

"Old adventures never forget, do we?" said Óin, accepting the gift graciously.

"Did Gilmi come with you?" Óin asked, tucking the tinderbox into his pocket, knowing there was no more room in his stuffed pack.

"He couldn't bring himself to say goodbye," admitted Gloin. "His heart would break seeing you all leave without him."

"I understand," said Óin "Tell him we will meet again soon."

Another pair of brothers were still exchanging farewells nearby.

"Are you sure you want to grow old here?" Balin asked Dwalin. "Under Dain's thumb?"

"I'm sorry, brother," said Dwalin mournfully, "but I can't follow you this time."

He glanced toward the Back Door. Balin followed his gaze and saw King Dáin standing alone in the doorway. Balin almost did not recognize his old rival. Dáin looked as though he had not slept in many nights, looking aged beyond his already advanced years.

The entire group of Dwarves hushed as Balin and Dáin stepped toward each other.

"Here to kick me out yourself?" Balin asked coarsely.

"No," said Dain, shaking his head slowly.

He removed his crown and held it in both his hands, searching for the right words.

"I never wanted this, you know," he said in a low voice that only Balin could hear.

"What?" asked Balin, caught off guard by the king's candid tone.

"This," said Dain, holding up the crown. "You're right. This should have been Thorin's."

Balin said nothing, too stunned to speak. With a heavy sigh that slumped his tired shoulders even more, Dáin went on.

"I know we've had our disagreements," he explained, "but I want you to know that you will always have a home here in Erebor."

"What are you saying?" asked Balin.

"I'm saying you don't have to leave," said Dáin, now looking up into Balin's eyes.

Balin had never seen Dáin act in such a way before. He looked exhausted and desperate, suffering from unseen pains.

"Please," said Dáin in a weak voice.

Balin turned away from the old king and looked westwards to the Misty Mountains far off in the distance. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind as he contemplated what to do. The morning sky had become overcast and gray and the sun no longer shined brightly. The breeze was cold and biting this high up on the mountain, but Balin's mind was too busy to care about that. For some reason, the somber sky conjured memories of his father.

"No," Balin said at last after a long pause.

He turned back to face Dáin whose head hung down as if having suffered a bitter defeat.

"I must go," Balin stated.

Without a word, Dáin nodded. Slowly, he raised his crown and set it upon his head. When he looked up at Balin, his eyes were filled with tears. The two rivals shared a brief look but said no more. Dáin turned away and retreated inside the back door into his kingdom without looking back.

A few more words were spoken by the others, but one by one, Dwarves followed their king inside leaving only the committed members of the new company outside on the terrace. The last to cross the threshold was Dwalin. He looked outwards toward his brother, but Dwalin was resolutely staring westward and refused to look behind him. With a pained sigh, Dwalin swung the stone door forward until it closed with a deep DOOM.

Once in place, the door disappeared, smooth and upright as masons' work without any sign of a post or lintel or threshold, nor any sign of bar or bolt or keyhole. Only cold, silent stone stared back at the adventurers.

Ori and Óin resumed their places at Balin's side, but the old Dwarf did not seem to acknowledge their presence. He was staring off into the distance, muttering to himself.

"Cowards. All of them," Balin mumbled. "They'll see…"

"Are you alright?" Óin asked gently.

"I'm fine!" Balin snapped loudly, coming out of his thoughts. "We've wasted enough time already. Let's be off."

He strode forward without another word, letting Ori and Óin trot after them with the other ten Dwarves close behind.

The company carefully made their way along a precarious path atop a narrow ledge where they could look down onto a vale about three miles long between the two western spurs of the Lonely Mountain. As they descended down the top of the southern spur, the Dwarves could see ravens flying above their heads, black against the heavy gray sky. Their harsh squawks rattled off the loose stones as the company marched along.

"I don't like these dark birds," said Balin under his breath. "They look like spies of evil."

If Ori or Óin overheard this comment, they remained silent, knowing better than to interrupt their leader when he was in such a sullen mood.

Close to the bottom of the spur, where their path led to the plain surrounding the mountain, several dark shapes came into view. When the company finally reached flat land, they could see that the shapes were thirteen ponies and an old man walking among them.

"Can you trust this Man?" Balin asked Óin before they were within earshot of the stranger.

"Of course I trust him! Nowhere are there any men so friendly to us as the Men of Dale," said Óin.

"You two have actually met before, you know," he added.

Balin gave him an unsure look and squinted down at the old man.

"Well, it was many years ago," Óin explained. "He was the soldier who found dear Mr. Baggins after the Battle."

"Well I can't tell them apart anyway," Balin mumbled.

"Lifstan!" Óin called out just as they approached the ponies. "Thank you for coming all this way."

The old man peeked his head around one of the animals showing a warm smile missing a few teeth.

"It's the least I could do," said Lifstan. "It's the least I could so after you helped my grandson."

"Don't mention it," said Óin with the wave of a hand. "Erebor is lucky to have such a fine apprentice."

Lifstan swelled with pride at Ori's words.

"Consider the ponies as repayment for all you've done for my family over the years," said Lifstan.

"We were prepared to pay for them," said Ori in surprise, "Are you sure?"

"Don't make me change my mind," Lifstan teased.

"Very well, then," Óin said, unslinging his pack and heaving it onto the back of the nearest pony.

"I am not as swift and sure footed as I once was, but these ponies sure are," Lifstan said, patting one gently.

Balin gave his pony a sour look, but did not complain when he unloaded his heavy gear onto the patient beast.

"You never told me where you are headed," said Lifstan inquisitively.

Balin shot Óin a look that made his desire for secrecy as clear as crystal.

"We're just going to visit some distant relations in the Blue Mountains," Óin lied. "We could be gone for some time."

Lifstan nodded, having a vague understanding that the Blue Mountains were somewhere off to the west beyond the distant Misty Mountains.

"How are things in Dale?" Óin asked while the other Dwarves were loading their baggage onto the ponies.

"Things have never been better," said Lifstan enthusiastically. "We were all worried when King Bard passed, but his son Bain is doing a fine job as king."

"I remember when he was just a young lad," said Ori. "How fast the years have flown by."

"King Bain has continued the work his father started," explained Lifstan "The waterways of Dale have been restored, as have the fountains, and the pools! You should see the stone-paved roads of many colors!"

Balin chuckled to himself when he heard the Man speaking of stonework, as if they were capable of anything but the crudest masonry.

"What's more," Lifstan went on, "Lake town had been rebuilt more fair and large and farther north up the shore. You will have to see it for yourself when you return."

"Yes, I'll be sure to do so," said Óin, for the first time contemplating if he would ever have the chance.

The younger Dwarves, unaccustomed to ponies, eyed their mounts suspiciously, unsure of where to begin.

"Have you ever ridden one of these before?" Frár asked Flói discreetly so that the older Dwarves could not hear.

"No," admitted Flói, "but I've seen others do it plenty of times. How hard could it be?"

With a quick bound, he leapt onto the saddle and promptly slid off the other side and onto the ground.

"Sometimes, slower is better," said Gamil, setting down his gear to help Flói back to his feet. Flói for his part was unscathed except for his pride. Gamil patiently showed Flói how to properly mount the animal while Onar came to do the same with Frár.

"You'll get the hang of it soon enough," Onar said once Frár was securely in place. "The ponies are smarter than you might think."

"Just follow the Dwarf in front of you and you'll be fine," said Gamil.

Nearby, Lóni and Náli were receiving similar instruction from Lofar and the other eastern Dwarves who all seemed to be very experienced with beasts of burden, no doubt from their many years of traveling in the wide lands of Rhûn.

The sun was just rising over the snow capped peak of the Lonely Mountain when all thirteen Dwarves were in the saddle with their baggage secured. With a wave of his hand, Balin gave the order to move. The old Dwarf rode at the head of the column with Ori and Óin. Then came Flói and Frár with Gamil and Onar keeping close in case the novice riders slipped from their saddles. Next were the brothers Náli and Lóni, holding onto the reins tightly, while the four Dwarves from Rhûn rode in the rear.

Just as they set off, Óin peeked inside one of the saddle bags that had come with his pony. Inside, he found to his delight, several small packages of cram, a type of biscuit that keeps good indefinitely that was made by Lake-men for long journeys. While sustaining, the bland taste was not entertaining, being in fact very uninteresting except as a chewing exercise. All the same, Óin was very grateful for his friend's generosity.

"Thank you for everything, Lifstan!" Óin called over his shoulder as they departed, waving one of the boring biscuits over his head in a sign of appreciation.

The old man stood alone waving farewell to the column of Dwarves until they rounded a turn and were lost to sight.

For the next several hours, the new company trotted westward along the winding path through a land of broken stones dotted with few small fir trees and stunted shrubs, their buds still sleeping until warmer weather came. At the crest of a small rise just before the path turned to the north, the column paused for a brief moment. Lóni waited until his older brother wasn't looking before turning in the saddle to gaze back toward the Lonely Mountain. From this far away, the terraces and towers on its slopes were almost invisible in the afternoon haze.

"When I first came to Erebor, there wasn't a tree to be seen here," said Lofar, coming up alongside him. "Just burned stumps. How times have changed."

Lofar then realized that Lóni's gaze was still fixed on the snow capped peak, now looking as lonely as its name would suggest and strangely small to the young Dwarf who had never seen his birthplace from such a distance.

"First time?" Lofar guessed.

Lóni nodded without a word. When he looked away from the mountain, Lofar could see the unease in his eyes. Lóni stole a glance toward Náli who was busy chatting with Flói and Frár, before speaking to Lofar.

"Was it hard to leave your home?" Lóni asked.

"We didn't have a choice," said Nar, coming to join them with Hannar and Anar.

"What do you mean?" said Lóni.

Lofar began to say something, but Hannar stopped him with a few words in their native tongue.

"To tell you the truth, it's been so many years that I hardly remember my home," said Hannar in the common tongue so Lóni could understand.

"I'd like to tell you that it gets easier each time, but it never does," added Anar.

The three other eastern Dwarves nodded silently in agreement. Lóni suddenly felt ashamed at being so afraid to leave his home, when his comrades had been living on the road their entire lives. He had enjoyed a comfortable life under the mountain, and if he was being honest, had not been overly interested in joining the expedition. He looked again at his brother, who was laughing at some unheard joke between Flói and Frár.

"Why did you all decide to join the company?" Lóni inquired.

"I'm still wondering about myself," Lofar said with a hearty laugh.

His eastern comrades did not find the topic nearly as humorous.

"Erebor is not a home for us," said Hannar.

"We have been forced from many homes over the years," added Nar.

"But Dáin didn't force you out," said Lóni. "He lets all Dwarves live in his kingdom."

"That may be so," said Hannar, "but there are others less welcoming than Dain."

"It's true," said Anar in agreement, "Nobody wants poor refugees like us."

Lóni turned and looked at the head of the column where Balin was looking at a map over Ori's shoulder.

"The road has been the only place where we have been able to find peace," said Hannar with a heavy sigh.

"Perhaps Khazad-dûm can be a new home for you," Lóni suggested, turning back to the conversation.

"That is our hope," said Nar.

"Who knows?" added Anar. "Maybe a fresh start will be good for you, too."

Lóni was about to speak, but Náli's voice from further up the column interrupted him.

"What are you doing back there, Lóni?" he shouted. "Come up here; we are about to move again."

Lóni took one last look at his mountain home and tried to push away all his doubts and fears.

"It's easier if you don't look back," said Anar quietly.

Lóni nodded and forced himself to turn away from the Lonely Mountain. He tapped his heels into his pony and dutifully took his place at his brother's side.

Ori rolled up the map and tucked it into a pocket while Balin wheeled around to address the others.

"The roads will be rough and rest will be short," Balin announced. "If we aim for twenty miles a day, we can reach our destination in a month."

At the mention of such long marches, even the ponies seemed to sigh. All the same, the new company put on their sternest faces, eager to show their leader just how committed they were.

"That pace should toughen up even the softest of you," said Balin, making a point to eye the four youngest Dwarves.

"We don't expect any trouble," added Óin at his cousin's side, "but all the same, keep your eyes open for any sign of danger."

"We still have another few hours of daylight," said Balin. "We don't stop until dark."

With that said, he turned and led the way northward toward the undulating gray horizon. The company followed behind him in silence, each Dwarf busy with his own thoughts. As the road descended and the Lonely Mountain was lost from view for the last time, Lóni kept his eyes on the road ahead, resisting all temptation to steal one last look at his home.

6

The Grey Mountains

For many cold and dreary days, the company marched westwards across the feet of the Grey Mountains, keeping well away from the eaves of Mirkwood to their south. Balin was keen to tell anyone who would listen that the Evlenking Thranduil could have spies concealed about the shores of the lake and as far northward towards these very mountains. Regardless, if they were spied upon by inquisitive Elves, they saw none. By their very nature, Dwarves are fond of mountains and less than fond of forests. Because of this, their glances were always to the north as they eyed the somber slopes in the distance, wondering what riches could be found at their roots.

Although they were well outside the furthest environs of the Lonely Mountain, there were still signs of Dwarven activity in this remote and desolate part of the world. At one campsite, Onar spoke of mining parties still toiling away deep in these mountains. He described how, not so long ago, these mountains were simply stiff with goblins, hobgoblins, and the rest of the worst description, but that all changed after the battle of Five Armies.

Three parts of all the Orcs in this country were destroyed, leaving these mountains desolate aside from the few beasts that could survive on rocks and frost. He spoke of how some industrious Dwarves had hoped to take advantage of this fact by trying their luck mining in this newly opened frontier.

"Did they find Mithril?" asked Nar.

"Of course not," scoffed Gamil. "Everyone knows Mithril can only be found in Khazad-dûm."

"He's right," agreed Onar, "but there are other veins of value here. The first explorers made a fair fortune in lesser metals."

"But it is a bitterly cold and unforgiving country and most of the mine shafts are long since abandoned," added Gamil.

Nar looked at the distant peaks and wondered if anyone was still chipping away at the icy stone, toiling away at a hopeless cause that would never reward them.

"The Grey Mountains are nowhere near as rich as Zirakzigil, Barazinbar and Bundushathûr," said Onar, using the Khuzdul names for the three mountains of Moria. "Just a bit of truesilver is worth more than all these stones put together."

This raised the spirits of the cold company, and they each began to imagine hordes of gold, jewels, and especially the most valuable ore, Mithril. Every Dwarf had grown up hearing stories about the unrivaled richness that in elder days were mined beneath the three peaks of Moria. Perhaps, they hoped, some of that splendor could be theirs.

"I heard Mount Gundabad is near these mountains," said Flói.

"Mount Gundabad is where the Grey Mountains meet the Misty Mountains, but that is many leagues west of here, and we will be turning south well before that," said Ori.

He leaned over to show Flói on the old map. The prominent peak was indeed well away from the dark line of ink indicating their intended path. Balin, seated nearby, overheard their conversation.

"If I had a thousand warriors, I would go straight there and take Durin's sacred mountain back for the Longbeards, but alas, we will have to settle for his mansion instead," said Balin.

He did not take notice of the looks of offense from his companions from other Dwarven houses. Onar and Gamil shared a look, all too used to hearing about Longbeard history. Even far away in the Blue Mountains, where the two had spent most of their lives, they had lived alongside many proud Longbeards that were always eager to tell other houses about their own noble lineage.

Being somewhat less accustomed to typical Longbeard bluster, the Dwarves from Rhûn felt slightly offended by these remarks. It was not the first time Balin had made comments that set his house above all others. The four eastern Dwarves grumbled to each other, but in the end decided to let the matter go. In truth, they felt like they had little ground on which to argue their case. They had fled their land as penniless refugees and the Longbeards had taken them in, albeit reluctantly. And after all, they reckoned, this expedition was for the betterment of all Dwarves, not just the Longbeards. Once Khazad-dûm was retaken, there would be enough riches to shower all seven houses with gold and glory.

The four younger Dwarves marveled at the bravery of their leader Balin. It was well known that Mount Gundabad had been abandoned many ages ago and was now infested with Orcs. For Balin to even consider such a crusade made the youngsters admire their hero all the more reverently.

"Have any of you seen an Orc before?" Flói asked his friends.

Like many young Dwarves living at Erebor, Flói had grown up in a peaceful land devoid of enemies after so many Orcs were salin at the Battle of Five Armies. Náli and Lóni shook their heads.

"I think I saw one once," said Frár.

"What do you mean, you think?" asked Flói.

"Well, I think it was an Orc," said Frár. "I didn't get a good look at it, though."

His friends were now very interested and pressed him to go on. Stories, even fanciful and dubious, were always welcome after a long day of travel. Frár, pleased to have an attentive audience, continued his tale.

"It was several years ago, and I was very young at the time. I was walking back from Dale one night, when all of the sudden my eye caught something moving in the water right near the riverbank."

"It was probably just a fish," said Náli.

"This was no fish," argued Frár. "This creature had long arms and glowing eyes like small green lamps. He was slimy and thin and crawled on all fours like an animal."

"Then it probably was an animal," said Náli.

"An animal that talks?" Frár shot back. "I swear, this monster was muttering to himself."

"Did you slay him?" asked Lóni.

"Alas, I had no weapon at the time. Instead, I hurried back to Erebor and told the guards at the Front Gate. They marched down to the riverside but could not find him. The mischievous Orc must have fled back to his den."

"When I see an Orc, I won't run away," said Flói, patting the axe on his belt. "I'm going to slay a score of them once we get to Khazad-dûm."

This comment was met by his friends' fervent agreement who were all certain that they too, would soon become successful warriors just like their more accomplished comrades.

For several days while they traversed the rugged country, there was no sign of running water. The company crossed several rocky riverbeds that offered nothing but brown frozen puddles. It may have been Spring in warmer lands far to the south, but in this unforgiving northern land, the mountains stubbornly held onto their snowy covering until the first spring thaw was still some time away.

At long last, they came upon a stream that tumbled down from the rocky slopes far to the North. The company welcomed the mountains' icy gift and halted to water the ponies and refill their skins.

On the eastern side of the swiftly flowing water, Balin bent forward and filled his cupped hands with water. The icy cold quickly sank into his fingers and sent a chill to the bone. He brought the trembling handful to his mouth and gulped it down eagerly. The frigid water made his teeth hurt, but it refreshed and revived him after several parched marches.

He uncorked his skin and began filling it in the stream, as did the others. He looked to his right, his sharp eyes following the glittering ribbon far up into the mountains until it faded from sight. Then he turned his head to the left and gazed downstream to the south into the lower plain. There, the river steadily grew wider until it disappeared into the dark green mass that was the northern edge of Mirkwood. He placed the stopper back into his skin and turned to Ori who was resting on the ground behind him.

"Where does this lead?" Balin asked.

"This stream becomes the Forest River and flows right through Mirkwood, all the way to Long Lake," answered Ori, pointing south.

Balin's face soured. "I thought so."

Balin tossed his skin onto the rocky riverbank and waded into the water up to his knees. He took several paces downstream until his back was to the rest of the company.

"What are you doing?" asked Ori, concerned for the old Dwarf in the frigid water.

"Sending my regards to the Elven king," announced Balin.

Ori looked away quickly as Balin relieved himself into the south-flowing stream.

Other members of the company laughed and cheered at Balin's audacity, but Balin's face was sober and joyless when he trotted out of the water. He grabbed the reins of his pony from a smiling Frár and resolutely crossed over to the western bank without another word.

It was a fortnight into their journey, and the sun was sinking at their backs that the company came to a proper river. It was noisy and wide but quite shallow in most parts as the water tumbled over smooth stones.

"Is this the Anduin?" asked Frár with wide eyes.

"Of course not," scoffed Balin.

Despite his limited knowledge of geography, he had at least seen the Anduin with his own eyes and knew that it was a far mightier river than the one they now intended to cross.

"This should be the Greylin," said Ori, looking up from a map. "Farther south, it joins with the Langwell, and that's where the Anduin actually begins."

"How exciting," responded Frár with an enthusiastic grin.

Having spent his whole life in and around the Lonely Mountain, he was quite taken with the marvels of the wider world. Although he didn't say it aloud, it was at this moment he realized he was finally living out a dream of going on an adventure with some of his childhood heroes. He beamed as he watched Balin, Ori, and Óin pass by his side.

For some time, they searched for a spot where their ponies could ford the swiftly moving water but after some exploring, they settled on the safest route. Although there was little snow left in the lower valleys, the icy water told tales of frigid peaks away in the Grey Mountains where this river began. Luckily, the place where they chose to cross was shallow enough so that only their feet and stout legs felt Greylin's cold bite.

Before their frozen feet had a chance to dry, they began passing signs of habitation. A ruined cottage here, a tumbled down stone wall there. There were clear clues that this had once been rich farmland, but had many years ago been left to the wild. It was now a tangle of bushes and small trees choked with brown vines.

Before long, they found themselves on an overgrown path that had once been a much used road at one time. Down this route, they saw the light of the setting sun glowing red on a stony outcrop. As they drew near, they realized that this was no feature of the land, but the ruins of a tall stone wall. They passed under a large arch and continued down the road into the ruins of a sprawling, but clearly deserted town. The twelve companions halted at what must have been the ancient town square at one time. The foundations of many buildings were visible although mostly covered with grasses and brambles.

"A bit smaller than dear old Smaug, eh, cousin?" Óin called over to Balin.

Balin and the others walked towards Óin, who was standing at the foot of a large stone covered in long dead overgrowth. With a tug, Óin pulled on a clump of the withered vines and the stone was unveiled to show that it was actually a statue lost to time. The piece was a crudely carved (by Dwarf standards) rendition of a fierce dragon locked in a mortal struggle with a courageous warrior. Balin thought back to his own adventure with the dragon Smaug and his mood soured at the thought that a Man had slew the mighty dragon and had stolen all the glory for himself. Tales were still told in Dale and Erebor of Bard the Brave, who'd killed Smaug with a black arrow.

"Are there still dragons in this part of the world?" asked Flói.

"I have traveled many miles through strange parts of the world, and I have never seen one," answered Nar.

"If the stories are true, our famous leaders saw to the last living dragon of any importance," added Hannar.

"What do you mean if, Stonefoot?" said Balin, eyeing the eastern Hannar suspiciously.

"I just meant that there could be other dragons lurking about somewhere in the world in dark lands under strange moons," said Hannar, returning his gaze without hesitation.

"I think our friend Smaug was the last of the great worms," said Óin, stepping between the two and forcing an uneasy smile.

Balin hesitated for a moment to collect his thoughts, trying to decide if Hannar had actually meant any disrespect in his comment. After making up his mind that the easterner was innocent enough, he looked up at the statue.

"Looks like something an apprentice could do in an afternoon, but no doubt an achievement for these rustic folk," said Balin. "I like not this ruined place. Let us continue to the edge of this town and make camp before the sun sets."

Obediently, the company continued on through rocky ruins until they came upon the western wall of the city where they had to scramble over another collapsed arch to finally exit the fallen fortifications. In the shadow of this ancient but still formidable wall, the Dwarves made camp on a small strip of ground where the brambles had not grown right up to the wall. The thick thorns enclosing the area made it an ideal place for a campsite as it offered privacy from anyone passing nearby. Dwarven axes made quick work of some dead wood nearby and before long, they had collected enough fuel to last the night. The ponies were tied up for the evening and blankets were unpacked.

Even with his new tinderbox, it took Óin some time to get a fire going. After some grumbling about being "out of practice," he soon had a blazing fire underway. Wet boots were placed near the merry flames to dry and soon the Dwarves were seated around the glowing light munching on cram and other provisions.

"How about a story?" asked Frár sitting on the ground warming his bare feet by the fireside.

"Something about slaying dragons," suggested Lóni.

"If you mean the story behind that statue in the town square, I'm afraid I know little of the deeds of Men, and nothing of this ruined place," said Ori. "It wasn't listed on any of the maps and I don't recall reading of anyone living in this area. I'm just as curious as you are."

"Just as well," said Balin. "Whoever lived here is long gone and doesn't seem to be coming back."

Lofar, who never missed an opportunity to spin a yarn, seized his chance.

"In a dark forest near my homeland named Neldoreth there are tales about all manner of beasts. A friend of mine even said he saw a wizard or two wandering there," he began.

The company, especially the younger Dwarves, turned to face the Blacklock, eager to hear more of this tale from the exotic east. To their disappointment, Balin ended the story before it began.

"That's enough for one evening," interrupted Balin, "At this time tomorrow, I want to be at the feet of the Misty Mountains. It's a trek of some twenty miles, and I don't want to hear any excuses about being tired tomorrow. It's well past time everyone turned in for the night,"

There were some grumblings from those who eagerly looked forward to tales each night but they had traveled far that day and an early turn-in is always the best way to prepare for another long day. After finishing their meager meal, the Dwarves drew lots for watch. Even in this seemingly secure place, one could never take chances in the wild. A few remaining Orcs and wolves were said to stalk the dark mountain passes and could creep down to empty lands such as this.

Aside from Flói, who's turn it was to watch, the others wrapped themselves in their blankets and took up the least hard patch of ground they could find close to the fire. Dwarves are a famously hearty folk, but sleeping on a root or stone is uncomfortable for even the most hardened traveler. A few Dwarves whispered conversions staring up at the stars, but before long, all that could be heard was the crackle of the fire and snoring.

That night, Balin tossed and turned in his blankets, unable to fall asleep. Decades of the wealth and splendor of Erebor had not softened this old wanderer and he felt quite at home sleeping on the cold hard ground beside the road. It was not the cold night or the rocky ground that kept Balin awake. It was something else. The daunting task of facing the unknown gnawed away at his conscience. Balin had lived through battles and quests but, unlike on this expedition, had always been following behind great leaders.

Knowing his mind would give him no rest that night, he relieved Flói of his watch duties, figuring he could use an hour or two of the biting night air to clear his head before the next watch shift. Flói offered to stay on watch with Balin, hoping to spend some time alone chatting with one of his childhood heroes, but Balin sent him to bed.

"Our path will become more rugged as we approach the feet of the Misty Mountains. I need the whole company well rested for the journey to come," Balin told him.

Reluctantly, Flói curled up near the fire and was soon fast asleep. Even in the early spring, the nights were still cold this far north, and Balin decided to make a short patrol around the campsite to keep warm and pass the time.

As he circled the campsite, Balin thought back to the great Dwarves he had followed in the past. He had idolized his own father right up until the end. King Thrór had led their people through exile in Dunland before courageously entering Khazad-Dûm alone. Thorin had always seemed so sure of his path, knowing exactly the right choice to make throughout the entire journey to Erebor. Thorin's story had ended with him as a legendary hero, cloaked in glory. Balin wondered if his story would end the same way. Was he worthy of being named among such figures as them?

He sat down on a stone and looked back at his companions fast asleep in a ring around the flickering fire. So few. How can they possibly accomplish their task?

His thoughts were broken when a twig snapped behind him. Balin spun around and peered into the inky blackness. At the edge of the firelight he thought he saw movement. Perhaps just a trick of the light Balin thought to himself. Maybe a curious fox, surprised at finding thirteen Dwarves outside an abandoned village.

"Who goes there?" he asked firmly, fingering the axe on his belt.

By nature, Dwarves have excellent eyesight in the dark and Balin had always had sharp eyes even by Dwarf standards. He had often served as the lookout on many adventures and prided himself on retaining his exceptional eyesight at his advanced age. Despite all this, his eyes could not penetrate the gloom. Still scanning for movement, he pricked up his years and listened closely. He could hear it. The unmistakable rustle of a person creeping through undergrowth. Balin grasped his axe firmly in his old hands. After a glance back at the campsite he followed the sound of the footsteps away from the firelight and into the shadows.

The brambles were thick and thorny, forcing Balin to use his axe to make any headway. After a short distance, the undergrowth gave way and he stumbled into a small clearing, hemmed on all sides by brambles. The air was silent, making Balin's beating heart thunder in his ears. He listened intently for more footsteps, but heard nothing.

"I'm warning you," he said to the darkness. "If you don't show yourself this instant, I have forty warriors ready for a fight."

The only answer was the sound of the night breeze through dry branches. Balin put his head back and looked up at the starry sky. He exhaled and watched his cloud of breath fade into the speckled blackness.

"Forty? No, not yet," said a croaky voice. "Only a dozen for now."

Balin nearly choked when he heard the haunting voice. He spun around looking for the speaker. Out from the shadows shuffled a small, bent figure no taller than Balin himself. Balin clutched his axe and squinted as the stranger approached him, trying to see the face beneath a tattered hood. The visitor was so hunched that they seemed to be peering toward the ground rather than forward.

"Who are you?" Balin asked once the figure hobbled within a few paces.

The stranger slowly straightened, revealing the face of an ancient woman worn by many long years. Although her white hair was thin and scraggly and her few remaining teeth were rotten, her black eyes were bright in the starlight as she smiled at Balin.

"I already know who you are," said the small woman.

"Is that so?" Balin scoffed.

"I know much about you, Master Balin," she answered calmly.

Balin was slightly taken aback when the stranger uttered his name, but he quickly composed himself.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" he asked coldly. "My name is known across the land, Every Dwarf from the Blue Mountains to the Iron Hills has heard of me."

There was a brief silence that unsettled the old Dwarf. He looked over his shoulder and then around the small clearing, keeping a hand on his axe.

"Are you here alone?" he asked, glancing around in search of onlooking eyes peeking through the tangle of branches.

"Yes, yes, all alone," said the stranger with a hint of sadness in her voice. "I'm the only one left."

"What happened to the rest of the folk here?" asked Balin.

First as a murmur and then as a chant, the stranger began.

On this ground where ruins rot

In days of old when I was young

Stood mighty burg by name of Fram.

With walls of stone and fields of grain,

Lived hearty folk, from Anduin vales.

The Éothéod were tall and proud,

Lords of horse and brave of heart.

Here ruled Eorl, forever young

Since ten and six did sit the throne.

When Mundburg called with arrow red,

our Lord did call his riders hence.

"Away, away we ride to aid

Stoningland fair is under siege."

All mounted lance and archers keen

Did honor call and did advance.

Eorl the heir of dragon's bane,

Led host downstream to join the fray

On Felaróf of Mearas

His fearless steed of shining white.

'Tween forest dark and river wide

Did horses fly to ally's aid.

For many days the force made south.

Their spears so sharp, their mail so bright

All stood aside in fear of might.

As close they drew to Dwimordene

A magic mist from golden wood

Concealed the host from evil eyes

And veiled until the red sunrise.

Cirion for Gondor fought,

Surrounded, hemmed with fading heart.

His men had bravely fallen near

'Tween rivers caught and all seemed lost.

Like thunder from the clouds he heard

The din of hooves and blowing horns.

From river mist came northern horde

"Ride now, ride now!" came voice so clear

Eol had come to vanquish fiend

And save a friend, in dire need.

His hair was gold, his blade was keen,

And at his side rode Borondir

Rode to ruin and ending world.

Eastern foes were slain in haste

With tears of joy was steward saved

And evermore swore Rohan as

Reward for courage, rightly earned

So Eorl sent for kinsman all

To journey south to verdant fields,

To kingdom new where he would rule.

Forever there they would remain

So far away from northern vales.

But I stayed here when they rode south

And here I am for evermore

To watch the winters wear the walls

'til Framsburg fades into the past.

"You should have gone with them," said Balin.

Although under normal circumstances he would not be very interested in the history of some backwater tribe of Men, Balin was intrigued by the curious stranger.

"Perhaps so," she said in the same melancholy voice.

"Why didn't you?" Balin asked.

"Because of the stories I told," answered the woman with a sigh.

"What kind of stories?" asked Balin.

"Some that had happened long ago, and some that had not yet passed," replied the stranger.

At this, Balin shook his head and chuckled. Convinced that he had seen through this vagabond's cunning ruse.

"No surprise they left you behind," said Balin disdainfully. "Most decent folk frown upon fortune telling frauds like you."

Unbothered by the Dwarf's rudeness, the stranger continued, "I know your stories too, Lord Balin."

"I don't doubt it," said Balin. "Tales of my deeds have spread far and wide in the many years since taking Erebor."

"Indeed, I know the stories of your past," said the stranger calmy. "Would you like to know the story that lies ahead of you?"

"Oh, I see now," said Balin. "You think that I'm going to fall for some mysterious words from an old swindler. I've met your like before at many a run-down roadside inn. You'll pretend to tell my fortune and just as soon pick my pocket. Try your tricks on some other fool."

His piece said, Balin turned around and began through the brambles, hacking his way back to the campsite. When he made it out of the thorny tangle, he seated himself on a large rock, a good distance from his sleeping comrades arrayed around the fire. He thought back to the strange encounter and shook his head.

"Just another would-be conjurer of cheap tricks," he said aloud to himself with a snort.

"No tricks, just the truth," said a voice at his side.

Balin jumped and saw the ancient stranger standing beside him.

"Didn't realize you'd followed me," he said, reseating himself with a grumble.

Balin had always prided himself on his skill as a lookout, but somehow this old crone had gotten the jump on him. He tried to seem unbothered by the stranger's sudden reappearance, but he felt as though her dark eyes were boring holes into his uneasy mind.

"Alright then!" said Balin, starting to feel uncomfortable and looking to get rid of this unwelcome guest. "I'll play your game."

The stranger said nothing but simply continued staring at Balin.

"If you're such an oracle, then where are we headed?" he asked, content in thinking he could stump this old fraud.

"You march toward darkness, toward shadow, toward the Black Chasm, toward Moria," answered the stranger.

The smug look of skepticism on Balin's face was quickly replaced by a look of shock as he stammered. "Why would you…how did you…"

"As I said, Lord Balin, I know many stories," stated the stranger.

Balin stared into her dark eyes and saw the reflection of the flickering campfire flames. Instead of further denying her powers of foresight, Balin ventured the question that had been on his mind all night.

"So, I will lead this company into Khazad-dûm?" he asked.

"Into, yes," answered the stranger with a nod.

"Very good," said Balin, pleased at the answer. "Just as I've been saying this whole time. I'll show Dáin that I was right all along."

The stranger said nothing while Balin carefully thought through his next question.

After a moment of contemplation, he asked, "Will I be king of Khazad-dûm?"

"You will see a crown upon your head ere the end," the stranger answered.

"I knew it," Balin said with a broad smile. "A Longbeard will once again rule Khazad-dûm, and I will finally get what I deserve."

His chest swelled with pride and his eyes shone with excitement. Even in the cold night air, Balin's whole body felt warm as he pictured his future. The stranger's face contorted into a wrinkled smile. Balin excitedly tugged on his beard, thinking of another good question to ask.

"Will there be tales about my deeds?" he asked eagerly.

"Many years from now, great heroes will journey to Moria and read of your exploits," answered the witch.

"This is welcome news indeed." Balin beamed, his eyes beginning to water.

Filled with joy, he closed his eyes and imagined the fulfillment of these premonitions; entering the halls of his forefathers, sitting upon a throne as a mighty king of Khazad-dûm knowing that he would be remembered forever among the greats of history. Durin, Thrór, Thráin, Thorin, Balin.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Balin blinked and saw Náli standing beside him.

"Sorry to wake you sir. I think it's about time for my watch now. You can go back to sleep by the fire," said the young Dwarf with a smile.

"I wasn't sleeping!" argued Balin "I was just just talking to…"

When he looked back to the shadows, the mysterious visitor was nowhere to be seen. Balin scrambled to his feet and put his face close to Náli's.

With a menacing look in his eye he said in a low voice, "Listen here you nosey rascal. I was not asleep on watch. I have never fallen asleep on watch. I was merely deep in thought. Not even a mouse can sneak past my watch. I forbid you from saying otherwise. That is an order. Have I made myself clear?"

Trembling, all Náli could stammer was a feeble "Yes, sir."

Balin stomped stomped away, and by the time his feet had carried him to his blanket, he had already forgotten about Náli. His thoughts were consumed with the fantastic future that had been revealed to him. As he laid back down on the cold, hard ground, it felt as soft as a featherbed as he thought about all the witch had told him. Balin closed his eyes and pictured all his dreams coming true just as he had hoped. Balin drifted into a deep and restful sleep and never spoke a word of the stranger to anyone for the rest of his days.

The next morning, the company set off before the sun peeked over the ruined wall. Balin worked his way to the front of the column, not noticing the terrified look on Náli's face as he passed by. Balin fell into stride with Ori, who had a collection of maps in his hands but looked up when he felt Balin's eyes on him.

"Good morning Balin," he said. "We should be approaching the Langwell today, and then we can follow the Anduin south, just as we planned."

"Langfell? Yes, of course, I know it well," said Balin. "See here Ori, I want others to know the great deeds and works we accomplished on this expedition. You have become very learned in letters and lore. Can I charge you with this great task; the keeping of these records?"

"Of course my friend," Ori said with a smile. "I've already been keeping notes on scraps of paper but from now on I will make a point of recording every step of our adventure. Once we get settled in Khazad-dûm, I will start a more formal Book of Mazarbul."

"Perfect, simply perfect," said Balin, patting Ori on the shoulder and letting him take the lead again. He took a deep breath of the crisp morning air and began to picture what his future throne would look like.

7

Along the anduin

For the next five days, the company progressed south, following a narrow trail along the curve of the Misty Mountains.

During this time, Flói noticed Ori and Óin acting oddly. Usually, Ori would only need to glance at his map if there was a decision to be made about the route or if someone had a question. At this stage in the journey, at least, the path seemed quite clear. All they had to do was head south, keeping the mountains on their right and the river on their left. One day, the curious Flói wondered why Ori and Óin were talking closely and checking the map more frequently than ever. Several times throughout the morning, Óin would point to a peak, and Ori would shake his head after consulting the map.

Some time past midday, Flói saw Ori squinting up at the snow capped peaks to the west. Óin came to join him, and after some nodding conversation, he rolled up the map and stowed it away. At this time, Óin reared his pony and let the column of riders pass him until he came to Balin. Flói could not hear what Óin was saying in such hushed tones but he was able to hear Balin's response.

"If you're certain," he told Óin. "We ride at dawn; don't be late."

Then, in a louder voice, Balin announced to the company, "Looks like everyone could use an early rest. We will make camp here for the night."

And early it was. The company would have typically traveled for a few more hours until the sun began setting behind the mountains before making camp. Although unusual, nobody complained. They had been making excellent progress through this part of the journey, and their long days had put them ahead of schedule.

The Dwarves made camp as they did each evening but all the while, Flói kept his eyes on the suspicious Ori and Óin. He saw them huddled closely with Onar and Gamil, deep in conversation. Flói wandered close to the clandestine quartet, trying to listen in on what was being said. By the time he got within earshot, all he caught was Ori saying,

"Thank you both; we'll cover your guard shifts tomorrow night."

A campfire was crackling and the company was enjoying their extended leisure time while the spring sun set. Right on cue, Lofar began one of his tall tales

"Did I ever tell you about the Wareworms in the last desert?" he asked his encircled companions.

At this invitation, the company crowded around to hear another fantastic story from dark and distant lands. But not everyone was gathering around to listen to Lofar. At the edge of the firelight, Flói watched as Ori and Óin hoisted their packs and crept off into the shadows.

"Now what are they up to?" Flói asked himself.

He did the math in his head and figured that if his reckoning was correct, he would have the last guard shift tonight, just before dawn. He would have time for a detour. Besides, he would not be able to sleep while wondering what he was missing. Cautiously, he backed away from the fireside tale and disappeared into the gathering gloom to follow his two mysterious companions.

Flói kept his distance in the evening shadows as Ori and Óin headed west towards the slopes of the Misty Mountains. Ori and Óin marched in silence ever upward toward higher ground. There was little wind and the night was cool and silent. For some hours they climbed steadily until the trees became stunted and the night sky was more visible. The moon was near full and marvelously bright. The tumbled rocks littering the slope were illuminated by the moon's pale glow, making everything appear as if it were washed in silver. Flói had to scramble from boulder to boulder behind his quarry to avoid being seen in the bright night.

After the last of the trees had disappeared, Óin and Ori halted for a break. Flói watched enviously as they snacked on cram while chatting quietly with one another and leaning over a map. Flói was beginning to grow hungry, and his stomach growled. He regretted setting off without dinner. He looked to his left. Away to the south he saw a dark stand of pines huddled between the spurs of the mountains. He turned further to his left and looked down the slope he had just climbed. Far below, he could see a pinprick of light, no larger than a candle flame that must have been the campfire. His companions were by now, fully entranced by Lofar's story. Surveying the land around him, Flói realized that he was near the top of a lonely pinnacle of rock at the eastern edge of the mountains.

After this short respite, Óin and Ori continued on with Flói following in pursuit. Soon, they struck a trail that led to a well worn path of many steps. The two older Dwarves labored up this route and arrived at a flat space on the top of the hill of stone. Here they waited for some time under the rising moon. Flói looked up at the starry sky and figured it must be close to midnight.

Flói took up a concealed position farther down the hill around a bend in the steps. He could still look up and see his two clandestine companions silhouetted against the starry sky. After a long time sitting still in the mountain air, he was shaking with cold. He was just considering turning back to the campsite when a dark shadow blocked out the moonlight. He turned his gaze upwards. All the old stories about dragons began flying through his mind. To his terror, he heard great wings beating torrents in the night air above him.

Flói prostrated himself and covered his head with his hands. When he plucked up the courage to raise his gaze, he saw an enormous eagle, larger than any beast he had ever seen, perched atop the flattened peak, dangerously close to Ori and Óin. Another slightly smaller eagle landed alongside them. Then another, and another. Before long, there were sixteen eagles. The largest of these folded his wings and walked towards the two Dwarves who stood alone and unarmed.

Flói was amazed to see how unafraid Ori and Óin appeared as they politely removed their hoods and bowed deeply until their beards swept the ground. They kept on nodding and bending and bowing and waving their hoods before their knees (in proper Dwarf fashion).

Ori and Óin then lowered their packs and removed their contents. Even in the dark, Flói could spot the glimmer of gold as it sparkled in the moonlight. To the largest of the eagles, Óin gave a golden crown and to each of the fifteen chieftains, and Ori gave a golden collar. After the presentation of such lordly gifts, a clear voice rang out in the silent night air.

"Farewell! Wherever you fare, till your eyries receive you at the journey's end!" said the voice.

To which Ori and Óin replied in unison, "May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks."

After bowing again deeply, Ori and Óin turned down the rocky slope and began the descent back to their companions.

Flói was dead tired by the time they arrived back at the campsite. Balin was on guard and nodded silently at Ori and Óin as they heeded to their blankets to curl up for what little of the night remained. Flói made a point to bypass Balin and find his own gear on the other side of the campsite. As silently as he could be, Flói rolled himself in his blanket and stared up at the stars wondering about all he had just witnessed. He closed his eyes and began to dream of lofty eyries and windswept peaks.

What seemed like seconds later, he was roused by the poke of an iron shod boot at his side. Balin's gruff voice growled from above him, "Wake up, Flói. The last watch is yours."

The next morning, as the company was loading their gear onto their ponies and finishing breakfast over the smoldering fire, Balin stood by himself looking up at a tall, slender fir tree. With only a few remaining branches, it looked like a dark skeleton against the overcast sky. Lost in a distant memory, Balin let his thoughts wander. He figured he was just about at the path that had taken him from here to the Carrock, through Mirkwood and then eventually to Laketown and Erebor. He thought back to Thorin and all his companions on that journey. Balin turned and looked at his current comrades, a few past-their-prime wanderers, some poor foreigners, and the rest too young to even know what they were fighting for. What other choice did he have?

After another long day of steady progress south, the company came to an intersection. Ahead of them, their narrow mountain path met a wider, more well traveled Dwarf road. It was an ancient meeting place for Dwarves, where wandering caravans could trade their wares, swap news or send messages. To the west, the road wound its way up into a high pass of the Misty Mountains, where it eventually led all the way to the dwarven halls in the Blue Mountains. To the east, it followed the gradually descending land until it was lost in the distance.

Straight ahead of them, to the south, one could barely discern that a road had once continued this way as well. The route had long since fallen out of use and it was clear from its poor condition that it had been many years since Dwarves had any reason to pass that way. The edges of the road had washed out and the flat paving stones were sinking into the soil. Rocks and other debris, tumbled downhill from the higher slopes, had concealed much of the ancient roadway. Even some small crooked trees had taken root in the middle of the road.

In past ages, this thoroughfare had looked altogether different as it had been much used by Dwarves and other travelers journeying between the East Gate of Moria all the way to the Iron Hills. As the company arrived at this point however, the only stretches that were regularly used by travelers was the east-west route that ran from the feet of the Misty Mountains through Mirkwood.

"This is the Old Forest Road," announced Ori, holding up the map for others to see. "We are now more or less halfway between Mount Gundabad and Khazad-dûm."

"I have been to this spot before," said Onar.

"As have I," added Gamil. "My people often send caravans here."

"I remember taking a less direct route to Erebor," chuckled Óin, nudging Balin at his side.

The ancient Dwarf was not in the mood for jest.

"Listen here," announced Balin to the company. "Once we cross this road, we begin the final phase of our journey. Great labors and even greater dangers lie ahead of us once we reach our destination. If any Dwarf here harbors doubts or is too fearful to continue, this road here will take you all the way back to Erebor. If you wish to flee peril, this is your last chance to turn aside. However, if you wish to pursue destiny, follow me now."

Balin trotted his pony to the far side of the road and turned back to look at his companions. In turn, he stared each of them in the eye. The first to join him was Óin, who moved alongside him and said with a smile, "I won't leave you now, cousin."

Next came Ori, finishing taking notes of Balin's speech on a scrap of paper.

Lóni crossed quickly, followed closely by his brother Náli. Flói and Frár scampered behind them eagerly to join alongside their heroes.

"We can't leave you with all these youngsters," said Onar as he crossed with Gamil.

After this came three of the eastern Dwarves, Lofar, Anar, and Hannar. They wore grave, determined faces as they joined the company. As Nar, the last to cross, joined the group the whole company let out a cheer before they continued down the rough and rocky road that would lead to the East Gate.

They made camp that night at a place where the remnants of the road passed over a lower shoulder of the mountains. In this high place, Nar spent the solitude of his watch shift thinking about the road ahead. This was a foreign land to him; a journey with comrades he barely knew to a place he had heard nothing but horrors about. The idea crossed his mind of packing his things and turning back at once. Perhaps he could make a new life for himself some place far away. Somewhere quiet and safe. But then, he considered the shame he would face if ever he returned to Erebor; the lone coward who turned back before the adventure had really begun. He couldn't imagine abandoning his dear friend Lofar or the other refugees from Rhûn that had crossed the road regardless of all perils to join Balin. He came to the conclusion that it was too late to turn back. His last chance at safety had passed him by at the crossroads. He knew was in this until the end.

The next two days passed smoothly. While the mountains bent west, the road took a more direct southerly course. This was appreciated by the company, and especially for the ponies, as the road became flatter and smoother as the mountains became more distant. The farther the company journeyed south, the less rocky the landscape became. The day was warm for a change and the company's spirits rose as they plodded along. Before long, they were in a verdant country of tall grasses and fragrant flowers. This was the first sign on their journey that spring had finally sprung. The whole landscape seemed to have awakened after its long winter slumber. Even the road they were on seemed to be slightly revived. This section at least had been modestly maintained and seemed to see some regular use. The company followed the well worn road to where it descended into a wide river valley.

When they rounded a bend towards the bottom of the valley, they were surprised to see a quaint village next to the river. Thirty or so small homes stood huddled along the river. They were built from thick logs, no doubt felled from the mountainside forests upstream. At the end of this line of houses stood one building that was larger than the rest. It was a long structure built very much in the same fashion as the other nearby houses. Balin halted the company and turned to Ori, who was already looking through his maps.

"Well?" said Balin.

"I'm sorry Balin," said Ori. "None of my maps show this village. Then again, these maps are quite old and this country is seldom traveled these days. Shall we go around the village or pass through?"

Balin turned his sharp eyes onto the village about half a mile away. He saw a few dirty men cleaning out a pig sty near the largest building which had silver smoke puffing out of a hole in the thatched roof. He saw a narrow footbridge crossing the river in the center of the village and orderly looking farmland beyond.

"These Men seem more like farmers than warriors," Balin said.

"That river is wide and swift. I do not think our ponies can ford it," said Óin at his side. "We will have to cross their bridge."

Balin looked upstream and saw dark rain clouds building on the western slopes of the mountains. He turned and looked downstream and spied no other bridge crossing the already swollen river. Reluctantly, he agreed to stay on the road and pass through the village.

Balin led the company forward. As they passed the first house they saw frightened faces peering at them from inside. Several small children peeked from behind their mother while chickens scratched at the dirt floor behind them. Other women rushed to pull their children indoors when they caught sight of the company trotting single file into their village. No doubt seeing thirteen armed and armored Dwarves on ponies was a novel occurrence in this sleepy place. Cries came up from one house, and soon the whole village was shouting to one another.

When they arrived at the narrow bridge, the company dismounted their ponies and prepared to lead them across the rickety looking structure. The bridge, if a bridge it could be called, was an ancient looking tangle of twisted ropes and rotting wood planks.

"Are we to trust this old thing?" asked Ori as he eyed the water rushing noisily under the bridge.

If it had any chance of holding their weight, they would have to cross slowly and one at a time. The first drops of rain began to fall, creating muddy puddles in the lane. The commotion within the village was growing louder and a clamor was coming from inside the longhouse.

"We need to cross the bridge now!" shouted Gamil from the rear of the column.

Just as he said this, the wide wooden doors of the longhouse burst open, and dozens of guards rushed out and quickly surrounded the column of Dwarves. Balin, who had seen countless skirmishes in his day, quickly pulled his axe from his saddle and spread his feet, ready for a fight. His companions did the same, finding themselves in a tense standoff.

For a moment, nothing could be heard except heavy breathing and the pitter-patter of raindrops falling on the men's mismatched helms. A thin man stepped forward and pointed a rusted swordpoint at Balin.

"What business do you have here?" the man demanded.

"Our business is our own, now get out of the way and let us pass," said Balin, not hiding his displeasure at this unexpected inconvenience.

A barely audible voice called out of the longhouse.

"Our chief wishes to speak to you at once," said the thin man as his guards began prodding the Dwarves towards the doors of the longhouse.

"I'm afraid this is some sort of misunderstanding," protested Óin.

His words went unheeded. The guards took hold of the reins and led the Dwarves away from their mounts. At the threshold to the longhouse, the guards halted.

"I am the captain of the guards," said the thin man. "My name is Holdan, and I am sworn to protect my chief and his family. You must surrender your your weapons before you enter the hall,"

Seeing no alternative, the Dwarves did as they were told and laid their weapons upon the ground. The guards stared wondrously at the finely wrought dwarven arms as many of them had never seen anything more impressive than their own bent blades and rusty spears. The Dwarves then allowed themselves to be prodded and poked through the doors. Balin, on the other hand, scowled up at his captors and refused to enter the dark wooden building. Despite his comrades pleading, he squirmed and cursed as he guards tried to usher him into the hall.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the smells of rustic life. Two shabby dogs scampered across the dirt floor to see what all the fuss was about. The guards led the Dwarves toward the far end of the room past long benches and tables along the walls and the hearth in the center of the floor. At the far end of the longhouse stood a great wooden chair. Not a throne by any means, but it was ornately carved and commanded attention upon a low dais.

Seated on the chair was a young girl, no older than twelve, and upon her knee sat a young boy who looked to be about five or six. Seeing that Balin was still struggling at the threshold, Óin stepped forward before the children.

"I'm sure I can explain everything to your chief," began Óin.

"You are speaking to the chief," said the girl, staring down at the peculiar group before her.

The boy on her lap stared at the Dwarves with wide eyes and tried to squirm out of the grasp of the girl.

"Forgive me… Óin, at your service," he said, flourishing his gray hood as he bowed low before the great wooden chair.

This act of courtesy prompted chuckles from the Holdan and his fellow guards, who clearly did not know this was proper etiquette for any Dwarf guest.

"As I was saying," Óin continued, "this is all just a misunderstanding. We are but humble travelers on our way to visit family. We harbor no ill will toward you. We only wish to cross your bridge in peace."

"Well met, Óin," said the girl. "My name is Fyrga, and this is my brother Bregowald. I welcome you to our hall, but I think this one has more to say." The girl gestured to Balin, who had just now been forced through the doors.

Balin pushed his way through his companions, grumbling with clenched fists. He came to Óin's side and glared up at the two children.

"I certainly do have a few things I'd like to say to you, but I will be brief," said Balin fiercely, pointing a nobbly finger at Fyrga. "I don't appreciate being roughed up by a bunch of filthy swineherds just to grovel at the feet of a child. I demand you end this charade at once and let us be on our way before you waste any more of my time."

Holdan, hearing this disrespect, gripped the hilt of his sword and stepped towards Balin, who, although weaponless, returned the stern gaze and grave face.

"Please, forgive him. Dwarves' tongues can run on the say," said Óin, stepping between the two. "What Balin means is that….

"I know exactly what he means," said Fyrga upon the high seat.

"He's right," she continued. "We shouldn't greet guests this way, but the Beornings say we must stop all suspicious travelers upon the road and collect a tax from them,"

"A tax?" exclaimed Balin. "What for?"

"The Beornings control this whole country between the mountains and the river," said Fyrga. "Most are good but some are grim and bad. They charge high taxes from villages like ours to keep open the high passes and chase the wolves away. Our father died fighting alongside the Beornings and it has fallen upon me to fill his role until my brother comes of age."

"Seems like this village is overly burdened with taxes…" grumbled Balin looking around at the thin guards in rusty, mismatched armor wielding notched blades and crooked spears.

"This is true," lamented Fyrga. "We seldom see traders here and we must make most things ourselves or go without."

Ori looked around and noticed the guards' glances as they admired the finely wrought dwarven wares in their humble hall. In truth even the most crude crafts of the Lonely Mountain far surpassed anything these simple rustics had ever laid eyes upon.

"Perhaps we could trade you something else in lieu of payment," suggested Ori, knowing they had little money on them at all. "We are but humble travelers. However, once we reach our destination, a week's journey from here, we will be able to send you more than enough to cover whatever tax we owe you."

Ori unclasped his belt, which was wrought of fine gold. A beautiful piece of dwarven craftsmanship, and yet one of several in his possession. He was, of course, quite wealthy from his share of Smaug's treasure and the trinket meant little to him. He stepped forward and laid it at the Fyrga's feet.

"Please accept this gift as a symbol of our good will. The first of many after we reach our destination," he told her.

Bregowald climbed down and took the golden belt in his small hands. Inset gemstones glittered in the flickering firelight. His eyes were wide with wonder as he marveled at the treasure that was probably worth more than his entire village put together.

Fyrga watched her brother with a smile. After a thoughtful pause, she spoke.

"Then you journey to the Dwarrowdelf?" she guessed. "My mother used to tell us tales of Dwarves who once lived under the mountains. The stories of the black pit used to terrify me but they also told of fantastic riches. You lot seem to have wandered out of those ancient tales and into our village."

Balin was astounded that this mere child had guessed where they were headed and wondered what she could be getting at.

"You may have vast treasures in your mountain mansions, but you cannot eat gold and jewels," said Fyrga. "We are but poor farmers, and we are blessed with bountiful harvests. Our two peoples could both benefit from being neighbors. We could supply you with food from our fields in return for some of the mountains' bounty."

Balin scoffed in protest and began to disagree, but Óin quickly pulled him aside.

Speaking in Khuzdul in a low voice, Óin whispered to his cousin. "This seems like a fair deal. Kings used to send for our smiths and rewarded even the least skilful most richly."

Before Balin could argue, Ori joined their private conversation to push his case,

"Surely, our future colony will need to be fed somehow," he said. "This is a golden opportunity."

"These filthy beggars don't deserve a single coin from Durin's hordes," protested Balin.

Ori chimed in, speaking in their secret tongue, "Look at these poor folk. We don't have to give them our best treasures. They would be perfectly happy with some new gear and a few pieces of silver."

Balin looked around the dirty room and at the shabbily outfitted guards that surrounded them.

"Come on, cousin, are you going to be a farmer as well as a miner?" Óin asked wryly.

"Fine," Balin conceded with grumble, seeing no alternative. Dwarves had no love for farming and it was true that they had never made a plan for food once they reached Moria.

Óin turned back to Fyrga and in the common tongue spoke "Consider it a deal, Lady Fyrga. We look forward to friendly trade with our new neighbors."

Young Bregowald had draped the heavy golden belt across his shoulders like a cloak and struggled to stand up. Balin clenched his teeth and held his tongue.

After the guards reluctantly returned the Dwarves finely made weapons, Fyrga's people gave the Dwarves all the food their ponies could carry. One poor beast was laden with two small barrels of a homemade brew that the locals seemed to be especially proud of.

"Save this for a special occasion," said Holdan with a wink.

The Dwarves waved their goodbyes as they left the sleepy dwellings behind and headed toward the rope bridge. When it was Ori's turn to cross, he stepped cautiously on the first swaying plank when his legs began to shake.

In a soft voice that nobody else could hear, Hannar spoke from behind him. "Fear not my friend. Keep your eyes on the far side and your feet moving fast and sure. You'll be across before you know it," he said.

Hannar patted Ori on the back and urged him forward. Heeding his companion's advice, Ori forced his eyes away from the dizzying, churning water below and focused on the green grass on the other side. With great effort, he forced his feet to stride across the creaky planks until they touched solid earth. Hannar came close behind him. Ori smiled broadly and nodded in thanks to his newfound friend.

At the head of the column, Balin's face was sour. He looked back at the tiny village and spat on the ground.

When they had covered some distance through well-tended fields outside the village, Óin fell in step beside Balin. The ancient Dwarf had a simmering fury in his eyes as rain soaked his sky blue hood and water dribbled down his lank silver tassel.

"What's troubling you, cousin?" asked Óin.

Balin gave Óin a fierce look and sneered.

"I can't believe how easily you trusted that insolent child," he said.

"I just wanted to get us all out of there without being skewered," said Óin defensively. "And besides," he went on, "this deal could feed the colony for years to come. If the mines of Khazad-dûm are as rich as we believe, then we won't miss the few trinkets we send them,"

Balin shook his head and grumbled, "You can't trust folk like that. By hook or crook, those absurd rustics will try to take what's rightfully ours. You'll see that the only folk you can trust are your own. And even then, you can never be too sure."

8

The East Gate

After leaving the lonely village on the noisy riverbank, the company continued southward down the road to where it once again became overgrown from disuse. The spring rains were unrelenting and at many points, turned their rugged route into a muddy quagmire, forcing the Dwarves to dismount from their ponies and lead them by the reins.

Balin was still in a foul mood after his rough handling in the village, but neither this nor the weather dampened his resolve to stick to his schedule. No matter how much rain soaked their tangled beards, Balin was determined to reach the East Gate by the planned date, marching his comrades long distances each day, many times until well after dark.

For the next four days, the company's view of the surrounding landscape dwindled to the Dwarf in front of them. Despite the thoughts that they were nearing their destination, spirits sank as low as the lead gray sky. Heavy fog had settled in the wide, vague lands between the mountains and the river, making for slow and soggy days.

One morning, Lóni awoke in his soaked blanket. It had been a long, cold night with no fire. Dwarves can make a fire almost anywhere out of almost anything, wind or no wind, but even Óin and his tinderbox could not succeed that night. The road had taken a bend to the west and led them closer to an outflung arm of the Misty Mountains. Lóni was grateful to sleep on rocky ground rather than muddy earth for a change and the stand of gnarled pines in which they made their camp offered at least some shelter from the elements. Like every day of this journey, the camp was already stirring to life before the sun rose. Anar and Hannar were by the ponies, unpacking some of the supplies provided by Fyrga's village and distributing breakfast to the other Dwarves.

"Best we can do without a fire," said Anar, handing Lóni a hunk of bread and some cheese.

Lóni gladly accepted the meager meal, happy for anything other than cram for a change.

"How much further to the East Gate?" he asked, taking a bite from the bread. Even if it was a few days old and a little wet, it was still better than cram.

"I'm not sure," answered Anar. "I've never been in these parts before and I haven't had more than a peek at the map."

"Did Master Balin mention anything?" asked Lóni, already feeling much revived after a few bites of real food.

"Certainly not to me," replied Anar. "Maybe ask him yourself."

Lóni looked across the campsite towards Balin. In pre-dawn dimness, Lóni could see the grizzled old Dwarf waving away Hannar with a grumpy look on his face. Clearly he was not as pleased with breakfast as Lóni had been.

The company finished packing their things and set off for what looked like another long day. Lóni took his place toward the rear of the column leading one of the ponies by the reins. The pony was tired and stumbled on stones but like the rest of the company pushed onward toward the unknown.

Just after dawn, the rain lessened to a light sprinkle and patches of pink cloudless sky could be seen in the east. The Dwarves continued to follow the road around a wide bend and began to ascend higher into the mountains. As the day wore on, the fog lifted and then burned off all together. Looking westward above the dark trees, Lóni gazed in wonder at the sky as the curtain of clouds was pulled aside by fresh winds from the south.

The other Dwarves were clearly seeing the same marvelous sight, for even Balin halted his pony to take in the view. The whole company stopped and watched in amazement as the mountains of Moria were revealed. The first to be unveiled was the dizzyingly tall Zirakzigil, a gleaming spike in the morning sunlight. Then more clouds were pushed aside and, to the north, there was Barazinbar, shorter yet more sinister than its silver sister silently smiling in the sun. It stood red and menacing, glaring down at the Dwarves as if they were unwelcome pests creeping about its toes. Finally, the third peak was uncovered to the right of cruel Caradhras. There towered mighty Bundushathûr, capped with a crown of clouds, proud and lofty. Far to the south, the unbroken chain of the Misty Mountains marched onwards into the distance.

None of the companions needed a map to know which three mountains stood before them. Every Dwarf, Longbeard or otherwise, grew up hearing tales of Durin's mansion, legends of inexhaustible wealth and of unconquerable evil. The greatest Dwarves city ever built lay hidden deep beneath those lofty peaks.

Lóni suddenly felt very small, like this adventure was too big for someone like him. He was no hero. He had no great deeds to his name or songs sung in his honor. He looked toward the front of the column and saw Balin, Óin and Ori staring up at the imposing landscape. To him, they looked undaunted and unafraid. Their presence gave Lóni comfort. At least, he thought, in the company of such storied Dwarves, he was in good hands. These were the heroes who retook Erebor from Smaug. Surely, they could take Khazad-dûm from a few Orcs.

Balin turned to face the company and, without a word, looked each Dwarf in the eye, measuring their resolve. Seemingly assured by what he saw, Balin resumed his place at the head of the column and continued forward up the climbing road.

Their route climbed higher into the mountains' stony feet, and they could see far to their south, where a golden haze shrouded a distant forest which seemed to shine in the pale evening light. However, neither the Dwarves' minds, nor their eyes were on the golden wood that lay below them; their undivided attention was fixed upon the majestic mountains silhouetted by the setting sun.

That night, the company turned from the road and made camp in a small hollow. To everyone's pleasure, the fine weather meant they were able to make a fire of brush and fir wood. Before long, wet clothes were strung up to dry around a crackling fire and slabs of bacon were spluttering in pans. The small barrels from Fyrga's village were tapped and passed around. After several sips each of the strong vintage, the Dwarves were dancing merrily under the stars. Their long journey was coming to an end and their destination was within sight. All seemed well and whatever dangers that waited within Moria could wait until the morning. Even grumpy old Balin joined in a song.

Hey oh hey, what a long long day

Been up since dawn and I must say

Pass me the wines, pass me the ales,

Pass me the stuff that never fails.

Been in the mines and not had a rest,

Now it's time for what I love best.

Tis not jewells, tis not the gold

Tis not the gems that make me bold

Pass me the wines, pass me the ales,

Pass me the stuff that never fails

My head may hurt come the morrow

Just one more sip for a little more sorrow

The song continued like this for many more verses, although the words became rather harder to understand after the barrels had been passed around several more times. After several hours of revelry, the fire had burned down to glowing embers and all thirteen Dwarves were strewn about the campsite sleeping off their merry night.

"We can hear your snoring from miles away," said a fair voice.

Anar opened eyes and was blinded by bright rays of morning sun. He sat up, and his head began to ache. He had to rub his watery eyes to make sure he was not dreaming. Before him stood three Elves, all clad in green garments and carrying slender bows. Anar shouted in alarm, and the rest of his companions raised their heads, groaning with discomfort.

Balin noticed the Elves and sprung to his feet. His legs were shaky and his stomach was in knots, but nevertheless, he put on a stern face and marched toward the unexpected visitors.

"What do you want? What are you doing here?" he asked angrily.

"We have come to ask you the same thing," responded one of the Elves in the common speech.

The other two Elves pointed at Balin and chatted in their own tongue, clearly amused by the old Dwarf's appearance. His long white beard which was a tangled mess of twigs and leaves and his sky blue hood sat crookedly atop his head and was ready to slip off at any moment.

Balin's face turned a deeper shade of red and he unleashed a tirade of unpleasant words on the Elves. Dwarves don't get on well with Elves. Even decent enough Dwarves think them foolish (which is a very foolish thing to think) or get annoyed with them. Balin certainly had his reasons for distrusting the fair folk, and now, all his ill will was boiling over. The rest of his companions came to his side to calm him down.

The Elves were barely able to surpass their laughter when their leader spoke again

"Forgive us, Balin; it has been many years since we have seen Dwarves so close to our lands."

Surprised to hear his name from strangers, Balin said, "You speak as if you know me."

"Nay," said the Elf. "We do not know one Dwarf from another. The lives of mortals are like the generations of leaves. Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with Dwarves: as one generation comes to life, another dies away."

"What do you want?" Balin asked, in no mood for metaphors.

"My name is Haldir, and these are my brothers, Rumil and Orophin. We are marchwardens of our land's northern borders," said the Elf.

"I don't care what your names are," said Balin testily. His head was beginning to ache, and the daylight was blinding.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"The lady of Lothlorien knows of your purpose," said Haldir. "She sent us to look out for you."

"Well, you found us, and clearly we don't need your help," said Balin, firmly against the idea of any Elven assistance.

"I am curious, Master Dwarf, how you would have fought off a pack of Orcs while you were all fast asleep last night. You really should post guards this close to the mountains," said Haldir.

"What Orcs?" Balin asked, looking incredulously to Ori and Óin at his side.

Haldir said something to his brothers in their fair tongue which caused them to chuckle again. He then spoke to Balin in the common tongue.

"The band of Orcs that would have slain you in the night," said Haldir. "They crept down from Moria and were nearing your camp when we set upon them. We slew many and chased the rest back inside the East Gate."

"I expect you want me to say thanks or, better yet, offer you silly brigands a reward for your services?" said Balin.

Haldir translated for his brothers, who did not seem to understand the Dwarf. The three Elves laughed again and then Haldir spoke.

"No, Balin, we want nothing from you. Indeed, we have something for you," he said.

"It better not be a cloak like that," said Balin mockingly pointing at their peculiar raiment that seemed to be the exact shade as the surrounding trees and stones. His comment was meant by laughter and jeers from his companions, pleased to see Balin's tenacious spirit undaunted by elvish teasing.

"The Lady of the Galadhrim sends not a gift but a warning," said Haldir, ignoring the quip. "If you pass the gates, beware! Do not stray into the net of Moria."

There was a silence as the grave words hung in the air. The company shifted uneasily and stole nervous glances at one another. The dangers of their expedition suddenly felt very real. But then Balin began to chuckle and shake his head. He adjusted his hood and turned to the company.

"What do I keep telling you about Elves?" he said. "They're always up to no good. This Lady of theirs is trying to scare us away from Khazad-dûm's treasures so she can steal them for herself."

The company wagged their heads in agreement and began to angrily berate the Elves with more insults.

"How grasping and ungracious Dwarves are!" said Haldir, clearly offended by Balin's disregard for his Lady's warning.

His brothers said harsher words that were fortunately not understood by the Dwarves. Balin leaned forward and picked up an axe that had been laying on the ground since the previous night's festivities. Leaning the weapon on his shoulder in a threatening manner, he spoke to the Elves.

"A fair attempt, but in vain. You can tell your lady that Dwarves have returned to their home, and we don't plan on leaving."

The other Dwarves similarly armed themselves and stood close by their leader summoning their sternest faces despite their throbbing heads. Instead of reaching for their quivers, the Elves began to back away from the enraged company.

"Be warned," said Haldir. "Our lady is wise beyond your understanding. You will come to regret this folly."

"You will regret bothering us unless you leave this instant," said Balin with a cruel smile, knowing his side had the superior numbers.

Seeing the threatening Dwarves closing in on them, the three Elves fled the campsite and quickly disappeared into the dark fir trees.

The whole company applauded Balin for his boldness and bravery, as none of them wanted Elves meddling in their affairs. They patted him on the back and all agreed that the old Dwarf was every bit the right one to lead them into Khazad-dûm.

Although Balin was pleased to receive acclaim from the company, was in no mood for celebrations or levity. "You're lucky it was only Elves that snuck up on us!" he snapped.

His comrades quickly quieted down and the mood grew suddenly serious. With the axe still in his hands, Balin marched over to the barrels that were still lying near the extinguished campfire. With an extraordinary violent zeal for such an old Dwarf, he set upon the casks with heated fury as the other Dwarves watched in terror. Splashes of blood red wine soaked both his white beard and his sky blue hood. He hammered furiously until the last splinters of wet wood stopped flying. Turning back to the company with his face red and dripping, Balin spoke.

"We are heading into untold dangers," he told them with axe still in hand. "We have not the luxury to dance like fools or sleep without guards. This is your one warning. There will not be another."

The Dwarves hung their heads, knowing they had been careless in such an unforgiving country.

"Pack your things," said Balin, "We have a long day today."

And what a long day it was. The gayness of the pervious night had dried up like all their clothes by the fireside. They packed their gear as fast as they could and set off without breakfast. All that day, Balin pushed them at a relentless pace to make up for their late start. The ponies (who had nothing to do with this) were stumbling with fatigue while their headsore riders tried their best to stay in the saddle.

Midway through the day, their path weaved through a narrow place and there lay the bodies of several slaughtered Orcs. Any Dwarf that had doubted the Elves' tale was now second-guessing his own safety.

Balin, at least, was unimpressed with the fair folks' handiwork. This was far from his first time seeing dead Orcs. For the younger Dwarves in the company, however, this was a shocking sight. Some of the Orcs were laying tangled in heaps on the side of the path in pools of black blood, their curved blades still gripped tightly in their lifeless hands. Others lay face-down with their backs pierced by elven arrows.

Frár looked down from the saddle at one unlucky Orc whose throat had been cut by a sharp blade. His yellow eyes were still open and stared into nothingness. Frár shivered and suddenly felt a cold panic sweep over him as he thought about heading toward more of these terrible foes. He thought about Erebor and the peaceful life he had left behind and his eyes welled with tears. He pulled his hood a bit lower to conceal his face from his companions and kept following the column up the winding path.

Only once did they halt and even then very briefly while Ori consulted his collection of maps. Before the Dwarves could grab any food from their packs, Balin gave the order to move, and off they went, following the rising road westward and deeper into the mountains.

Just as the sun was sinking behind Celebdil, the company could hear the sound of running water. Before long, they reached a hurrying river near where it was joined by a smaller stream bubbling down from the west.

"We have reached the Celebrant, or as some call it, the Silverlode," announced Ori in a tired voice.

The river was noisy and looked icy cold in the fading light.

"Shall we camp here and wait until morning to cross?" suggested Óin.

"No, not yet," said Balin. "We must at least find a place to cross."

Many in the company let out disappointed sighs when they heard this.

In the low light of darkening dusk, they followed the water down to where it plunged over a fall of green-hued stone, and foamed down into a dell. About it stood fir-trees, short and bent, and its sides were steep and clothed with hart's-tongue and shrubs of whortle-berries. At the bottom, there was a level space through which the stream flowed noisily over shining pebbles.

"We will camp here," proclaimed Balin to the relief of all (especially the ponies).

"Double the watch tonight," he added. "We will not be caught off guard again."

A hasty camp was made, and the famished Dwarves savored the food from Fyrga's village. Even though the water was frigid, the ponies greatly appreciated the rest and refreshment. The exhausted Dwarves threw themselves on the ground and tried their best to sleep. The sight of Orcs, even dead Orcs, had altered the mood of the company. Everyone was dour and stern. It was as if their entire journey up to this point was a make-believe adventure, but now that they had been awakened to the dangerous reality of such an endeavor, everything seemed more real.

There were no songs that night, and even Lofar declined to tell another tale, instead curling up in his blankets beside the fire. All through the night, pairs of diligent watchers stared into the heavy darkness that surrounded them. Nothing was heard except for the cold wind in the treetops. All was still and silent until the last watch pair woke their sleeping comrades an hour before sunrise.

At dawn, the company crossed the noisy river and struck a road that climbed out of the lowlands and ran alongside the water towards its source. As they climbed higher into the heart of the mountains, the river dwindled to a stream and then to a babbling brook cascading over smooth stones. All the while, the three peaks of Khazad-dûm loomed above them, bathed in morning light.

They were walking through a dense wood of gnarled pines when Balin suddenly realized he had seen trees many years ago. He walked on through the grove ensnared in a walking memory he could not escape. He paused at the base of a large tree just off the path and stared at the forest floor. Balin relived the nightmare of struggling to push his father's corpse off of himself. The feet of charging fighters rushed all around him, stomping over him, pressing his father's lifeless face into his.

Balin hated this place that had haunted his dreams for so many years. He hated the orange needles littering the floor. He hated the feel of knobbly roots pushing unseen up into his boots. He tried to wake himself from his tormenting thoughts, but they persisted. He was young and terrified, again shaking in fear like the brittle branches creaking in the soft breeze. He hated the way his father had looked down at him that day. He hated himself for looking weak and afraid in his last moments.

"Are you alright?" same a voice, sounding like a faint whisper down a deep well.

Balin felt as though he was floating back to the surface out of deep dark waters. Blinking in the sunlight, his eyes turned to Óin's concerned face but then rose to focus on the peaks behind him.

"Never better," replied Balin, barely holding back tears.

He had made a promise to himself many years ago. Never again would he turn back. Never again would he retreat. This quest was his long awaited chance at redemption. He brushed past Óin and hurried further up the path, eager to leave the wood behind him.

At several points along their route, the company observed Orc footprints retreating back to Moria, but no living enemies could be seen or heard. This had the effect of making the entire company restless and watchful. Their eyes darted to every noise and their hands often gripped their axes in anticipation of unseen ambushes laying in wait to spring an attack.

Luckily for the uneasy Dwarves, they were not set upon, and they were able to continue their steady progress. It was not far along this road that trees dwindled and the Dwarves came to a steep rocky face from which an icy cold freshet fell, glistening and gurgling down to begin the famed Silverlode.

They turned north and ascended steeply. Upon cresting the rocky lip they beheld a magnificent sight. Before them lay a mere: Kheled-zâram, fair and wonderful. It was long and oval, shaped like a great spear-head thrust deep into the northern glen; but its southern end was beyond the shadows under the sunlit sky. Yet its waters were dark, a deep blue like clear evening sky seen from a lamp-lit room. Its face was still and unruffled. About it lay a smooth sward, shelving down on all sides to its bare unbroken rim. The sun was nearing its zenith and the towering peaks to their west were set against a brilliant blue sky. All was silent in the barren bowl before them, the footsteps of their ponies seemed deafeningly loud on the stony ground.

On the side of the road stood a tall column, weatherworn and cracked yet unbroken by the ravages of time and here the company halted. Although the faint runes upon its sides could not be read, every one of the Dwarves knew what this column represented. It marked the spot where Durin had first looked into the Mirrormere countless years ago. It seemed as good a spot as any for a short rest. While the other Dwarves were rummaging through their packs for a midday meal, Balin dismounted hastily and tossed the reins to Flói.

Turning away from his companions, Balin walked across the green grass towards the shore of the mere. Balin seated himself upon a stone and gazed across the calm waters. To the north of the mere, the rough path led around a corner and out of sight. Although the East Gate was still a mile further, he could see it clearly in his mind's eye. He slipped into the past and saw Azanulbizar as it had appeared after the great battle. Corpses floated in the filthy waters and the air was thick with the stench of death. Balin remembered wandering alone into the vale, frantically searching for his younger brother Dwalin among the heaps of bodies. Balin remembered seeing a proud Thorin with his oaken branch held high and beside him stood Dáin, grim faced, with his red axe grasped tightly in his crimson hands. The host of battle-weary Dwarves were hailing them as heroes, young warriors worthy of Durin's line.

Balin had found his brother among the wounded and struggled to undertake the impossibly sorrowful task of telling Dwalin that their father had been slain. The brothers wept together in the muddy mire as the army continued to heap unceasing praise onto Thorin and Dáin.

Balin had never wanted to see this place again, but as he sat there in the warm spring sunshine, the battle seemed like a half-remembered nightmare, fading into blurry memory. He looked back at his companions. The ponies had already been tied up and the Dwarves were chatting quietly in a close circle.

Balin sat alone for some time like this watching sunlight twinkle off the water cascading down the Dimrill Stair across the mere. He looked at the dark waters of Kheled-zâram and a different memory from his youth came back to him. He remembered hearing about his ancestor Durin the Deathless, who had looked into the reflective waters of the Kheled-zâram and seen a crown of seven stars suspended above his head. Longbeards had always looked fondly upon this vision as proof of Durin's right to rule and, by extension, the legitimacy of his descendants, many of which were also named Durin.

Hoping to wrestle his mind from the battlefield of the past, Balin leaned forward and cast himself down on his hands and knees and so crept to the water's edge. Although it was a bright, sunny day, and the first stars would not appear for several hours, he was determined to gaze into the deep waters of the Mirrormere and to see Durin's crown reflected above his own head. He edged forward until his fingertips touched the frigid water.

Seeing nothing but the deep dark blue of the sky, he frowned and leaned his face closer to the water. Where was his crown? Had that witch lied to him? Closer still, he bent until the silver tassel of his hood flopped into the water and disturbed the scene, sending ripples across the glassy surface.

Balin snorted with disappointment and waited for the water to settle. Just then, he heard a shout.

"Get down!"

Before he could turn, felt a tremendous collision and he was thrown headfirst into the water. He quickly picked himself up, spluttering and shouting. He spun around in a rage.

"What in the…" he began.

His throat tightened and his words halted.

Before him, Anar lay face-down with an black arrow in his back. He was writhing in pain and struggling to pick himself up off the pebbly beach.

"Orcs!" came Óin's voice from afar.

Balin looked back at the company who were frantically scrambling for weapons while more black arrows arced down upon them from the high rim of the dale. The Dwarves were quick enough to hoist shields and packs above their heads to block the volley of deadly shafts, but the poor ponies were not so fortunate. Tied together as they were, they fell in a bloody mass where they stood.

Balin pulled his axe from his belt and, with his other hand, heaved Anar to his feet. Anar grimaced at the arrow shaft in his back caught on the ground. The two Dwarves raced back to the column to rejoin their comrades, dripping wet with icy cold water. The thirteen companions formed a close circle around Durin's Stone, bracing themselves for the oncoming assault. In the midday light, the column cast no shadow upon the ground.

The Dwarves watched in horror as innumerable black shapes poured down the walls of the dell, like a dark deluge coming to drown them. The younger Dwarves who had not before seen combat quaked in fear but were bolstered by the older veterans at their sides who shouted words of encouragement over the cacophony of orc howls.

The first wave of Orcs struck the Dwarves like a storm upon a mountainside. They collided with the encircled Dwarves with such force that the top of Durin's Stone crumbled, raining debris upon the mele. Thirteen axes swung with a desperate fury that for a time halted the torrent of terrible foes. The sounds of clanging steel, splintering shields and the death bleats of yellow-eyed Orcs resounded around the walls of that hallowed dale.

Shoulder to shoulder, the Dwarves defended themselves and the companions beside them until they were so covered in orc blood that they were as black the darkest night. Upon seeing the carnage, many Orcs fled from the deadly Dwarves but still many more remained locked in violent combat.

"We need to retreat back to the trees!" Óin shouted, barely audible above the din of battle.

"Never!" cried Balin, lopping the head off another attacker with a single blow. "We must press forward to the gates for the gates!"

He had a ferocious look in his eye and Óin knew that the Balin would never abandon his quest, having come so close. Although old and hoar, Balin felt vigorous and valiant. With each foe felled, he felt the seething flow of righteous retribution flowing in his veins. Having come so far and suffered so much, just to come within sight of his destiny, he would gladly die at the foot of Durin's Stone rather than retreat again. Standing tall and resolute, his white head seemed to tower high over his cowered comrades.

They looked upon him now and found courage in their leader. Without a word, the company agreed to follow Balin wherever he led them.

Leaving the sacred stone behind, the Dwarves climbed over the heap of fallen foes and began fighting their way northward. The frantic chaos that ensued upon the narrow path was a blood soaked blur. Here the road was rough and broken and new enemies emerged from the heather while even more Orcs lept out from behind the cracking stones that lined the way. It was an endless mile of unending horrors, fighting for every inch of ground on the rocky road to the gate.

After more blood soaked skirmishes spent slaying uncounted foul-fanged foes, the Dwarves were finally within sight of the ruined doors. They stood ajar and hung outward at uneven angles. Fleeing for their miserable lives, the remaining Orcs retreated to the safety of the gaping maw between the massive stone slabs. Here, the Dwarves caught their breath and briefly assessed themselves.

Anar's arrow wound was bleeding badly, but it had certainly not seemed to quell his spirit, as he had slain more than his share of Orcs.

Balin had been struck on the head but was still standing strong, at least for the moment, and Onar had lost an eye in a gruesome gash from a crooked goblin blade. The company stood in a close knot, battered but not yet broken, holding each other upright, ready to fend off the next attack.

The howls and snarls of the Orcs grew louder as they danced in the shadows of the great gate. A terrible menacing figure strode forth from darkness and the pack of Orcs parted to make way for a mighty Orc chieftain. He was almost as tall as a Man and wielded an enormous black mace. He gnashed his terrible teeth and his red eyes were ablaze with hate. He looked upon the weary Dwarves and squinted in the bright daylight. Alone, he strode forward, laughing wickedly in a way that sounded like the grinding of stones. He swung his deadly weapon high above his head daring any and all challengers to step forward.

Flói broke ranks and rushed forward toward the chieftain. The calls and protests from his comrades were lost behind him. When he reached the massive Orc, their weapons met with such force that it shook the stones around them. The chieftain raised his mace to strike again, but Flói was young and quick. He ducked low to avoid the deadly strike and in a swift movement delivered a crippling blow to the chieftain's legs. Howling in pain, the orc collapsed to the ground. Hot with bloodlust, Flói removed the Orc's head with one final swing of his axe.

Panting, Flói looked back at his companions to make sure that Balin had witnessed his heroic deed. He raised his bloody axe in the air in triumph to celebrate the greatest achievement of his life as his companions cheered for him. Just then, the head of an arrow erupted from his chest in an explosion of blood. He fell to the ground limply, the arrow's fletching reaching towards the sky like a dark flower placed upon a grave.

The Dwarves' cheers were replaced by cries of shock, which then fermented swiftly into rage. The remaining twelve Dwarves rushed forward as fast as their exhausted legs could carry them just as a horde of Orcs issued from the gate to avenge their leader. Their shouts and cries rose loud and clear and a grievous noise it was to hear. The combatants crashed together where Flói had fallen, and a final battle of unimaginable ferocity ensued. In the dark tangle of bloody bodies, teeth tore at flesh and fingers clawed at throats. The Dwarves fought for their lives until their eyes could not see and they could no longer lift their axes.

Then, almost all at once, all was silent and still. All around the Dwarves lay scores of slain Orcs. Frár crawled over a pile of corpses toward the body of his fallen friend. Frár took Flói's head in his hands and saw that life had left his youthful eyes. Frár wept and his tears carved rivulets on his blood soaked cheeks. Other companions limped and crawled toward Frár to mourn the loss of their comrade.

The sun beat down upon their weary heads and began to sink steadily toward the lofty western peaks. Not a creature stirred as they sat there in that high place looking toward the open gate of Moria, again abandoned and unguarded, a dark, yawning archway hewn into the mountainside.

Turning away from his grieving companions, Balin began crawling over the gruesome mass of corpses toward the ruined gate. He was too weak to stand, so he pulled himself along, clawing at the stony ground until reached the first wide stair. With enormous effort, the aged Dwarf pulled himself up and over each one of the huge ageworn steps until he had reached the ancient threshold. Raising a weak and tremulous hand and with a last effort, he extended it past the great door posts, towering on either side.

He had accomplished something that many great Dwarves had tried and failed to do: Balin, son of Fundin, had entered the realm of Khazad-dûm.

9

Treasures in the Dark

When Balin opened his eyes, he saw an arched stone ceiling high above him and shafts of sunlight streaming through unseen windows. For a moment, he wondered if he was still in Erebor and that this entire adventure, its triumphs and its torments, had all been a dream. Then he felt his whole body ache and realized that he was laying upon a smooth stone floor. His hood had been folded into a bundle and had been propped under his head as a crude pillow. He sat up slowly and surveyed his surroundings. He was sitting just inside one of the mighty doorposts of Moria, and bright morning sunlight was shining through the open doors.

He was in a large hall with windows facing east with even more daylight coming through shafts cut into the lofty stone ceiling. The great space was littered with the refuse left by uncounted Orcs. Bones from animals Balin dared not guess were strewn across the floor along with broken blades, bits of rotten food and all the foul filth one would expect in a goblin cave. Although quite large, the room was a simple square and seemed to serve as a mere foyer for anyone entering through the East Gate.

To his left, Anar lay on his stomach, fast asleep. His torso was wrapped in a bloody bandage. For a brief moment, Balin considered awakening him and to express his gratitude. Anar had indeed saved his life by the Mirrormere, and his only reward had been an arrow in the back. Balin reached out to rouse the sleeping Stiffbeard but at the last second decided not to and pulled back his hand.

On his right was Onar. His head was heavily bandaged. He was sitting up and looking out of the great stone doors with his one remaining eye. He heard Balin stirring and turned to face him.

"Glad to see you awake," said the Broadbeam in a soft voice.

"Where are the others?" asked Balin, looking around the large empty hall.

"They went back to the Mirrormere to retrieve what gear and supplies they could," answered Onar.

"And the Orcs?" inquired Balin.

"We seem to have slain them all," said Onar. "Not one has been seen since the battle."

Balin looked around the hall nervously, searching for any unseen Orcs lurking in the shadows.

Seeing his uneasy comrade, Onar added "Don't worry: we made sure to block the only doorway leading deeper into Khazad-dûm."

He nodded toward the western wall opposite the gates. There was a smaller arched doorway. Its doors were shut and many loose stones had been piled high in front of them.

"Very good," said Balin, feeling quite pleased. "This is a great success."

Onar said nothing but turned his eye across the hall to the space behind the opposite doorpost. There on the floor lay a motionless figure. Flói's eyes were closed, and his hands were curled around his axe. The peaceful repose of a fallen warrior, a life laid low in the bloom of youth.

A heavy silence hung in the hall while the two Dwarves sat beside each other staring out at the rising sun. Before long, their nine companions came into view each hauling a heavy load. Once inside the doors, the Dwarves unloaded their gear and checked on their wounded companions. Anar awoke and seemed in good spirits despite his injury. Frár was the first to bring up the tragic subject.

"What about Flói?" he asked mournfully. The company faces became grave and turned toward their leader. Balin thought back to the battle and pondered for a long moment. His head ached and his thoughts were foggy.

"We cannot entomb Flói in this filthy foyer," said Balin. "It does not befit a Longbeard of such courage."

"We could bury him by Kheled-zâram," suggested Óin, turning to Frár for approval.

With tear-filled eyes, Frár nodded in agreement. Balin ordered preparations to begin. The Dwarves carried their fallen comrade back down the rocky pathway until they reached a grassy area not far from Durin's stone. They chose a place that had been left untouched by the bloody battle of the previous day. Here the Dwarves interred Flói's body under the verdant grass.

A cool breeze blew through the dell sending a shiver down the spines of the silent mourners who stood in a solemn ring around the grave.

Ori was the first to speak. "Flói left his home to aid our mission and now he has left us. He goes now to the halls of waiting to sit beside his fathers until the world is renewed. Then, like all other fallen Dwarves, he may aid our creator Mahal in his mighty works. We thank Flói for his sacrifice. He will never be forgotten," he said.

After Ori concluded, Frár came forward to speak, but found that the words would not come out. The dam that had been holding back his sadness burst and the young Dwarf wept openly over his friend's grave. Balin placed a hand on Frár's shoulder while he continued to cry.

"It is up to us," he said to the others "to make sure Flói's death was not in vain,"

Bowed heads nodded in agreement.

"We must honor Flói's memory by pressing on and staying true to our task," he said.

Frár then turned his red eyes upwards to face Balin, whose hand still rested on his shoulder. The old Dwarf looked down at Frár. His face was stern and yet understanding.

"It's what he would have wanted," said Balin.

Frár nodded in agreement and wiped away his tears. He rose to his feet and took his place beside his leader.

After more tears and lamentations, the Dwarves each said farewell to their friend and then headed back to the gates. On Balin's orders, the Dwarves felled several small trees lining the steep path and carried back the wood for future fires.

"What do we do now?" asked Lóni after they entered the hall and stacked the wood in a corner.

"We still have enough food to last us for a while yet," said Óin.

"We must repair these doors as best we can," said Balin. "I don't want any Orcs getting back in Durin's halls."

The Dwarves got to work inspecting the great gates. Although they were cracked and weather worn, they seemed to be solid enough to be salvaged. Gamil came up with some ingenious ideas and with the help of ropes and wedges, the Dwarves were able to heave the stone slabs back into their proper places. The sun was setting by the time the work was completed. For the first time in many years, the heavy doors were able to swing with the slightest push from the weary Dwarves. Balin gave the order and the doors were pulled inward, closing seamlessly. The Dimrill Dale, the Mirrormere, the mighty rivers beyond, and even Erebor were suddenly gone, shut out from their new home. Moria, the black pit, a tangle of twisted tunnels, lofty halls and deep dark mines was their whole world now.

The Dwarves made a small fire in the darkening hall with some old firewood left behind by the Orcs and here they rested for some time to recover their strength. After they had recovered their strength, they then began to carefully remove the rubble blocking the doorway on the western wall. When the last stone was removed, the Dwarves armed themselves and prepared for another battle. Balin nodded and the doors were opened. To their surprise (and relief), a wide, echoing passage lay before them, empty and silent except for the faint ping of water dripping somewhere in the darkened distance.

Slowly, and as quietly as they could, the company crept down the hallway, axes gripped tightly in their hands. The passage showed all the hallmarks of ancient dwarvish construction; straight as an arrow with a smooth level floor and, cut into the ceiling, great shafts were pierced through the living rock, but as it was night in the outer world, only the faintest glimmer of starlight trickled down to light their way.

The Dwarves followed the shadowy hallway for about a quarter mile until it descended in a great set of stairs ending at another doorway. This one was ajar and unguarded. Gamil went ahead and peeked through the doors but quickly jerked back, startled by what he saw. His companions braced themselves, expecting any number of enemies lurking in the darkness beyond.

"Orcs?" asked Balin in a whisper that sounded dangerously loud in the echoing passage.

Gamil shook his head and pulled the stone door open so all could see what had so surprised him. Beyond the doorway, the floor vanished and opened to a vast black chasm of unknown depth. Across this perilous gap spanned a slender bridge of about fifty feet, built in ancient days of stone, without kerb or rail. It was an ingenious defense of the Dwarves against any enemy that might capture the First Hall and the outer passages. Anyone who dared enter Moria could only pass across it in a single file.

Beyond the void, they could make out an enormous hall, much and loftier and far longer than the foyer where they had slept the night before. It continued westward until its expanse was lost in the gloom. Down the center stalked a double line of towering pillars. They were carved like boles of mighty trees whose boughs upheld the roof with a branching tracery of stone. Their stems were smooth and black, aligned perfectly and fading into the unseen distance.

Balin nudged his companions aside and stepped forward confidently onto the narrow bridge. Holding his head high and his axe firmly in his old hands, he strode across the gaping chasm as if he were crossing a shallow creek on a morning stroll.

The other Dwarves watched in awe at their leader's boldness. One by one, they gathered their courage and crossed the bridge in turn. Ori was already soaked in a cold sweat when it came time for him to cross. Seeing Hannar on the far side waving him over, helped Ori remember his advice back at the village. He tried his best to keep his eyes focused on the far side and stepped onto the span.

At the midpoint of the bridge, doubt crept into his heart, and his eyes wandered downward. A wave of panic overtook him, and his whole body began to tremble. He sank to his knees and set his hands upon the narrow footing to keep from falling. His head began to spin as he stared down into the bottomless pit below him. Just then, Ori felt strong hands grasp him, pulling him to his feet. Hannar had come back across the bridge to aid his terror stricken comrade.

Once standing and grasping Hannar for support, Ori was able to complete the passage and arrive safely on the far side. His friends silently congratulated him, but Balin just stared at him with a disgusted look on his face, clearly bothered by Ori's weakness.

Once all the Dwarves were on the western side of the bridge, they began to feel extraordinarily small in such a cavernous space. This Second Hall was so large that they could still not see the far end in the dim light. Unlike the foyer, the Second Hall had no shafts for light and was much darker.

The ancient Dwarves of Khazad-dûm had mastered the craft of lamp making, trapping light within crystals that would shine perpetually with a faint glow. These were set into the halls and mines of Moria in ancient days. For dwarven eyes well adapted to dark places, this was more than enough light to work and live by. This faint illumination was not enough to chase away every shadow in the dark corners of this massive hall.

The company peered nervously into the distance, expecting to see the glow of Orc eyes peeking out from behind a dark pillar. Not wanting to remain exposed in this perilous position, they hustled to the wall on the northern side of the hall and there found another open doorway leading to a long passageway.

Faced with a choice, the twelve companions huddled for a hushed discussion. Nobody wanted to cross this ominous Second Hall and so they chose to explore the smaller passage instead. Above the doorway's spandrels, a mascaron depicting a nameless Dwarf from long ago, glared down at them. His nose had been knocked off and his stone face was disfigured with deep gouges as if the stone had been scratched with enormous claws. The Dwarves shuddered at the thought of what could have possibly caused such damage as they passed under its watchful gaze.

The Dwarves crept in single file down the dark passage for the better part of an hour. Balin insisted on going in front, claiming to have the sharpest eyes of the group, a claim that some quietly doubted but none challenged. They climbed many small flights of steps before ascending a longer steeper set that ended at a door with a great iron ring. The door was not fastened, so they were able to swing it inwards.

They were then in a large square chamber. It was better lit than the hallway, with a high shaft in the eastern wall above the doorway looking through the mountain towards the night sky. There were many recesses cut in the rock walls, and in them were the remains of large iron-bound chests made of wood. Many had been broken and seemed to contain moldy papers and bits of parchment. Something about this particular place appealed to Balin and he determined that they could camp here for some time. There was another doorway on the western wall of the chamber, high with a flat top. This stone door was quickly closed and barricaded in case more Orcs came prowling.

Although they were still anxious of unseen evils, the company was still in awe of entering such hallowed halls. Even this small chamber was as elegant as any royal room back in Erebor.

"This is a strong place and more secure than the larger halls. It will be our headquarters," said Balin addressing the company. "We will use this as a base to explore further reaches of Khazad-dûm."

The Dwarves agreed to this plan and several were sent back to theFirst Hall to retrieve the gear and supplies that were left behind. Ori and Óin stayed behind with Balin.

"This seems to be some sort of record chamber," said Ori, examining some of the dusty scrolls.

Balin nodded and took a seat on an overturned crate and looked around the square room. Óin collected spare bits of splintered wood and soon had a small fire going near the eastern wall. The small stream of smoke drifted up the shaft and out of sight. The three Longbeards rested in silence for a long while, each absorbed by his own thoughts.

"Why haven't we seen any more Orcs?" Óin asked, breaking a long silence.

"It's clear that we slaughtered them all in the dale," said Balin as if the answer was obvious.

"I very much doubt that," said Ori "Look at this."

He carried over a dry and damaged scroll and showed it to Óin.

"What does it say?" asked Balin.

He rose from his seat and joined them by the fireside, rudely snatching the crumbling document from Ori's hands. The scroll was damaged and stained with black blotches of what Ori hoped was ink. Its scrawling script was written in the ancient cirth of Moria which had fallen out of use centuries ago.

"From what I can make out," said Ori looking over Balin's shoulder, "it mentions something about a great enemy…and shadow…and…"

"Flame!" exclaimed Óin.

Balin had been holding the scroll above the crackling fire, and now the bottom edge was aglow with orange fire.

"How silly of me," said Balin, letting the scroll fall into the fire, where it was quickly consumed by the flames. Ori watched helplessly as blackened bits floated up toward the small square of night sky.

"Just as well," Balin continued. "That sounded more like one of Lofar's stupid stories than any serious threat."

"But what if…" began Ori.

An angry look flashed in Balin's eyes. He was just about to say something when the eastern door opened and their companions returned carrying heavy loads.

"Did you see any Orcs?" asked Óin.

"Not a one," replied Nar.

Balin shot Óin and Ori looks that clearly said, "See? I told you," and the matter seemed to be put to rest for the moment. More wood was thrown on the fire and the twelve companions sat down to a midnight snack of cram, which in its rocklike state had survived both the journey and battle with remarkable fortitude.

Feeling much refreshed after a short rest and reassured by the lack of Orcs, the Dwarves once again picked up their axes and set off to explore more of Moria. They left the chamber through the western door and turned southward down a wide corridor that passed under an archway and into yet another wide hall.

Although great and cavernous, it was not nearly as massive as the Second Hall, they had avoided on the way here and the Dwarves felt much safer in this place. It also had the added benefit of being better lit. Away on the eastern side of the hall above another archway was a shaft. The moon must have risen in the outer world as a pale white light sparkled off the black stone walls that shone like glass even after all these ages left untended. They saw a vast roof far above their heads upheld by many mighty pillars hewn of stone.

All about them hung the darkness, hollow and immense, and they were awestruck by the grandeur and vastness of the dolven halls and endlessly branching stairs and passages. The wildest imaginings that fantastic rumor had ever suggested to the Dwarves fell altogether short of the actual splendor and wonder of Moria.

"I can see it now," said Balin, nodding to himself.

His bold voice rebounded loudly off the black stone walls but he didn't seem to care.

"This is where our colony will live and work. Mark my words: some day, this fair hall will once again be full of Dwarves."

His companions wagged their beards in agreement. Óin then spoke, still looking around at the intricate stonework

"Surely, if Dwarves in distant lands knew about the wonders of Moria, they would be coming here in droves," he said.

"They may come for a visit," said Gamil, no less impressed, "but they would not stay unless there were still treasures to be found. So far, all we have found are bones and dust."

"Then it is treasures we must find," said Balin.

He turned and strode forward towards another darkened archway, leading his followers deeper into the net of Moria.

Over the next several days, the Dwarves explored many dark corners of Durin's halls. The wanderers witnessed many wonders in the winding halls of Khazad-dûm: vast cathedrals carved from the living roots of the mountains, broad thoroughfares that led to other unknown reaches and feats of engineering that made Erebor's grandest palaces look like the rough work of apprentices. Before long, each of the twelve companions had found a suitable chamber to call his own and fashion as he pleased. They were all situated close to the Chamber of Mazarbul and the Twenty-first Hall, as they came to call the future center of the colony. Even as they settled in, the Dwarves were not yet tempted to wander too far alone.

Their expert eyes spied concealed doors of dwarven make that led to hidden hordes untouched by Orcs. Here they found fine masterpieces of gold and silver, but these were but the toys of Dwarves and could be found elsewhere in Middle Earth. They also found iron at every turn, both wrought and unwrought, but this metal was merely their servant and could be obtained through trade or unskilled mining elsewhere.

By the count of many mortals in the outer world, the companions had soon amassed a fortune the likes of which armies would kill for, but they knew that without Mithril, they would never be able to entice cololists to undertake the arduous journey to this distant realm. Their only relief was that in all of their wanderings in the dark, they never once came across any more Orcs. This reinforced Balin's repeated claims that they had all been slaughtered in the Battle of the East Gate as Ori had recorded it in his journals.

Before long, though, their most valued possessions were their dwindling stores of cram that they had rationed to mere crumbs. Their fears of starvation were dispelled when one day, a voice was heard hollering through the windows of theFirst Hall. Indeed, if Lóni had not been sent back there for some dry firewood, he never would have heard the old cart driver. He had trundled his way all the way from Fyrga's village with all the food he could carry in one load.

When the Dwarves pushed open the great gates, they met the welcome guest with many deep bows. They unloaded his wares with eager groping hands and hungry looks in their eyes. In repayment for this timely salvation, the Dwarves brought out several boxes filled with some of their lesser finds. Although the Dwarves did not mind parting with what they perceived to be unwanted clutter, the driver looked upon his laden cart as if he were carrying a king's ransom. He thanked them heartily and then turned his wagon back down the rutted road toward his distant home.

Resolved to find their elusive prize and now thoroughly fed and provisioned, the company was committed to continuing their search, systematically scouring every new hall, passage, and broom cupboard they came across.

After weeks of unproductive searching (if finding gold and jewels can be called unproductive), Balin called the company together for a council. A large table had been found in a forgotten corner and dragged into the Chamber of Mazarbul for the occasion. It was in surprisingly good shape considering how long it had lain idle in such a dark damp place. Wooden crates, blocks of stone and even an overturned bucket served as seats as each Dwarf took his place.

Sitting at the head of the table on a tall block of stone, Balin was the first to speak.

"Comrades," he began surveying the seated Dwarves one by one, "we have accomplished much and our deeds have been great. We have found treasures, yes, but we have not found Khazad-dûm's greatest prize."

This was met with head nodding and genial agreement. They all knew that the real wealth of Moria was in the extraordinary metal hidden deep within the roots of the mountain. For here alone in the world was found Moria-silver, or truesilver, as some have called it. Mithril is the Elvish name. The Dwarves have a name which they do not tell. Its worth was ten times that of gold, and now it is beyond price, for little is left above ground.

"So far, we have only explored the uppermost levels, but I believe our quarry awaits us in the lower depths of Durin's halls," Balin explained. "It is to those depths we must descend." He nodded to Ori and then took his seat.

Ori then rose and unrolled a scroll upon the table. The curious Dwarves leaned over to take a closer look as he spoke.

"I have been going through the contents of this chamber," he said. "This is the best map I could find."

The map, or what was left of it, was heavily damaged like many of the other scrolls in the Chamber of Mazarbul, but enough of it remained intact to make out the East Gate and some of the areas they had already explored.

"We are here," said Ori, pointing to a small square chamber next to a dark smudge. "From what I have been able to gather, the route to the Mithril mines led this way." He traced a winding route with his finger that led to the northeast.

At this point, Balin stood up and again addressed the company.

"We must set off at once to find these mines," he said in a stern voice. "The success of our colony hinges on finding Mithril; without it, we will never entice others to join us."

All in agreement, the Dwarves hurriedly packed their things and set off towards the mines. Their way was lit by the faint glow of dwarvish lanterns, still shining faintly after all these long years. With map in hand, Ori directed the company down many descending passageways and steep staircases until their surroundings began to change. Instead of broad avenues with smoothly polished walls and level floors, the Dwarves found themselves trudging down narrow passageways with rough hewn walls and uneven floors strewn with loose stone tailings left behind by miners long ago. Ice-cold drops of water dripped onto their hoods from elegant stalactites high above their heads. Days upon days passed, and still, they descended to depths where the walls became damp and the floors were slick with slime.

They passed over a dangerous false floor that spanned a gaping crevasse where, deep below in unseen depths, a mighty torrent of water could be heard. Although damp, the tunnel had been dug with patience and with skill, the roof was broad and arched to support the unthinkable weight of the mountains that pressed down upon them.

The main passage branched off in many directions where calcified ladders disappeared down sunken shafts or inclined upwards into tight holes barely large enough for a Dwarf to crawl into. This made for very slow searching, as the prospectors poked their heads around every corner looking for the glimmer of Mithril, but search as they might, they found many dead ends and nothing but dark silent rock. Rumors and whispers passed up and down the column of Dwarves as they began to wonder if their wanderings were all for naught.

After a week without a glimmer of Mithril, the company paused for rest without a fire to chase away the damp chill. They were at a crossroads where several tunnels intersected. The lofty stope made a wide gallery littered with abandoned carts, rotting barrels and rusted machinery. They ate a meal of cold bread and cheese, a silent occasion where many of the Dwarves fostered private doubts about their expedition.

What if there was no more Mithril to be found? Perhaps whatever truesilver remains is so far lost that it shall never be found. Should they abandon their cause and retreat back to Erebor? Their questions and doubts filled the dark gallery as each member of the company curled up in their blankets upon the driest patch of floor they could find.

After a few brief hours of uneasy sleep, Balin called for the company's attention. The old Dwarf hoisted himself upon a raised heave in the tunnel floor and addressed his dubious companions.

"I know what you're all thinking," he began, looking each member of the company in the eye in due turn, "that we came all this way for the riches of Khazad-dûm only to find darkness and vermin."

The company could hardly disagree with this statement. They had found some treasures, yes, but it was already autumn outside, and they had still not found the greatest prize. Unless they found Mithril, their expedition would be considered by many to be a failure, and they would be forced to return to the Lonely Mountain with their tails between their legs.

Balin went on. "You have already fulfilled your duty, and we have accomplished incredible deeds," he told them. "You are the first Dwarves in centuries to see what we have seen. Whatever comes of our expedition, I want you to know that I am proud of every single one of you."

This was met by nods and grunts of approval from his attentive comrades.

"Hear me now," Balin said in a booming voice that reverberated off the stone walls of the gallery. "Give me three more days, just three more days of searching. If by the end of that time, we do not find Mithril, we will take a vote to decide whether we continue our quest or abandon our cause. I will not judge any Dwarf who chooses to leave."

To the company staring up at Balin, he looked very much like the hero they had all grown up picturing; brave and resolute to the last. Surely, they could spend three more days searching in the dark. One by one, each of the Dwarves agreed to the terms and Balin, much pleased by their decision, shared a rare smile and shook each of their hands.

To maximize their productivity over the next three days, it was decided that the company would divide into pairs. Each pair of Dwarves would explore as much as they could in the given time and then meet back at this central crossroads to share their findings. The Dwarves divided themselves and scattered down disparate paths, disappearing deeper into Moria's depths.

Holdan ducked under the low doorway of the blacksmith's shop. Inside, the air was stifling and even hotter than it was outside in the midday summer sun.

"If there were ever a day to open a window, today is the day, Bloman. It's hotter than dragon fire in here," said Holdan removing his dented helm and wiping his brow where sweat was already beading.

The village blacksmith set down his hammer and stepped away from his work.

"I suppose I've just become used to the heat. I think it feels quite cozy in here," said Bloman. "What can I do for you?"

Holdan drew his sword from his scabbard and presented the hilt to Bloman.

"I know it's a bit rusty," he said sheepishly.

"More than a bit. Would that I had the skill to forge you a new blade," said Bloman "Alas, my skills are limited to simple work like nails and horseshoes." He examined the ancient sword in the glowing light of his forge.

"I know, I know. You said that last time, but was the only thing my father had to leave me," said Holdan. "It would mean a lot to me if it could be sharpened one more time."

"Expecting trouble?" asked Bloman, looking up from the weapon with a worried look on his face.

"There are always rumors of Orcs prowling in the high places," said Holdan. "One can never be too prepared."

"That's what we pay the Beornings for isn't it?" asked Bloman with a sarcastic grin.

"All the more reason to put a fresh edge on this blade," replied Holdan.

"Alright, my friend," said Bloman. "I'll sharpen this rusty old thing for you. But the steel is old and brittle. Don't be surprised if it breaks someday."

Their conversation was interrupted when they heard excited voices outside the door. The two men stepped into the sunlight and saw several villagers crowding around a large wooden cart in the middle of the street.

"I was wondering if you'd gotten lost," Holdan called up to the driver of the cart.

"They were sure happy to see me," said the driver. "The poor fellows looked half starved once they finally opened the doors."

It was true that the cart had left over a fortnight ago. Piled high with food and supplies, the driver had led the cart southwards down the pitted road with only a vague notion of where the gates to the Dwarrowdelf lay. Now the cart rumbled back down the main road of the village, and all the people rushed to see what treasures he had returned with. Fyrga and her brother Bregowald joined in the excitement and made their way towards the cart with the others.

Holdan leaned over the side of the cart and gasped when he saw the contents.

"Look here, my lady," he called to Fyrga.

With wide eyes and trembling hands, he held up a beautiful coat of mail. Its links shimmered like fish scales in sunlit water. The crowd marveled at the magnificent sight. In their small corner of the world, they rarely saw a tin cup let alone the unparalleled handiwork of the Dwarves.

"And there's more!" said Holan.

To the villagers' delight, the cart was laden with all manner of riches, each of which would have been considered a priceless heirloom to such poor people. Golden goblets, silver dishes, and gleaming helms of steel were piled high in the old wooden cart.

Fyrga was shocked to see how richly her neighbors had paid for their simple foods.

Bregowald climbed into the cart and some of the folks present openly wept at the sight of such prosperity.

"And a special gift for young Bregowald from Master Ori of the Dwarrowdelf," said the driver.

From under the seat, he produced a small silver trinket and handed it to the young chief. Bregowald received the gift and began jumping with joy. It was a toy soldier made of fine silver. Its arms and legs could move and he even had a tiny sword and shield. Even in their quiet vale, fanciful tales of the toy markets of Dale had reached Bregowald's years. The precious gift he held now was more wonderful than he could have imagined. The excited crowd then abruptly changed its tone, parting to make way for two men on horses who had trotted down the narrow lane.

"What do we have here?" said the first man.

He was very large and had a dark bushy beard. Even in the warm weather, he wore a heavy mail coat and at his side hung a sheathed sword. High upon his horse, he leaned over to take a look inside the wagon. His eyes widened when he saw the incredible collection within. His comrade came alongside to take a look, descending from his horse to better survey the treasures. He was similarly armed and armored but looked older and more grizzled by years of warfare. Beneath his iron helm, a large scar bisected his face in an ugly jagged line.

"So, it is true," said the older man. "When I heard you had made a deal with a pack of wandering Dwarves, I couldn't believe my ears. But it looks like you babes struck it rich."

He flashed a cold smile to Fyrga, who gave him a sour look in return. Close by her side, Holdan reached for his trusted sword before remembering that it was still sitting idly in the blacksmith's shop.

"What do you want?" Fyrga asked the unwelcome outsiders. "We already paid our share of taxes for this season."

"Unfortunately, the rate has just gone up," said the scarred man shaking his head in mock pity. "It's ever so expensive keeping your dirty hovels safe from Orcs. Without us, brave Beornings, I fear you would soon be overrun by evil enemies out of the hills."

Bregowald imitated his sister and made an angry face at the Beornings.

"There you are, little chief," said the older man. "I almost didn't see you there. This should help cover the debt."

He snatched the silver soldier out of Bregowald's hands and tossed it to his mounted companion. The horsed Beorning laughed and teased the distraught boy waving the shining toy in the air. Bregowald shouted but was held back by his sister. The older man grabbed a fine golden goblet from the wagon for himself and climbed back upon his horse.

Holdan and the rest of the townsfolk began throwing insults at the two unwanted guests who responded with cruel laughs as they turned their horses away from the angry crowd.

The two Beornings trotted away some distance before the older man turned back.

and said, "I'm sure we'll be seeing you again soon. I have a feeling our rates will continue to rise."

10

Truesilver

"It can't be," said Balin in a desperate voice. "This cannot be the end."

He began pacing back and forth and looking around the tunnel frantically, certain that they had missed something.

"I'm afraid so," Óin admitted with a disappointed sigh.

All Balin's blustering and stomping did not change the fact that the two Longbeards were indeed confronted with the abrupt end of a long and winding passage they had been marching down for the last two days. Balin let out a furious cry and sank to his knees. He began clawing at the unmovable wall of stone with his hands, dragging his fingernails across the ancient pick marks.

"There has to be more," he said frantically. "There has to be another turn that we missed. This cannot be the end."

Óin was horrified by the crazed look in his cousin's eyes.

He briefly recoiled from Balin as he mumbled in the darkness. After this hesitation, he set a hand on Balin's shoulder and spoke in a soft voice.

"Perhaps the others have found something," said Óin hopefully.

"I doubt that," snapped Balin, flashing a menacing glance over his hunched shoulder. "Those fools wouldn't know truesilver even if it hit them on the head."

Óin pulled back his hand and said, "It's well past time we turned around anyway if we are to make it back on time for the vote."

"No!" shouted Balin, scrambling to his feet. "I will not surrender Khazad-dûm, no matter what the company decides."

Óin hoisted his pack and said, "Well, I am not going to leave them to wonder what's become of us. I am heading back to the gallery. Are you coming or not?"

Balin stewed on this thought for a moment. On one hand he wanted to keep searching this barren tunnel for signs of Mithril, despite how unlikely the prospect appeared to be. On the other hand, he reluctantly acknowledged the possibility that the other pairs could have been more fortunate. But what if they were all cursed with the same bad luck and everyone came back to the meeting empty handed? Could he forestall their retreat again? Would they grant him more time? Could he perhaps compel them to stay?

Accepting that his return to the gallery was inevitable, Balin hung his head dejectedly and began following Ori back to their comrades.

The return journey to the crossroads took considerably less time than their first exploration. On their initial passing, Óin and Balin had examined every strata and fissure, looking for the faintest glimmer of a Mithril vein. On the way back, they passed the same familiar stone that had refused to reveal its most prized treasure. They stepped over several small piles of loose stones spaced at regular intervals along the side of their route; reminders of their failed attempts at exploratory bores that did nothing but dull their picks. After a long trek past all these crumbling disappointments, Óin and Balin walked back into the wide gallery where the company had parted ways three days before.

Several of their companions had already returned from their wanderings, but Balin could tell by their downcast faces and silence that they too had found nothing but despair in the dark depths from whence they had returned.

Ori was sitting in the center of the space, scribbling in his journal on a flat stone that served as a makeshift writing desk. Off to one side, Frár, Lóni and Náli were huddled together whispering quietly as they munched on some morsels of food. Nearby, Lofar was trying to get a fire started while Anar removed a pair of soaked boots.

Ori went to help Lofar with the fire while Balin took a seat next to Ori and hoped beyond hope for a glint of good news.

"Well?" he asked, with eyes closed.

Ori set down his papers and shook his head slowly.

"I was just noting our findings," said Ori, "or lack of findings, I should say. Frár and I went as far as we could before we came to a dead end. The way was blocked by a collapse long ago. There was nothing down there except for tailings and rotten props."

"And the others?" asked Balin.

"Let's see," said Ori looking through his notes. "Lofar and Anar ended up in a flooded tunnel after descending quite a ways. They waded through the water until it was over their heads and they were forced to turn back."

Balin's eyes darted to the flash of sparks. Ori had set flame to a small pile of wood. Lofar gratefully patted him on the back while he stowed away his prized tinder box. Balin sneered at their carefree smiles and turned back to Ori.

"What else?" he asked.

"Lóni and Náli's path ended at a crevasse so broad that it was impossible to cross and they were forced to turn around sometime yesterday, They arrived only just before you did."

Balin shook his head, his dreams were crashing like waves upon a desolate shore. Just then, he spotted two figures staggering out of a dark passageway. As they entered into the firelight, he saw that it was Onar and Gamil returning from their exploration. The two Dwarves were filthy and covered head to toe in black soot. Balin rushed over and eagerly clawed at them with groping hands.

"Well?!" he shouted desperately.

His wild eyes were wide and full of tears. They bored into Onar's remaining eye that shined brightly like a diamond set in jet.

"I'm sorry…" began the Broadbeam, hanging his head.

"You found nothing?" exclaimed Balin.

"We passed through limestone tunnels with many clear pools. We were able to find these, at least," said Gamil.

He reached into his pocket and produced a dozen white pearls gleaming in his blackened palm. Balin slapped Gamil's hand in disgust, sending the pearls clattering to the stone floor.

"You were supposed to be looking for Mithril, not pearls!" shrieked Balin.

The echo of his shrill voice faded away and was followed by a heavy silence that hung over the dark gallery like the heavy stone ceiling. Onar was the first to speak as Gamil bent low to collect his scattered pearls.

"The passage led to a crumbling coal mine," explained Onar. "The air was so thick with stinkdamp that we were forced to retreat lest we choked upon the foul air."

"Pity that you hadn't," cried Balin, storming back to the center of the gallery, almost stepping on Gamil's fingers.

Balin resumed his place near Ori upon the raised bulge in the center of the space. He cast himself onto the rocky floor and stared up at the ceiling. Directly above him, he saw a large chunk of dark stone hanging precariously from the cavernous roof, a forgotten remnant left behind by past miners. Balin fixed his eyes upon the massive bell stone and wished that it would just fall upon him and end his misery, a quick, painless end to a life filled with failure. He would rather be crushed to death in this subterranean tomb than suffer the indignity of leaving it in defeat.

His macabre thoughts were then interrupted by a faint rumbling. He wondered what new devilry this distant tremor could be. Could this be the hidden enemies that Ori's document had warned against? The noise grew louder and the other Dwarves nearby rose to their feet in alarm, groping for picks and axes to arm themselves from this unseen evil that echoed from one of the dark passages.

The rumble grew to a sickening shriek punctuated by deafening booms like drums of war eager for battle. DOOM, DOOM, DOOM came deep bangs out of the darkness. The companions formed a tight knot and awaited the onslaught as they stared into the inky depths. Balin grasped his pick in his weathered hands.

If this be the end, he thought, at least he could fall in battle rather than spend one more day as a failure in this cruel world that had kicked him from one misfortune to another.

"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mânu!" he bellowed into the void just as a massive dark shape loomed out of the gaping mouth of the tunnel. He rushed forward alone, leaving his companions behind him, eager for a valiant death and a quick end to a long life of misery.

When the dark shadow moved into the firelight, Balin skidded to a stop, lowering his weapon. The enormous enemy had sprouted two heads and was staring at him inquisitively. This was no monster at all. It was Nar and Hannar pushing a huge rusted minecart piled high with a covered load.

The companions lowered their weapons and let out hearty laughs when they realized their terror was all for naught. Balin stood alone before the minecart. It looked to him like many others he had seen in his long labors in distant coal and lead mines. The old, decrepit car had corroded wheels that hardly looked round after so many years left untended.

"What worthless scrap is this?" asked Balin.

Hannar stepped out from behind the rickety minecart. He was sweaty and filthy, but his face was beaming with a smile that could not be hidden by his bushy beard. Without a word, he grasped one corner of the moldy canvass that covered the cart and, with a nod to Anar, the two Dwarves revealed the fruits of their labors.

Balin gasped. Astounded, his mouth hung open and his pick fell from his hands.

"Truesilver!" he gasped.

The whole company rushed over in unbridled excitement.

"We had not the tools to separate the ore from the gangue, so we brought back as many pieces as we could," said Anar, handing out chunks of rock gleaming with the unmistakable shimmer of Mithril.

Each piece of dark gray stone contained within it thin veins of the priceless metal that shone brightly in the gloomy gallery like stars in a midnight sky. Equal amounts of cheers and tears flowed around the celebrating circle of Dwarves.

"You mean there is still more?" asked Balin, staring in disbelief at the incalculable wealth that lay before him.

His hands clutched a stone bisected with a seam of the brilliant metal.

"Much more!" cried Hannar. "While only one narrow vein, it seems to go on and on with no end in sight.

Balin bowed his hooded head and kissed the stone as if his old hands held his very salvation.

Dáin was struggling to keep his tired eyes open while a seemingly endless cue of ministers briefed the assembled court on such excruciatingly mundane topics as iron ore production or fish prices in Dale. The old king shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position where the hard stone seat of his throne didn't press so painfully upon his sore bones.

While the Chamber of Thror was for more formal occasions, this smaller throne room was typically used for the day to day business of running a kingdom; not that the change of venue made the tedium any easier for the king to bear. He let his gaze wander out a nearby window. The first flakes of an early winter flurry twinkled in the weak midday sun. Dáin sighed, knowing he had many more hours of royal duties ahead of him before he could escape to the solitude of his chambers. Perhaps then he could try and find the restful sleep that so often eluded him.

As usual, all the great lords were in attendance in various states of disinterest. The brothers Dori and Nori were looking forward to lunch and were already beginning to grumble. Bifur and Bofur were seated on a sagging couch on either side Bombur who was looking more rotund than ever. Glóin was standing close to the throne with his son Gimli at his side. Neither one of them looked particularly interested in the topics despite their best attempts. Dwalin stood alone by a South facing window staring off into the distance.

Just then, the throne room doors creaked open, and Toki, the captain of the king's guards, entered. He hurried to the throne and whispered something in Dáin's ear.

The king, roused from his boredom, sprang upright in his seat and looked at Toki incredulously.

"Are you serious?" Dáin asked.

Toki, who looked as surprised as his king, nodded fervently.

"Well, send them in at once!" Dáin commanded, silencing the monotonous ministers.

Toki gave a signal, and the doors opened wide. Four Dwarves were quickly ushered into the throne room. Their hoods were weatherstained, and they looked as though they had just come in from many weeks upon the road. In their hands, they carried several parcels wrapped in old, stained parchment. They each removed their hoods and bowed before the wizened king. Dáin gripped the arms of his throne tightly, eager for answers.

"I am told you met with members of Balin's company," Dáin said, leaning forward. "Is this true?"

Astonished gasps went up from the courtiers. They had heard nothing from the company since their departure the previous year. The consensus around court was that the foolhardy endeavor had most likely come to a fatal conclusion somewhere in one of the blank spaces on the map that were known to harbor evils of all sorts. The oldest looking Dwarf of the four stepped forward.

"Yes, my king," he said respectfully. "It was on our way back from the Blue Mountains. We were passing the crossroads when we came upon Masters Óin and Ori."

Whispered conversations sprung up around the throne room like leaks in a sinking ship.

"Were they in good health?" Glóin interrupted, relieved to hear that his brother yet lived.

"More than good," answered the Dwarf. "They seemed to be waiting for someone to pass by."

"And what of Balin?" asked Dwalin, pushing his way through the crowd. "Is he alive?"

"He must be," said the traveler, raising a lumpy bundle in his hands. "They told me Balin wanted this delivered directly into King Dáin's hands."

The Dwarf held out the parcel and presented it to his king. Dáin took the package in his age worn hands and examined it carefully. He gave the package a slight squeeze. The contents felt light, but flexible. He could not guess what it could be. Now very curious, Dáin tore apart the wrappings of his gift. As the parchment fell away, the contents shimmered like silver in the sun. Dáin's eyes widened with awe.

"It can't be…" he murmured, holding up an exquisite coat of shining mail.

It was as light as silk but made from fine silvery rings that were as hard as steel. Forgetting their courtly manners, many of the interested Dwarves rushed toward the throne to get a closer look at the kingly gift.

"Truesilver!" they exclaimed. "Mithril! Mithril!" they repeated, utterly entranced by the precious metal.

"They sent us with many other gifts," said the traveler, setting his heavy pack upon the floor where he began to produce several smaller parcels.

"And letters, too," added one of his companions, holding up a thick bundle of nearly folded papers.

Before Dáin could interject, the ragged traders began distributing their deliveries to the correct recipients around the throne room, which was now humming with excitement. The excited Dwarves tore open the letters and eagerly read the contents, hungry for news from Khazad-dûm.

"They have found a Mithril vein!" exclaimed Dori who was positively dancing with joy at the news that his old friends were alive and well.

Nori held his letter aloft and announced, "They have won a great battle!"

Even Bombur sat up straight and held his letter up to his wide face. "This can't be true!" he exclaimed incredulously.

Bifur and Bofur shared an uneasy look after they looked over their letters.

"Maybe we were wrong after all," suggested Bifur.

"Perhaps the old stories were exaggerated," confessed Bofur.

Glóin was beyond pleased when he received a parcel addressed from his brother Óin. He opened it where he stood beside the throne and smiled broadly at the shimmering contents. Inside was a fine silver necklace set with many large diamonds, clearly of ancient Moria make. He held up the beautiful necklace and showed it to his king with a chuckle. Dáin groaned and turned to his other side to where Toki was engrossed in reading his own letter.

"You, too?" the king asked in an exhausted voice.

Toki, unable to hide his smile, merely shrugged and continued reading the letter.

Dáin looked down at the gleaming Mithril mail in his lap and shook his head in disbelief. The royal court was alive with febrial energy. By the time Gimli received his letters, many of the other Dwarves were already streaming out of the hall to spread the word, despite Dáin's feeble protestations.

Gimli tried to find his father in the crowd, but they had become separated in the chaos. Too excited to wait any longer, he hurried home to his family's apartments in the heart of the mountain. He rushed inside a dim chamber and laid the two letters on the table. He pulled a candle closer and waved away a few fluttering moths. He hurriedly opened the first letter, his hands shaking with excitement. In well-written Elvish characters, the contents read:

Dear Gimli,

I hope you and your family are well. Our little expedition is going quite well now. We have found Mithril. How I wish you were here to see Durin's halls for yourself. You could wander for days and never see the same stone twice. There seem to be new mysteries waiting behind every door. It's hard to believe that anyone would call such a mine.

Your Friend,

Ori

Gimli remorsefully thought of the subterranean wonders he was missing. He pictured glittering caves, untouched pools, and natural creations of stone that he had not the words to describe. He looked around his family's home and sighed. Here he was in the prime of his life, wasting away under the Lonely Mountain.

He then opened the second letter, wishing he was anywhere else. This message was in a less elegant hand, and there were several cross outs and corrections. Despite the sloppy writing, Gimli could identify the sender immediately.

To my favorite nephew,

We have made it inside Moria Khazad-dûm and established a headquarters. Flói. If the king's gift has made it to Erebor, then you probably already know that we have found truesilver Mithril. I sent your father a little something, but don't worry, I haven't forgotten about you. I wanted to send you some Mithril, but Balin. There are still many more treasures to be found here. Perhaps you can ask your father to reconsider allowing you to join us. I hope to see you again soon.

Your loving uncle,

Óin

Gimli's heart ached with desire to join on such a great adventure. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the two letters for some time. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard a door open and close. His father must be home, he thought. Surely the old Dwarf would give him leave to go now that he had seen evidence of their success. Gimli rushed toward the door, expecting to see his father, but skidded to a stop when he came face to face with king Dáin himself. Surprised to see such a regal guest in his home, Gimli was at a loss for words.

"I hope I'm not intruding," said the elderly king with a smile. "I was hoping to speak with you."

Gimli welcomed Dáin to a table, and the two Dwarves sat down across from each other. Dáin looked older and more weary than Gimli had ever seen him as if he was struggling beneath a great burden. The wizened king removed his crown and set it on the table next to the lone candle. Now bareheaded, Dáin seemed to regain some of his vigor, although he still wore a troubled look. For a moment, his eyes locked on the flickering flame before returning to the task at hand.

"I'll get right to the point," said Dáin. "Your father doesn't want you to leave."

"Yes, but–" Gimli began.

"I don't want you to leave," said Dáin. His voice was strong but his eyes were caring and kind.

"You might not believe old-timers like us," Dáin continued. "But we only want what's best for you."

"Khazad-dûm is what's best for me!" pleaded Gimli, unconcerned that he was now arguing with a king.

"You are still young," said Dáin calmly. "You will have plenty of time for other adventures. I'm only asking you to pass on this one."

Gimli put his hands over his face, unwilling to accept this defeat.

"Please trust me, Gimli," said Dáin in a pained voice. "I need you here. Your father needs you here. Erebor needs you here."

Gimli slammed his hands onto the table, revealing eyes welling with tears.

"What are you so afraid of?!" he shouted.

Gimli then recoiled in horror at the disrespect he had just shown his king.

"I'm, I'm sorry," said Gimli. "I didn't mean…"

But the king was not upset, nor did he seem to be affected by Gimli's rash words. He was leaning back in his chair with slumped shoulders. Dáin did not look at Gimli; instead, he stared into the glowing candle flame between them.

Gimli, unsure of the consequences of his outburst, sat in silence for a long moment before the king spoke again. When he did, it was in a hoarse whisper. The old king's eyes remained transfixed on the bright light while he spoke.

"Many years ago, I looked into the gate of Moria," said Dáin. "I have rarely spoken of what I saw that day, but I will tell you now, if it will keep you away from that terrible place."

Gimli leaned close to the candle and looked at the king in pity. He looked exhausted and pained.

"What did you see?" Gimli asked.

"A Shadow," said Dáin without looking away from the candle. "It was Durin's Bane. I know it."

At the mention of the ancient evil, a chill ran up Gimli's spine. He glanced at the two letters before him.

"I don't care what the letters say. The Shadow waits there still," said Dáin. "The world must change, and some other power than ours must come before Durin's Folk walk again in Moria."

Gimli saw no lie in Dáin's face, only fear, loss, and pain. The king then wrestled his gaze away from the flame and looked up at Gimli.

"If you pass the gates, it will be your doom," Dáin told him.

Gimli stared down at his two letters and blinked away more tears. He thought back to the day his father had left on his quest to retake Erebor. Gimli had begged to be brought along, but just like now, he had been left behind, forced to wait until the adventure was over to hear the tales like everyone else. He felt as though his destiny was slipping through his fingers.

"Please, Gimli," begged Dáin, seeing the turmoil in Gimli's heart. The old king looked weak and frail, a mere shadow of his former self. Gimli looked upon the haggard old Dwarf with a mix of love and pity. He could not turn his back on his father and his king. Gimli closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

"I will stay," Gimli finally said in a cracking voice.

"Thank you!" Dáin said with a gasp, as if he had been holding his breath.

The old Dwarf's face broadened to a tired smile. With an effort, he rose from his seat and embraced Gimli warmly. The king smiled kindly at Gimli and for a moment he seemed joyful and relieved. Then, his eyes caught a glimpse of his crown waiting on the table. Dáin's expression then became weary, like one with many more miles left to travel before a chance to rest. He grasped his crown, but did not put it on his head. Instead he rolled the glinting circlet in his hands, as if lost in thought.

When he looked up, his eyes met Gimli's, and for a brief moment, the young Dwarf caught a glimpse of the pain that tormented his king. Then finally, Dáin donned his crown, which seemed to press heavily upon his aging body. The old king steadied himself and shuffled toward the door on leadlike legs. Before he left, he turned back one last time.

"You made the right choice," said Dáin. "I can only hope that others will do the same."

"Is this it?" asked Óin, looking at the smooth stone wall that stood in front of him.

"It must be," said Ori in an unsure voice. He ran his hands along the stone surface looking for clues.

"This looks like another dead end," said Óin.

"Well-made doors are not meant to be seen when shut," suggested Ori. "Remember how hard it was to find the back door at Erebor?"

"Of course I remember," said Óin leaning against the wall. "I'm just saying that…"

The stone surface suddenly swung silently away from him and Óin tumbled to the floor. All at once, the pair were bathed in bright daylight which poured between the mighty doors. Ori helped his old friend to his feet and the two Dwarves laughed together on the threshold of Khazad-dûm's West Gate.

"I stand corrected," said Óin, clapping Ori on the shoulder and stepping forward into the outside world.

They looked out upon a shallow valley of about two miles from end to end and breathed in the fresh air.

The remnants of a long forgotten roadway lay ahead of them. The fine craftsmanship of ancient Dwarves still showed where the paved path remained visible beneath invading grass and brush. The roadway wound its way to the right and was lined by thick hedges that swayed in the gentle breeze. The road crossed a thin ribbon of water before descending over the ends of the shelf and out of sight. To their right, a stream of sparkling water cascaded down rocky stairs from their icy source high above. The rivulet of water wove its way across the shelf for about three furlongs before it disappeared over the rim. The faint roar of an unseen torrent told the Dwarves that the water fell some distance after it left the flat shelf.

"Have you ever seen such large trees?" Ori exclaimed with his head tilted upwards. Towering high above them stood two massive holly trees, stiff, dark, and silent, throwing deep shadows over their spreading roots.

Óin racked his memory for trees of similar stature but shook his head.

"Never in my life," he replied.

Like most Dwarves, Ori had little interest in trees and was more concerned about the huge doors they had just opened. He walked around the massive stone slab to look at the front surface.

"I thought you said the doors had writing on them," he called to Ori.

"They do," said Ori, walking over to join him "But they can only be read under moonlight,"

"Not much use in the daytime," he stated and began to push the door closed.

"Wait!" cried Ori, staying Óin's hand. "These doors can only be opened with a password from the outside"

"And we don't know it?" guessed Óin.

"No," said Ori. "If we shut the doors now, we will not be able to get back inside."

"Would that be so bad?" asked Óin.

"What do you mean?" asked Ori.

"I was only joking," said Óin. "Well, mostly, anyway."

He paused to search for the right words.

"It's just that…" he continued. "What if this doesn't work out the way we think it will?"

"You saw all that Mithril," said Ori. "Everything is going well."

"Yes, but what if nobody comes to join us?" Óin persisted. "Will it just be the twelve of us and all our riches?"

"Of course not," argued Ori. "That's why Balin sent us up to the crossroads with proof of our success."

Óin was not convinced. "But what if those traders just kept Dáin's gift and threw our letters by the roadside?" he asked.

"They seemed trustworthy enough," suggested Ori. "Even Balin thought it was a good idea."

"He was awfully keen for us to get this gate open, too," added Óin.

"By the first day of spring!" chirped Ori in an exaggerated impression of Balin's rough voice.

"We seem to have made it right on schedule though," said Óin, gazing up at the sun's position.

"You'd think he was expecting someone," said Ori with a chuckle.

The two old Dwarves waited in front of the mighty gates like tiny doorwards standing sentry in the sunshine.

"The East Gate doesn't have a password, does it?" asked Óin.

"I suppose it doesn't," said Ori thinking back to the aged stone doors some forty miles away.

"That seems odd," said Óin. "You would think it a good idea to have both doors protected with such magic."

Ori thought through possible explanations for this anomaly. At last he voiced his theory.

"Perhaps because there used to be so many Elves in this country," he said, waving his hand toward the wide lands that lay to the West of them.

"I've heard that's why they were closed in the first place," he added.

Before Óin could speak, the two Dwarves noticed a rumbling noise coming from over the edge of the shelf. It was more than the smooth rush of a waterfall, but more akin to the roaring of a mighty beast. The din grew louder until they could hear that it was the singing of many hearty voices.

One by one, dwarven heads popped up from behind the lip of the shelf. Soon there were over a hundred Dwarves marching down the road, all singing at the top of their lungs.

The world was young, the mountains green,

No stain yet on the Moon was seen,

No words were laid on stream or stone

When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;

He drank from yet untasted wells;

He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,

And saw a crown of stars appear,

As gems upon a silver thread,

Above the shadow of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,

In Elder Days before the fall

Of mighty kings in Nargothrond

And Gondolin, who now beyond

The Western Seas have passed away:

The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone for ever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,

There chisel clove, and graver wrote;

There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;

The delver mined, the mason built.

There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

And metal wrought like fishes' mail,

Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;

Beneath the mountains music woke:

The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,

And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge's fire is ashen-cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:

The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

The song ended just as the host halted before the gates. Ori and Óin stood open-mouthed and shocked at all the unexpected guests. All of them had large packs upon their shoulders. Many carried picks and hammers in their hands as if ready to march straight into the mines. A portly Dwarf with wide shoulders stepped forward. He removed his hood and bowed deeply.

"The Broadbeam clan is at your service," he said with a flourish.

Another Dwarf, this one with bright red hair and beard, came to his side and bowed.

"The Firebeard clan is also at your service," he said.

The two doorwards removed their hoods and bowed to the travelers.

"Ori and Óin at yours," they responded.

"We have heard that you have found Mithril," said a Firebeard. "Is it true?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Óin. "Plenty for all!"

A great cheer went up from the host and it echoed off the sheer cliffs.

"Please, come inside! You are all welcome," cried Ori, ushering each new colonist under the gaping archway

After the last of the new colonists were inside, Ori and Óin pulled the great doors closed. They came together with a deep DOOM, and they were once again in the familiar darkness. They beckoned their guests to follow them, and off they went deeper into the winding ways of Moria.

After three days of steady marching and more than a couple wrong turns, Ori and Óin led their new comrades under an archway and into the Twenty-first Hall. If they had been surprised before at the West Gate, but they were now in utter disbelief at what they looked upon. They never could have imagined such a large hall ever looking crowded, but there in front of them was a churning sea of excited Dwarves.

All about the mighty stone pillars, the bustling crowd of settlers were busier than badgers. Many of the newcomers simply wandered around the hall with their mouths agape, too entranced by the polished black walls and the vast roof above their heads to even set down their heavy packs. They were walking through a waking dream, following the footsteps of their forebears in a realm that had once existed only in memory.

"This hall is larger than any that we have in the Blue Mountains!" an astounded Broadbeam exclaimed.

"You haven't seen anything yet," laughed Óin.

"You're in for a surprise when you see the Second Hall," added Ori.

The two old adventurers beamed at all the smiling faces. Looking around the Twenty-first Hall, they recognized several familiar Dwarves from Erebor, but they did not see any of their closest friends among the stream of newcomers.

High up above the eastern archway through a shaft near the roof came a long pale gleam of weak light that shone light upon Balin. He directed even more settlers into the hall. Many of them were dressed in the manner of Erebor but there were plenty that displayed the more exotic accouterments of the eastern tribes. Óin pushed his way across the hall and embraced his cousin in a rapture of pure joy.

"You've done it, Balin!" he exclaimed. "Look at all these people!"

Balin's white beard split into a wide smile, and he let out a clear laugh. It had been many years since Óin had seen him in such a mood. Balin looked triumphant and satisfied as he nodded at the stream of incoming colonists.

"We have ourselves a real colony now," he said, proudly surveying the crowd. "How I wish I could have seen Dáin's face when they all walked out his door."

"I didn't expect this many people to join us. Not at first, anyway," admitted Óin.

"Have you seen anyone from Thorin's Company?" asked Ori, who had just emerged from the crowd to join them.

"None of them came," said Balin flatly.

Ori and Óin could not hide their disappointment that their longtime friends had refused to join their cause.

"Dáin's doing, I expect," added Balin, though he seemed unbothered by their friends' absence.

"No matter," he went on with a chuckle. "They'll live to regret it."

"Look who's here!" exclaimed Óin, noticing a familiar face beside him.

"Toki!" cried Ori. "I take it you received my letter after all."

"I wouldn't have believed it unless it was written in your hand," replied Toki.

"You invited him?" Balin asked in a sharp voice.

He, of course, recognized Toki as being the captain of King Dáin's personal guards.

His demeanor was now serious and his short-lived smile had disappeared from his face.

"Well, yes," said Ori. "I invited many friends to join us."

Balin did not seem to hear Ori's explanation and instead turned to Toki.

"Did Dáin send you to spy on us?" he asked.

Toki, who was still wearing his heavy pack, looked confused at the accusatory question.

"No, of course not," he stammered nervously under Balin's withering gaze.

"In fact," Toki continued, "he was quite distraught that I was leaving his service to join your colony."

At this, the smile returned to Balin's face. He let out a laugh and put his arm around the bewildered Toki.

"Good!" he exclaimed. "That old fool had it coming for trying to thwart our cause."

Toki nodded in agreement without understanding in the least what was going on.

"Welcome to Khazad-dûm, Toki," said Balin. "You will answer to me from now on. Is that clear?"

Toki said nothing but continued to nod vigorously.

"Very good," said Balin, seemingly very pleased with the Dwarf's obedience.

His chest seemed to puff out with self-importance. With a wave of his hand he ushered Toki back into the throng of colonists. The former captain gratefully accepted this escape and rushed off at once. Balin turned in circles to look upon the swelling ranks of his colony. More Dwarves packed themselves inside the hall until the air itself was alive with energy.

"How could they refuse a chance to live and work in Durin's halls?" Balin said to Ori and Óin. "This is the opportunity of a lifetime."

"We will have to find lodging and work for all of them," said Ori.

"That won't be a problem," said Balin, nodding. "I have great plans for Khazad-dûm."

And indeed he did. Over the next two years, many of Balin's greatest dreams were realized. Extravagant tales of wealth and splendor spread like wildfire throughout the Dwarven world. From the Blue Mountains to Rhûn, young and ambitious Dwarves sold everything they owned and set off towards the colony with only what they could carry on their backs. The ill name of Moria was pushed from the minds of the greedy settlers flocking to Balin's call and replaced by the irresistible allure of awaiting opportunity. They assured their worried families that the dark legends from distant days were nothing more than ancient superstitions; tall tales fit for the fireside, not to be believed.

The colony grew to some five hundred souls, mainly concentrated in the eastern side of the mines. Dwarves who had once been simple smiths soon amassed piles of gold and jewels. Although thin and sometimes hard to find, the veins of Mithril made the colony the envy of kings.

11

Relics Revealed

It was on November the fourth in the second year of the colony that an extraordinary discovery was made. Like all great finds in history, there are differing accounts as to who actually found the hidden entrance. There was no lack of glory-hungry Dwarves eagerly claiming that they were the very miner who had stumbled upon the historic horde. Their sordid stories all began the same.

One day the mysterious miner was sinking shafts into various walls and floors, searching for nothing in particular, besides hidden fortunes beyond their wildest dreams. They always claimed that while burrowing an exploratory adit in some forgotten corner of Durin's halls, they were the one who found a forgotten secret. A cleverly concealed stone wall had been ingeniously disguised to look exactly like the natural surrounding rock. So it was by sheer happenstance (or perhaps fate) that their pickaxe struck the perfect spot, causing the stone facade to crumble away, revealing a descending staircase that had been filled with rubble. The unknown miner, correctly thinking he had uncovered something of paramount importance, immediately ran to his superior on duty, which happened to be Óin.

"This could just be an unfinished stairway that was filled in before it led anywhere," said Óin when he arrived at the top of the staircase. "We're trying to untangle generations of half-completed work. This place is full of dead ends. All the same, we will get to the bottom of this."

Óin and his small crew of workers set about removing the rubble from the staircase. They were surprised to see more and more stairs uncovered as the rubble was hauled to the top. It was clear that more help would be needed to see where these stairs led. A group of Stiffbeards led by Anar joined in the excavation and after six days of strenuous labor, they had reached the bottom of the stairs and the floor became level.

Óin went down to the stairs to check the progress and began to lend a hand removing some rubble near the ceiling of the passageway. He tossed stones down to Anar who had a wheelbarrow on the smooth floor at the base of the pile. Suddenly, the Stiffbeard's usually dour face showed a look of shock. He pointed towards Óin with his mouth agape.

Óin looked back at the area he had just uncovered. Even in the darkness the silvery gleam was unmistakable to dwarven into a stone surface was a delicately shaped star of inlaid Mithril. Óin hastily removed one stone after another to reveal more of the shining pattern. There were more stars, and then a crown. Óin's heart thundered in his ears. His hands began to tremble as he pushed a large stone out of the way to reveal an emblem that any Longbeard could recognize, the hammer and anvil of Durin. Below the sacred symbols, two massive slabs of stone came together to form a chevron shaped transom supporting an unimaginably massive load.

Word spread quickly, and soon every available hand was busy removing the rest of the broken stone from the passageway. After the frantic work had ended, the panting Dwarves were staring at a doorway that had been neatly sealed with large rectangular stones. These blocks were hewn to a uniform size and shape, but they were clearly of less quality craftsmanship than the precise ashlar walls the ancient longbeards had constructed in other corners of Khazad-dûm.

"This looks like a tomb," said Anar uneasily.

"I agree," said Óin excitedly. "Isn't this wonderful?"

"A tomb that was deliberately hidden," added Anar.

"Exactly! We should tell Balin," said Óin smiling broadly. "He will want to see this."

"It is unwise to disturb the dead," said Anar, giving Óin a grave look.

"Oh, come now, my friend, you don't believe in curses, do you?" chided Óin, too excited to worry about such things.

Anar gave him a look that made it clear that he did very much believe in such superstitions.

"These are the marks of Durin. The father of my house could lie behind this wall," said Óin, placing his palms on the stone wall that separated him from whatever secrets lay beyond.

"I thought there have been several Durins," said Anar. "How do you know this is the first?"

Óin frowned and lowered his hands.

"It's rather hard to explain," he said, "I'm going to fetch Balin. Set a guard at the top of the staircase and don't let anyone down here until we get back."

If Anar had any more reservations, he kept them to himself for the moment as Óin bounded up the stairs. The winding ascent from the Third Deep, all the way up to the more inhabited parts of the colony on the Seventh Level, was a long trek, and it was over three hours before Óin came to the Twenty-first Hall.

Entering the lofty pillared chamber from the south entrance, Óin was surprised at how busy this area had become. He was still not used to seeing so many other Dwarves in Khazad-dûm. The population had indeed swelled in the last couple years, and Óin had trouble recognizing a single face as busy Dwarves hurried along on all manner of business.

Near the eastern entrance to the hall, some Dwarves were unloading carts piled high with foodstuffs, no doubt fresh from Fyrga's farms. After each cart was unloaded, they were each laden with metal goods wrought for trading. Iron ingots, tin, and even some newly forged spearheads were ready for shipment back down the six levels to the East Gate, destined to their agrarian allies away to the north.

A squad of armored Dwarves, just returning from a patrol of the First Hall and East Gate, were marching in unison West toward their guardroom. Each one of the guards was clad in a hauberk of steel mail that hung to his knees, and his legs were covered with a hose of a fine and flexible metal mesh. Frár was at the head of the column, calling out orders as they marched along.

Óin spotted Onar leading a group of Dwarves laden with heavy packs and a vast array of tools. They were no doubt a fresh work party setting off westward toward the mines where the main work of the colony took place.

Óin weaved his way through the hustle and bustle of the crowd and made his way to a doorway on the North side of the hall. After trotting down the short hallway, he made a right and entered the Chamber of Mazarbul. Balin was pacing around the room gazing around at the many volumes that were scattered upon the shelves. On either side of him stood the brothers Lóni and Náli. At a long table in the center of the room sat Ori, who was reading from a stack of loose papers and writing in a thick leather bound book. Balin stopped when he spotted his cousin walk in.

"Hello, Óin. What's happened? Have you found the upper armories yet? I sent you down there weeks ago."

Óin shook his head and tried his best to hide a smile.

"I believe we have found something much, much better," he said.

By the time they made it down all the way down to the Third Deep, a crowd had gathered at the staircase entrance and the guards were doing all they could to keep out curious colonists. Clearly, word had spread that something extraordinary had been found, but what it could be was still an intriguing mystery to everyone.

"Is it another Mithril vein?" asked one onlooker.

"I heard they found the endless stair," said another Dwarf, jostling to get a look at the blocked off area.

"How can it be endless if the top step is right there?" retorted his comrade, pointing between the guards.

"Make way!" shouted Lóni as he and Náli made a path for Balin.

Every Dwarf of note was packed in the small space and it was a struggle for Balin, Ori and Óin and their followers to get past the crowd and into the dark staircase.

Anar was still at the bottom of the stairs where Óin had left him. Standing beside him in front of the sealed doorway stood the other eastern Dwarves Nar, Hannar, and Lofar. They were deep in hushed conversation in their native tongue, but stopped as soon as they noticed the others descending the stairs.

"Get away from there! Have you tampered with the doorway?" asked Balin suspiciously as he eyed the four Dwarves at the bottom of the stairs.

"Of course not," said Anar while Balin pushed hard on the rough stones until he was convinced that the wall was still intact and undisturbed.

"You should not open this tomb," said Nar.

"And why is that?" replied Balin, his attention still affixed more on the doorway than those around him.

"It is said that curses lie upon some tombs, and death awaits those who open them," said Lofar gravely.

"Oh, come now, Lofar," said Ori. "That sounds like one of your fireside stories."

"It is true," chimed in Hannar. "We should reseal the staircase and continue our work elsewhere."

Balin scoffed at this idea.

"Absolutely not," he told them. "I am the leader of this expedition, and I say we are breaching this wall."

"So be it," said Anar. "We will not stand in your way."

"As far as I'm concerned, you people have no claim to anything in Durin's halls anyway. You aren't Longbeards. You lot can busy yourselves elsewhere."

If the four Dwarves from Rhûn were offended by Balin's rudeness, they did not show it. They merely bowed and made their way up the staircase, happy to get away from the ominous doorway. Balin called for tools and before long, he was chiseling carefully at the stones blocking their way.

While he focused on his work, Ori leaded over and whispered to Óin, "Maybe Anar was right. Maybe we should stop."

"Good luck telling him that,'' said Óin as he gestured toward Balin. "Lofar and the others are always prone to fancy and superstition. Don't worry."

With a crash, a piece of stone fell to the floor at Balin's feet. He had managed to chisel off the corner of one of the blocks revealing a gaping void in the black breach.

"A candle!" shouted Balin, extending a hand but not looking back..

Óin lit a stub of a candle and walked it over to Balin. As he handed it over, Óin considered cautioning Balin. But as the orange firelight fell on the old Dwarf's face, he could tell by the half-crazed look in Balin's eyes that any words of warning would fall upon deaf ears. Balin snatched the candle with a trembling hand and held it up to the hole in the wall. At first he could see nothing, the hot air escaping from the chamber caused the candle flame to flicker, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the light, details of the room within emerged slowly from the gloom. Strange treasures, statues, and gold – everywhere, the glint of gold.

"Can you see anything? asked Ori eagerly.

"Yes," said Balin. "Wonderful things."

Balin forced himself away from the hole and called Frár, Lóni, and Nar down to the bottom of the staircase.

Handing them each a heavy hammer, Balin gave a clear order. "I want this door down now."

Eager to please their leader, the three young Dwarves started hammering furiously at the wall. Piece by piece, the blocks were loosened and then removed while the enormous lintel stones remained pointed upwards above their heads, silent and unmoving. Óin watched in amazement as he caught glimpses of that lay beyond the doorway. Meanwhile Ori was taking notes and sketches in his journal.

"Why was this chamber so hidden?" asked Náli. "King Thorin's tomb isn't sealed like this."

"Maybe they tried to hide it from Orcs when the kingdom fell," answered Lóni, taking another hard swing at the stone.

"Or maybe…" began Frár, but he was interrupted as a large section of the doorway crumbled to their feet.

"That's enough. Step aside," commanded Balin, seeing that a hole large enough to walk through had been opened.

As he crossed the threshold with a candle in his hand he was amazed at what he saw. Ori and Óin followed behind him as did Frár, Lóni and Náli. The chamber was indeed a tomb, and in the center of the floor sat a traditional dwarven sarcophagus. Made from a solid block of chocolate-colored stone, its angles were carved with impossible precision. The box was made of a single oblong block, about two feet high. Its thick lid was made from the same brown granite and looked as though it had been pushed off its base. It leaned awkwardly on the side of the sarcophagus, revealing an empty interior space. There was no body or any remains at all inside the stone coffin. Only dust and dim candlelight.

Balin, just as much as his companions, was shocked and confused by this. He had hoped, even expected, to find Durin's remains still preserved within this hidden tomb. He stepped to the side to examine the discarded stone lid. Ancient runes were cut deeply into the polished surface. The top line was in Khuzdul and the second line was in common speech. Both were written in the ancient script of Moria known as the Angerthas.

DURIN

KING OF KHAZAD-DÛM

Even before Ori decyphered the runes and read them aloud, Balin had already guessed what he was looking at. All the Longbeards in the dusty chamber knew how historic this discovery was and what it would mean for their colony and their people.

Balin was barely able to circumnavigate the room as it was piled from floor to ceiling with grave goods. He admired the ornate treasures wrought by the skilled hands of Longbeard fathers. Relics, the beauty and quality of which had not been seen in the outside world for an age, adorned the tomb. At the head of the chamber, an enormous axe made of Mithril was proudly displayed on a stand and above it rested a regal helm, also made of solid Mithril with several sharp prongs protruding from it.

Slowly, Balin removed his sky blue hood. He fingered the silver tassel, which sparkled in the gloom. Carefully, he folded the hood and tucked it into his belt. Swelling with righteous pride and more than a small amount of trepidation, Balin reached out and took the helm in his hands.

Not exactly a crown, he thought to himself, but close enough.

He slowly lowered it onto his head and then abruptly frowned. Balin expected it to fit perfectly and was disappointed to find that it was quite loose on him even if it was extraordinarily lightweight. Undeterred, he straightened the oversized helm as best he could and then grasped the axe.

This too was shockingly light despite its massive size. The ancient blade was coated in a thick layer of dust like everything else in the tomb. Balin had barely touched the blade's edge with his thumb when he saw a dark line of blood trickle down his palm and drip onto the floor. Even after centuries of disuse, the Mithril edge was still so keen that Balin had felt no pain when the metal pierced his skin.

He let the dark drops of blood wind their way down the haft which was inscribed with ancient runes he could not decipher. He paused and wiped his injured thumb onto his fine garments, leaving a dark streak across the front. He stood there for some time, collecting his thoughts and waiting for the bleeding to stop. He planned his next moves carefully, knowing they would be of paramount importance. Finally, when he had thought through every step, he turned and faced his companions.

For a moment, Óin did not see his aged cousin, but instead saw a Dwarf lord stepping out from a bygone age to reclaim his kingdom. They all bowed before him.

Balin, erect and proud, walked past them and made his way up the stairs to face the other colonists. By now, the crowd had swelled to include almost every available Dwarf in the colony. The clamor of conversation faded as Balin emerged from the darkness.

At the top of the stairs, he halted and stared sternly at the assembled crowd before him. One by one, they too knelt in reverence. Balin surveyed the submissive onlookers. None could withstand his piercing gaze and all removed their hoods and bowed their heads.

Balin recognized only a few Dwarves in the crowd, but that mattered little to him. He saw the dirty faces of workers, the young eager faces of newly arrived settlers and the look of awe they displayed as they gazed upon him. He was pleased to see that no easterners were present for his moment. As he spoke, his voice was amplified by the dark stone walls around him.

"I present to you Durin's Axe, an ancient heirloom of our house and a symbol of divine power and strength. Just as Aulë shaped Durin the Deathless and the other Fathers, I will shape our future as Lord of Khazad-Dûm," he told them.

At this, he raised the gleaming axe above his head, making sure not to bump his precariously positioned helm.

The crowd jumped to their feet and erupted into thunderous applause. Some of these colonists had come to seek their fortune. Some of them had come to Moria to walk in the footsteps of their historic forebears, and some had come to be a part of something larger than themselves. Seeing one of their legendary heroes holding aloft Durin's Axe in the reclaimed realm, many Dwarves were overcome with emotion and wept openly with joy.

Amid many shouts and cheers, Balin was able to pull Ori and Óin aside.

"I want everything in the tomb inventoried, boxed, and brought to my chambers," he told them. "Nobody is to touch the contents without supervision. Is that understood?"

Ori and Óin nodded, both still entranced by Balin in all his regal trappings.

"And another thing," Balin added, lowering his voice. "Keep an eye out for any rings."

It took some weeks, but through careful and delicate work, Durin's secret cenotaph had been thoroughly plundered, annotated and packaged. All of the contents were carried on dwarven backs through the twists and turns of Moria until the Chamber of Mazarbul was stuffed with wooden boxes and piles of priceless antiques were heaped onto the table in the center of the room. This left little space for Ori, who had retreated to a small rickety desk in the corner of the square room, barely large enough for the heavy book of records, not to mention his array of quills, maps, and ink bottles.

Across the room, several workers were chiseling away at a massive block of white marble. Their rhythmic ratta-tap-taps made a deafening racket in the small space. Ori felt as though the workers' hammers were boring holes into his head. He gently closed the massive tome he had been working on and set down his quill. There was no way he could get any work done here, and especially not with so much going on that day.

He left the masons to their work and exited the Chamber of Mazarbul through the western door. As soon as he stepped into the passageway, he could hear the roar of many voices cascading towards him from the Twenty-first Hall. Before he even crossed under the arched doorway into the expansive space, it was clear that one voice was bellowing louder than the rest. Looking to his left, Ori saw Balin standing upon a newly constructed dais which had been raised against the North wall overlooking a churning sea of busy Dwarves.

"Are you blind?" shouted Balin. "This looks like a set of crooked teeth!"

Perspiring Dwarves hustled to rearrange several long tables until Balin was satisfied that they were each perfectly perpendicular to the dais. Balin then turned his attention to another group of Dwarves huddled together, each holding an instrument and rehearsing their melodies. Balin pointed at one of the musicians

"No harps!" he yelled.

The disappointed Dwarf set down his instrument and hung his head while his comrades chuckled at his expense. A final table was carried in from the eastern entrance and heaved up the steps to where Balin stood. It was very long and narrow, made from many planks of dark polished wood. Ori ascended the shallow steps and approached his old friend who was admiring this new piece of furniture.

"How's this for a high table?" exclaimed Balin when he spotted Ori.

"It's rather large," said Ori, thinking back to his own tiny workspace.

"Two inches longer than Dáin's by my reckoning," said Balin proudly. "I measured myself."

"Where did you get so much wood?" asked Ori.

"From that awful stand of pines near the Mirrormere," answered Balin admiring the massive piece of furniture. "I never liked them much anyway."

Balin hopped off the dais like a lithe Dwarf half his age and marched across the floor toward a knot of Dwarves crowding around the hall's southern entrance..

"What's going on here?" demanded Balin, forcing his way into the crowd.

When he got through the tangle of bodies he found himself looking at the young beardless face of a boy, just slightly shorter than Balin himself. Balin was so surprised to see Bregowald that he simply stood and stared at the child.

"Hello, Master Balin," said the boy nervously, attempting an awkward bow. "Thank you for the invitation."

"Invitation?" interrupted Balin. "I never. Who?"

"I invited them," came a voice from the crowd.

Balin spun around and saw Óin standing beside Fyrga.

"We must be neighborly," said Óin to his stunned cousin. "Besides, they brought all the food."

"It is an honor to be your guest," said Fyrga with a friendly smile.

Balin grumbled something under his breath thinking back to the time he was Fyrga's guest.

"There seems to be plenty of room at the high table," chimed Ori, who had come up beside him.

"Very well," Balin said, relenting at last but still sending a sour look toward Óin.

"It's going to be a grand feast," Óin told his guests, ignoring the glaring Balin. "There will be a play about…"

Remembering a forgotten detail, Balin's mood changed to an excited grin.

"Where are the actors?" interrupted Balin "I need to speak with them."

"We just passed them," answered Óin pointing back through the southern entrance.

Without another word, Balin stomped off, leaving his companions and neighbors behind. He never noticed the thin man standing just inside the archway keeping a close eye on Fyrga and Bregowald. Óin excused himself from the others, leaving Ori to show the two guests around.

"Welcome, Holdan," said Óin with a respectful bow. "How was the journey?"

"Thank you, Master Óin," said Holdan. "You folks did a fine job on the roads. Not a pothole to be found."

"Glad to hear it," said Óin. "You know, we work with metal, too."

He smirked and gestured to the ancient sword on Holdan's belt where rust was clearly visible even to an untrained eye.

"I know, I know. You sound like our village blacksmith," said Holdan. "The blades you sent us are sharp and beautiful beyond compare, but I will keep this one all the same."

"No need to explain," said Óin knowingly. "I hang onto the past a little too long sometimes myself."

He pointed to his old weather stained hood and laughed.

"If you can believe it, this was gray at one time. I just can't seem to let it go. Too many memories."

Holdan looked at the floppy mass of fabric on the Dwarf's head. If he had to guess, he would have said it was brown, or perhaps green or maybe even motley; it was hard to tell with all the stains and patches. In any case, the tattered hood had not been gray for many long years. They both laughed at their own sentimentality and walked over to join the others.

After the sun had set in the outside world and the last rays of light snuck into the Twenty-first Hall, a great many many torches were lit, sending shadows dancing across the polished stone walls.

Balin sat at the center of the high table, looking out upon the reveling colony, his majestic Mithril helm displayed proudly upon his snow white head.

Ori and Óin had given up their places of honor on Balin's right side to make room for their guests and so seated themselves further down the right side of the long table. To Balin's left sat Frár and then Lóni and Náli. Also at the high table in places of honor were the other six Dwarves who had set out from Erebor so long ago to establish this thriving colony.

The many long tables were piled high with fine fares from Fyrga's farms as well as more exotic foods from farther afield. There were even some homegrown foodstuffs from Khazad-dûm itself. A selection of mushrooms and earth bread were scattered across the tables for less adventurous dwarvish pallets.

The colonists eagerly attacked their heaping plates, and all were merry and gay. Casks of ale were rolled in, fresh from the newly established brewery which had recently begun operations in an abandoned guardroom. Before long, even the least sociable Dwarves became, if not genial, at least polite. Music and drink mixed in the darkness to form an intoxicating concoction.

"But how do you know when the sun and moon are in the sky together if you never leave these halls?" asked Fyrga, pulling a cup of ale away from her brother beside her.

"It's a rather complicated calculation," began Balin through a mouth full of bread and cheese.

"Oh ,come now," said Óin further down the table.

"We really haven't a clue," he admitted. "Balin just chose a date for the celebrations, and we all sort of followed his lead."

At this, Balin nearly choked on his food and took a swig from his tankard to recompose himself. He had indeed picked an arbitrary date when he had announced the Durin's Day ceremonies. He hadn't given much thought to the movements of the sun and moon. Frankly, he didn't care. He had simply announced a date and told the colony it was the right one. He assumed they had all believed him as they all began preparations at once. He realized now that Óin at least had known better. How many other colonists questioned his wisdom? How many doubted him? He looked out across the mass of feasting Dwarves below him.

Laughter erupted from one of the tables. Were they laughing at him? From another table, Balin could hear singing but could not make out the words over the many voices amplified by the smooth stone walls. Were they singing a song about him? Making fun of him? His swirling thoughts were interrupted by Bregowald's voice from beside him.

"You should have your next party in the summer," suggested the boy.

"What? Why?" said Balin, coming back to the present.

"It was a chilly wagon ride this high in the mountains," said Holdan, handing a cup of water to Bregowald.

"No, no," said Ori with a grin. "Durin's Day is always on the threshold of winter. You'll just have to bundle up next time you visit us."

Bregowald gave a face that said quite plainly that he did not look forward to another cold journey to the Dwarves' mountain home.

"Your sister said you lost the last gift I sent you," said Ori with a chuckle.

"I didn't…" said Bregowald but his sister gave him a look that reminded him to keep quiet about their problems back at home.

"All the same," continued Ori reaching into his pocket. "We have no Dwarf children here at the moment, so toys are hard to come by these days,"

He pulled out a tiny toy Dwarf with a little golden axe. Bregowald's eyes widened and a wide grin spread across his face. Ori handed the trinket to the ecstatic little boy who stared in amazement at this precious gift.

"What do you say, Bregowald?" said Fyrga from beside him.

"Thank you, Master Ori!" exclaimed Bregowald, turning in his chair to embrace the old Dwarf tightly. Ori laughed heartily and held the child in his arms.

"You are very welcome, my boy," he said merrily.

Balin leant over the left arm of his high backed chair toward the three younger Dwarves. Frár, Náli and Lóni had been silently observing their elders converse with the honored guests. In Khuzdul, Balin spoke to the wide-eyed youngsters in a low voice.

"These outsiders are too nosey," he said. "It wasn't very long ago they had spears pointed at us. Keep your guard up and never trust them."

The three young Longbeards said nothing but instead nodded feverishly in agreement. This was partly because they dared not disagree with Balin, but mainly because, like many of their generation, they understood little of the secret language from ancient days. They knew a few words and phrases, of course, but growing up in Erebor, Frár, Lóni, and Náli had rarely heard Khuzdul outside of ceremonies and history lessons.

A trumpet sounded, and a hush fell over the assembled colonists. Balin's mood swung from bitter suspicion to giddy excitement as a group of Dwarves came through the southern entrance and into the Twenty-first Hall. Curious onlookers could tell by Dwarves' costumes that they were in for a theatrical performance; common entertainment at any Durin's Day feast. The actors climbed onto the dais and took their places in the space in front of the long table.

Several scenes soon unfolded, familiar to all in attendance – an escape from three quarreling trolls, the fighting off of wolves and goblins, and even the slaying of the mighty dragon Smaug (this in particular was Bregowald's favorite). When the play reached its climax, a recreation of the Battle of Five Armies raged upon the stage. Coal covered Dwarves masquerading as evil Orcs, fell left and right in dramatic fashion at the hands of two mighty warriors, hacking their way through the host. The howls and cries of their foes were met with cheers and laughter from the crowd. The first of the heroes wielded a comically large bough of oak. The second, sporting a wig of white woolen yarn, swung a wide wooden axe, finely painted to look bloodstained.

After the last enemy was dispatched, the first actor dropped his oaken shield and slumped to the floor, red ribbons displayed to the crowd his grievous injuries. His comrade dropped his gory axe and rushed over to cradle his head. Pushing a tangle of white hair out of his face and leaning over his fallen friend, the actor spoke his assigned lines in a clear, sad voice.

Though rent with mortal wounds, he did not yield!

Now my king falls upon the battlefield!

A heavy silence enveloped the Twenty-first Hall. This was certainly a novel retelling of a well known tale and all the audience leaned forward to hear the dying words of the famous king under the mountain. Everyone held their breath until all that could be heard was the crackling of torches and the tense heartbeats in the ears of the audience. In a faltering voice but loud enough so all could hear, "Thorin" spoke his lines just as he had practiced earlier.

Weep not for me, my true and dearest friend.

Alas at last, my time is at an end.

You are true born of Durin's noble line

It is your reign that must now follow mine.

Now lead our proud people to better days.

You shall be the one they will come to praise.

His final line spoken, the actor let his head hang limp in his comrade's hands. The white wigged Dwarf looked distraught while he laid his fallen king upon the dais floor. Rising to his feet, he recited his lines alone before the intrigued crowd.

Even if a pretender steals my crown

A king of kin I'll be of great renown.

Old Erebor is rotten to the core

Away I'll go to give my people more.

In Khazad-dûm does our bright future lie

A new realm I shall found there ere I die.

The play then ended abruptly, leaving the colonists too shocked to even question what they had just seen. The uncomfortable silence reigned while the troop of actors assembled to take their bows. A feverish rush of panic poured over Balin. He suddenly felt stiflingly hot under his ornate robes and his head felt heavy under the growing weight of his helm. He could feel hundreds of eyes fixed upon him. Questioning him. Doubting him. This was it. The end of his story. He had pushed too far this time. He had failed.

Rising to his feet, Frár was the first to start clapping. Balin was keenly aware of how the confused audience was slow to begin their applause. Instead of the roar of clapping hands Balin had expected, the reception was more like a trickle of water dribbling from an unseen leak, but it was nonetheless more acclimation than Balin had received at any prior moment of his life. He rose to his feet and made a series of stiff, awkward bows in several different directions.

The other honored guests at the high table politely followed suit and clapped their hands gently while stealing looks to their left and right. This was the first time any of the Dwarves had heard this account of Thorin's death. Soon, the Twenty-first Hall was awash with soft voices as each colonist turned to his neighbor with more questions than answers. The feeble applause died away without a call for an encore and the uncomfortable actors swiftly scurried out of sight.

Balin remained standing at the center of the high table after everyone else had resumed their sets. He felt the hundreds of eyes fixed upon him. It was both terrifying and exhilarating for the old Dwarf who for so many years had been a minor character in his own story. This would be the beginning of his chapter, no matter how late it was in his book.

He bent over and reached for the massive Mithril axe that had been leaning behind his chair. His hand barely grazed the gleaming blade and he instinctively jerked it back, remembering how perilous the keen edge was. He quickly glanced at his hand and, pleased to see that he was unscathed, grasped the haft of the ancient weapon. As he straightened up, holding his oversized helm in place with his other hand, he caught sight of the bewildered expressions on the faces of Ori and Óin, but looked away without meeting their gaze.

Admitting to himself that the play had been an abject failure, he quickly came up with a plan to distract the colony from this magnificent misstep. He cleared his throat and addressed the colony in a powerful voice.

"When I envisioned this colony, I promised that I would shape the future of our people and so I shall. Listen now, and I will tell you my plans for this colony."

The crowd was on the edge of their seats as he drew out the silence, reveling in the sense of supreme power he felt high upon the dais with the biggest axe in the room. Whatever misgivings the colonists may have harbored about the ahistorical retelling of Thorin's death, they were quickly pushed aside at the prospect of being privy to the grand plans of their betters.

"The work will be hard and dangerous," Balin said. "We are going to increase our mining operations on the western side of the colony. It is clear that we need to delve deeper if we are to pursue fresh Mithril veins. New tunnels will be excavated beneath Caradhras."

Every colonist knew the whispered tales of the red mountain's sinister reputation. Balin continued.

"Flooded passages will be drained and new passages must be delved," he told the crowd. "If any Dwarf here lacks the resolve to be a part of that future, they can crawl back to Erebor, or to the Blue Mountains, or back to some hole in Rhûn."

The colonists silently looked at one another, waiting to see if anyone would show a hint of reluctance or hesitation. Balin's stone-hard gaze searched for dissension within the ranks. Seeing none, he continued.

"For those of you who choose to stay, your loyalty will be rewarded beyond your grandest dreams."

The excited crowd seized the opportunity to cheer and raise their tankards to their leader, making clear their commitment to the rich future Balin had promised, even if the old Dwarf was a bit quirky at times.

Balin rambled on for some time longer about grand plans and other topics that seemed strange and unrelated to many in the audience; often mixing Khuzdul and the Westron into an incoherent and rambling rant. The truth was that he relished his time at the center of attention, a feeling he had craved his entire life.

When he had finally talked himself out of breath and energy, it was deep into the night. Bregowald had dozed off and was propped up on Ori's shoulder, his precious present held tightly in his tiny hands. The high table was cleared and the guests were shown to sumptuously furnished quarters prepared for their visit. They would have a long journey ahead of them in the morning.

Balin retired to the Chamber of Mazarbul with his inner circle of new company companions who had first crossed the threshold of Khazad-dûm with him so long ago.

Many of the relics from Durin's tomb were displayed on shelves around the room, interspersed between faded scrolls and dusty parchment. Balin placed Durin's axe on the large table in the center of the room and seated himself at the head. The eleven other Dwarves took their seats around the wide table and began eagerly chatting about future plans for the new mines. Optimism was in the air and hearts swelled as they discussed imagined riches waiting just below their ironshod feet. Balin listened closely to the chatter, picking out one dissenting voice among the din.

"It is said that Caradhras is a cruel mountain full of hateful malice," it said. "Should we not seek Mithril elsewhere?"

"Who said that?" demanded Balin, rising to his feet.

"It was I," said Gamil firmly.

He did not look away from Balin's wrathful gaze, but met it with a concerned look of someone who had spent a lifetime in mines and knew too well how dangerous such work could be.

"He's right," said Hannar. "The Redhorn is known to have an evil heart."

At this, Balin's face grew hot with anger.

"Are you in league with these liars?" he asked Gamil sharply through clenched teeth and pointing at Hannar.

"Liars?" asked Gamil incredulously. "I don't understand."

"I see through your ruse now," Balin said, nodding his head.

Everyone at the table had confused looks on their faces as they tried to follow Balin's racing thoughts.

"Of course," continued Balin. "I understand now. First, these foreign good-for-nothings tell me to leave Durin's tomb alone and now you say we should avoid our most bountiful mountain. I know exactly what you're getting at. Do you take me for a fool?"

Ori tried to interject but was cut off before he could get more than a word out.

Balin was incensed. Rising to his feet, he struck his gnarled hand upon the table causing piles of gold to jingle like the zills on a musician's tambourine.

"You want me to believe your lies so you can steal Longbeard treasure from Durin's Halls!"

"That's not true!" shouted Lofar among many similar protests from others.

"Lies!" spat Balin. His helm was now crooked, and his eyes blazed with a wild fury.

Óin, who was seated at Balin's side, stood up and put a gentle hand on Balin's shoulder. In a calm voice, he spoke to his companions.

"Be calm, friends, and do not quarrel," he pleaded.

He then spoke to Balin directly. "Good cousin, I'm sure our comrades meant no offense. We all know that Caradhras certainly does have a bad reputation. Gamil was merely concerned about the safety of our colonists."

He turned back to Hannar and the other eastern Dwarves across the table.

"All of you have all proven your valliant character many times since we set out from Erebor," he said. "Indeed this colony is only possible when all seven houses can work together. I'm sure Balin knows this. Upon his shoulders lies a heavy burden. You must excuse his desire to protect what we have all worked so hard to achieve."

Many nodded along in agreement with Óin. Even Balin's temper seemed to cool as he slumped back into his chair, crossing his arms across his chest, although his eyes continued to burn like hot coals as they darted around the table.

"I apologize for any offense," said Hannar. "We are all loyal to you and this colony."

The Stiffoot removed his hood and bowed courteously.

Balin scowled and straightened his helm.

"We will see about that," he said with a grumble. "Work under Baraz begins in the spring. You will each have written orders outlining your part in my plans. There will be no deviation from these orders without my consent. Is that clear?"

He waited until each Dwarf confirmed before he spoke again.

"Very well. That will be all. Leave me be. I have much to do."

With a wave of his hand, the chamber began to empty out. Óin was the last to leave the room, but as he approached the doorway, Balin called to him in a gruff voice.

"You. Wait," he said.

Óin returned to the table and stood near Balin who remained seated.

"I need to know whose side you are on," said Balin, his eyes boring into Óin.

"I don't know what you mean," said Óin, confused.

"I need to know that you are loyal to your people," said Balin. "I have to question your loyalty when you defend these barbaric foreigners."

"I am on your side," said Óin, "and I am loyal to this colony."

"Then prove it," said Balin. "I'm putting you alongside that Rhûnnic rabble under Baraz. You will keep a close eye on them and report back to me at once if you suspect anything suspicious."

"You really don't trust them after all they've done for you?" asked Ori incredulously.

"I trust only our own house, and even there, I have my doubts," continued Balin. "Men, Elves, and now these other houses all want what I have. We need to remain vigilant of their schemes."

"Yes, cousin," said Óin, knowing this was not the time to argue.

He removed his hood, bowed goodnight to Balin before turning to leave the room.

"Lord," said Balin. "From now on, you will address me as Lord."

12

Nameless Things

Frár raised a hand, and the column of marching Dwarves halted. They had trudged northwards for many hours and reached a sort of intersection. Here, the main tunnel divided into several smaller passageways diverging in slightly different directions but all led further under mighty Caradhras. Taking advantage of the respite, many Dwarves set down their heavy loads of tools and provisions. For many Dwarves here, this was their first experience mining, for others, these scenes looked like any other subterranean operation with stone walls pockmarked by countless blows, winding passageways, silent except for the unseen drip of water.

"Gather 'round," called Frár, pulling out a bundle of papers.

Eager eyes stared back at him, excited to hear where they would be sent from here. Visions of Mithril and other riches sparkled in the minds of the listening crowd. Frár cleared his throat and continued.

"This is where you must separate," he explained. "Lord Balin has provided written orders for each team."

He squinted at the first piece of paper.

"Anar, Nar, Hannar, and Lofar, you are to go with Óin this way," Frár said as he pointed to a tunnel that continued more or less level until the way was obscured in darkness.

"Lord Balin wants you to take all your Eastern kin and continue the mines northeast. More instructions are written here."

Many Dwarves began excitedly whispering to their neighbors as he handed the document to Óin, who accepted it with a stiff nod.

"Right then," said Frár, bringing up the next paper. "Onar, you and the rest of the Broadbeams are heading down this way." He pointed North to a steeply descending passage.

Onar took the paper from Frár and read it carefully to himself. In a low voice he spoke to the young guard so that few others could hear.

"Who came up with this plan?" he asked, holding up the paper.

"Lord Balin of course," answered Frár. "He's certain you'll find Mithril if you dig deep enough."

"I told him several times that those tunnels are dangerous and likely to collapse," said Onar, visibly frustrated.

"Are you questioning Lord Balin's orders?" asked Frár.

"I'm questioning why he is endangering Broadbeam lives," replied Onar.

"Then why would he send Ori with you?" Frár queried.

"What's this now?" asked Ori, joining the conversation.

Frár smiled at their surprised faces.

"That's right," he said, producing a folded paper with Ori's name written on it. "Lord Balin made it very clear that Ori is to go with you."

He then handed the paper to Ori, who's face flushed red when he read through the contents.

"What is it?" asked Onar trying to steal a look at the paper with his remaining eye.

"Nothing," said Ori, quickly folding the paper and stuffing it deep into his pocket. "Everything is fine."

Frár turned away from them and held up the last of Balin's written orders.

"And thirdly, Gamil will be taking the Firebeards in this direction," Frár pointed to a winding passage that led northwest.

"But those are all flooded," said Gamil, coming forward to read the order for himself.

"Lord Balin is confident you will think of a solution," responded Frár.

Gamil nodded, his thoughts already racing to wheels and sluices.

Frár turned to face the huddled group of miners as a whole.

"Remember, comrades," he said, "Lord Balin has called for no deviation from his plans. The colony is counting on you to find a new Mithril lode,"

"Wait a moment," said Óin. "Which way are you going?"

"I will not be joining you. Lord Balin has ordered the guards to remain on duty," replied Frár.

Óin was about to argue when Frár spoke again.

"We all must do what is asked of us," said Frár ignoring the sidelong glances being thrown his way. "I am just following orders. Same as you. Be safe, and good fortune to you all." Frár turned and began his ascent back to his master.

After a few more words of farewell and good luck, the three teams parted ways and followed their leaders to their assigned mines. Gamil led his group of Firebeards down the winding passage for some time. Many of the Dwarves following him were relatives of his and others, even if he didn't know them personally, he knew their families back in the Blue Mountains. Many Dwarves of the Firebeard clan dyed their beards and hair shades of orange and crimson. Even those who had naturally red hair accentuated their color by adding streaks of bright red to their bushy beards like licking flames in a burning blaze. As the group lumbered along towards their assigned area, it looked like a raging river of red flame.

The team carried an enormous quantity of gear and supplies loaded upon many handcarts. This included parts of one of Gamil's "inventions" which, he claimed, might be useful later on. Onward they continued, gradually downward. At several points, trickles of water seeped down the walls and flowed across the floor. Small rivulets eventually joined to form a veritable stream which flowed down the middle of the tunnel. The Dwarves had to walk close to the sides of the tunnel to avoid soaking their boots in the cold water.

The company passed a doorway, and here Gamil paused for a moment. Inside, a flight of rough steps led downward and out of sight. Gamil nodded and seemed pleased with this sight although his followers could only guess why.

Gamil reviewed Balin's orders and considered himself lucky to be working with his kinsman, even if the task ahead of them was going to be dangerous and difficult. The Firebeards continued down the main tunnel for another mile or two until the group could go no farther. The tunnel floor descended sharply and disappeared into a pool of inky black water fed the stream that had led them to this dead end.

"Here we are," announced Gamil. "Our orders are clear, to drain this shaft and explore its contents."

Apprehensive eyes examined the murky water uneasily.

"Lord Balin believes there to be Mithril in this area," Gamil added. "We will be expanding out from this tunnel as we get deeper to look for signs of it. Now, as some of you know, there are two ways to empty a flooded mine shaft. If the water is stagnant, one can simply drain the water out of a lower opening. Unfortunately for us, this isn't an option."

He gestured to the stream pouring into the pool.

Gamil continued, "We shall start with the latter method: divert the source of the water and let the pool drain on its own."

He went on to explain his plan of diverting the water so that it flowed down the dark staircase he had examined earlier. Work began at once as the hearty Dwarves rushed to direct the subterranean stream to its alternative path. By the end of the day, the stream that had once poured into the pool, was now a mere trickle of dribbling water.

Gamil made his way up the tunnel to inspect the work. His team had done an expert job of using small dams and trenches to guide the flowing water down the staircase. Standing near the doorway, Gamil watched as water tumbled down the steps like rapids in a river until it disappeared from sight into an abyss of utter darkness.

At this point, the waiting began. Some newcomers expected the flooded shaft to drain at once like a cup with a hole in it. However, the more experienced miners knew this process could take days or even weeks depending on the size of the shaft. Gamil used this time to set up a base camp. Supplies were organized, shifts were scheduled and soon, his twenty or so workers had a place they could call home until the job was done. To pass the time, the old-timers told stories to the novices about their underground achievements and the riches to be had across deep beneath the earth. All the while, the water level slowly inched downwards revealing more and more of the submerged tunnel.

By the time two days had passed, enough of the steeply descending shaft was exposed that Gamil and some others were able to walk about a furlong downwards before they reached the new waterline. Gamil ran his hands along the wall of the tunnel, appreciating the fact that each mark on these walls was made by Dwarves in a distant age. He was the first Dwarf in centuries to see where the ancient hammers had hewn and where picks had poked. He felt as though he were walking in the footsteps of forgotten forebears, even if he wasn't himself a Longbeard. Perhaps he could leave his own mark on Khazad-dûm's rich history by finding a new Mithril vein. He set about marking the pocked walls with runes at places where he wanted his team to begin delving new branches. Fiery haired workers soon followed and began chiseling away at their assigned stations, searching for evidence of the elusive metal.

Each day, as more and more of the shaft was revealed, Onar would choose new locations for his workers to excavate. Before long, the long tunnel was alive with the musical cacophony of dozens of hammers. It was music to Gamil's ears. Even though none of his team had found Mithril yet, he was happy to be away from the stiffness of life in the Twenty-first Hall. He appreciated Balin's trust in him to lead an operation such as this, but all the same was thankful for an extended break from the old Dwarf who was becoming increasingly cantankerous since the expedition had begun.

Work continued at a steady pace. As the water receded gradually, Gamil's workers burrowed into the walls of the tunnel searching for anything that could hint at the presence of Moria's most prized ore.

Before long, the front line had progressed so far down the shaft that Onar ordered that a new base camp be established. Tools and supplies were brought forward without a lull in the work. The dutiful Dwarves were happy that they didn't have to trudge up the long tunnel at the end of a hard shift, even if it meant that fresh supplies from the top took longer to reach them.

Nonetheless, deliveries of fresh food, compliments of Fyrga and her people, continued to be delivered regularly, and the team of Firebeards ate to their hearts' content. If they were lucky, casks of beer were included in the resupply shipments. Hearty songs echoed in the roots of the mountain. Deep in the earth such as they were, so far from the sun and moon, any idea of days and nights slipped away. Insead, time is measured by shifts. Dwarves can work tirelessly for an extraordinary length of time, so a twelve-hour shift hammering away at hard rock was no trouble at all for Gamil's team, who were certain that the next Mithril vein was just a bit farther down the submerged shaft.

Three weeks into their labors, Gamil met another check. The water had stopped retreating. Unvexed, called for his "invention," which consisted of several parts and required some time to assemble. Before long, a series of great wooden wheels were erected. Young energetic Dwarves powered these wheels by walking within them. With a few modifications, water was soon being drawn out of the shaft and pumped uphill to be dispersed elsewhere. The work was grueling and the Dwarves powering the wheels needed to be relieved frequently. Inch by inch, the waterline receded and the work was able to continue.

Several more days passed, and Gamil left their forward camp to inspect his team's work. He strolled down the descending tunnel. At its higher points, the tunnel walls were completely dry. He ran his hands along the rough stone wall, appreciating the incredible effort required to dig so deeply. Making his way farther down, he weaved his way around machinery and equipment, pausing from time to time to look into his workers' excavations.

Without seeing evidence of valuable ores, he continued deeper. The noise of many voices soon reached his ears. Farther down the tunnel, there were cries and exclamations.

At first, he was concerned that some accident had occured and he quickened his pace. Then, he froze. His ears caught the one word he had been waiting to hear these many weeks.

"Mithril! Mithril!" came voices clear and joyful.

Word spread up the tunnel and soon the entire team of Firebeards was clustered at the bottom of the tunnel. Sure enough, just above the waterline, the unmistakable sparkle of Mithril shined in the dim tunnel. The light of lamps and torches danced off the dark water as the ecstatic Dwarves admired the beautiful sight. Gamil stepped back from the find and spoke to his assembled team.

"At last, Caradhras has shown us kindness," he said with a relieved smile. "We must move our supplies down to this elevation. Also, word must be sent up to…"

He was never able to finish his sentence. At this moment, a deafening explosion shook the tunnel. A great rumbling sound rushed towards them. Gamil turned his head up the shaft just in time to see a wall of water hurtling toward him. The unstoppable wave slammed into the unsuspecting Firebeards and drove them down the tunnel as if they were dirt flushed down a drain.

Dwarves, tools, and debris all crashed into one another as they were forced downward. Utter darkness enveloped them, and they passed out of the known world. Swirling and rushing down the tunnel, the Dwarves were forced ever deeper. Gamil tried holding his breath but was knocked about so roughly that water poured into his mouth, filling his lungs, and he remembered no more.

Gamil coughed and sputtered as ice-cold water poured out of his mouth. He found himself lying on a floor of broken stones. His entire body felt sore and weak. With a groan, he sat up and looked around, shaking with cold. He could see a few worse for wear comrades close at hand. Some were moving while others remained motionless on a stony beach. From what Gamil could see in the darkness, they had washed up on the shore of a vast subterranean lake.

He struggled to his feet to gaze across the dark waters. With his feet still in the frigid water, he squinted into the dark distance. He could not guess how large this lake was, as the distant shores were obscured in the shadowy void. If there was a ceiling above this lake, some monumental span of the earth that supported the mountains of Moria, he could not see it. The space above the subterranean sea was masked by an iridescent vapor that shimmered with a faint light of intertwined ribbons of green and gold. It reminded Gamil of a night sky he had seen long ago in distant northern lands.

Farther out into the water, he could see many others of his clan clinging onto one another or pieces of flotsam, bobbing in the darkness. Their terrified faces were made all the more distraught by the otherworldly light shining down from the dense clouds.

"This way! Over here!" Gamil called, waving his arms.

With this small effort, he realized how thin the air was in this bottommost cavern. His breathing became ragged and wheezing, but still he called to his companions until his vision became blurred and his head ached.

Hearing Gamil's hoarse voice, the waterlogged Dwarves on the lake began kicking their way towards the shore. The first scream tore through the blackness and was followed by a splash. Gamil looked around at the swimmers for the source of the noises.

Another scream followed, and Gamil saw out of the corner of his eye one unlucky Dwarf as he was pulled below into the dark depths of the pitch-black waters. Panic spread like the ripples across the dark surface, and the swimmers began paddling frantically just as the water began to churn around them.

The fastest swimmers began to reach the shoreline, and their kinsmen rushed to drag them from the dangerous waters. Some were so cold, it seemed as if life had been drained from them. For every Dwarf saved from the lake, another was wrenched shrieking into the abyss, never to be seen again.

Gamil waded into the lake and grasped the hand of the last surviving swimmer. Desperately, he began pulling the Dwarf into the shallows. His body felt weak and cold, and it took all his strength to keep a grip on the Dwarf's wet hand. Gamil watched in horror as a slimy tendril wrapped itself around the unfortunate swimmer's waist wrenching him away from Gamil's grasp. The monstrous appendage hoisted the Dwarf into the air as if the unfortunate colonist was no more than an idle plaything. With a sickening crunch, the powerful tentacle crushed the Dwarf, putting an end to his helpless shrieking before he too disappeared into the blackness.

Scurrying up the stony beach, the survivors surveyed the lake which had taken their friends. The surface of the water was again as smooth as glass as if the wretched waters had not consumed their dear friends and relatives just moments before. Questions were thrown at Gamil faster than his ears could hear them.

"What was that?"

"How did this happen?"

"How do we get back to the colony?"

Composing himself as best he could, Gamil turned to what was left of his bedraggled team. Putting aside his fear, he put on his bravest face and spoke to the huddled mass of Dwarves. All were quaking, whether from cold or fear, Gamil could not tell.

"I know not what evils lurk in the deep parts of the world, but it is clear that we were washed very far down," he told them. "We must find our way upwards if we are to have any hope of rejoining the colony. Stay close together and we might get out of this alive."

The companions then wandered along the shore of the lake, making sure to stay well away from the water. Before long, feeling returned to their frozen limbs and their teeth ceased chattering.

Eventually, they came to what seemed like a dry riverbed that led upwards. Seeing no other alternatives, the Dwarves followed the route into an ascending tunnel. Their spirits rose with each ascending step. Some began to think that this route could lead them to salvation. All was silent except for the sound of their heavy footfalls.

Although there were many shafts branching out from this tunnel, Gamil was able to pick paths that led them ever upwards. The improving air seemed to renew their hopes as they continued to ascend. Many were encouraged at the idea that their leader could deliver them from this nightmare they had fallen into.

Several of the remaining Firebeards were injured and weak, and the group needed to stop frequently during their march of what seemed like many miles. At one halt, Gamil passed his hand over the wall of the tunnel. Surprised at what he felt, he stopped to investigate. He did not feel the familiar pockmarked grooves from dwarven pickaxes upon the wall, nor did he feel the smoothness of a natural water-worn cave wall. He squinted at the rock. He could not be sure, but it looked as if something had been gnawing here in the very roots of the mountain. He looked about and saw that the entire passageway had been hewn by unknown and terrible jaws. What creature could possibly have chewed through solid rock, Gamil could not name.

Having put a fair distance between themselves and the lake, the Firebeards became aware of their exhaustion. Gamil made the decision that they would rest where they were for a few hours to recover their strength. Some Dwarves gladly laid their heads down upon the tunnel floor, hoping to find a few hours of much needed sleep. Others were too shaken by their misfortunes to calm their nerves. Gamil fell squarely into the latter group. He informed his comrades that he was going to scout the path ahead and continued round a corner and further up the tunnel.

His stomach growled with hunger and his whole body ached, but he pressed on. He walked at a leisurely pace for about a furlong. As far as he could see, the main tunnel continued upwards with an occasional dark fissure in the wall leading to smaller passageways. Taking advantage of the solitude, he sat on the floor and rested his tired head in his hands.

"Where were they?" he asked himself. "How can I lead my people through this maze?"

He sat there for some time, thinking and hoping. He had just slipped into sleep when he heard screams. Gamil sprung to his feet and raced back down the tunnel toward his comrades. As he approached, he could make out the death bleats of his friends and kinsman. Mixed with these haunting noises, he heard the unmistakable howl of Orc voices bellowing in the darkness.

Gamil wheeled around the corner as fast as his legs could carry him just in time to see a notched blade remove the head of the last standing Firebeard. The entire group of Dwarves he had seen just minutes before lay in a bloody heap on the floor, their red beards stained a darker shade with thick, wet blood. A pack of Orcs laughed as they hacked at the lifeless bodies cackling in their hideous tongue.

"Ghâsh, Ghâsh! Ghâsh!" they chanted until all the lifeless heads had been severed.

Suddenly, the cruel eyes turned to the horrified Gamil.

The Orcs bounded towards him with startling speed.

With no weapons, Gamil's only choice was to flee or die. He spun on his heels and sprinted upwards. He could hear the Orcs gaining ground behind him, their harsh voices sounded as if they were only inches behind him. Rounding a corner, Gamil darted into a shadowy side passageway and pressed his body against the wall. Holding his breath, he heard his pursuers pass by his hiding place and continue up the main tunnel. He remained still as a statue until all sound of the Orcs faded to nothing before he dared move again.

Slowly, he crept deeper and deeper into the narrow passageway. Following the shaft gradually upwards, Gamil halted often to listen for unseen enemies. To his frightened ears, every noise was a new anxiety. His mind reeled and his head ached thinking about his massacred companions. He had to get back and warn the colony. He had to survive long enough to save the others while there was still time.

The longer he proceeded up the tunnel, the more the space constricted around him. Before long, he could reach out his arms and touch both sides of the narrow passage. After some time, the ceiling became so low that he was forced to stoop and then crawl on his hands and knees in complete darkness. For a moment, he considered turning back and looking for an alternate route, but then visions of his massacred kinsman flashed in his mind's eye and he thought it better to press on rather than share their fate.

He came to a spot tighter than all the rest where his back rubbed on the rough stone ceiling, and he was forced to remove his hood to keep it from snagging. He had just wormed his way forward another foot with his arms tucked under him when quite suddenly he realized that he was completely and utterly stuck. Panic quickly rushed in and Gamil began breathing rapidly. With each gasp, he could feel his shoulders pressing on the immovable walls of his stone prison. He struggled wildly and tried to squirm his way backwards in a desperate retreat, but to no avail.

Despair gripped his very soul. Was this terrible foxhole to be his tomb for all eternity? At this moment, Gamil must have fainted. In his immobile state surrounded by impenetrable darkness, he could not be sure if he was even still alive. Perhaps he has become a disembodied phantom, doomed to wander in a world without direction or light.

Gamil was roused from this lifeless state by the feeling of air upon his sweaty face. It was not fresh air from the outside world, but it was moving air nonetheless. Gamil thought back on his decades of experience in similar subterranean spaces, and knew this expiration of air meant that there must be an outlet ahead of him. Escape must be possible, if only he could press on further. With a strenuous contortion that stretched and pressed his joints to their breaking point, he forced one hand out and then another from under his body and extended his arms in front of him. He pressed his chest down upon the floor and felt the pressure from his stone sarcophagus lesson. Able to breathe freely now, he felt as though the Caradhras had loosened his grasp upon him, if only for the time being. At last, he was able to continue, but only if he kept his face perilously close to the ground.

Pushing forward with his hands outstretched, he again felt the allure of freedom as warm air flowed over his neck and back. Then his hands felt something new. Instead of the rough stone of this wicked wormhole, they felt the straight edges of a rectangular void, just a hair's breadth wider than his shoulders. Clawing at the sides of the opening, he forced his way forward to freedom until he no longer felt the hungry press of stone walls upon his flesh.

Free from such a constricting torment, Gamil gulped in deep breaths of air while he stretched out his limbs. He then sat up and saw that he was sitting on a small square landing of sorts. He could see uniformly carved stairs leading up and down from this place. Turning to the impossibly small space from whence he had just been delivered, he saw a smooth wall carved from the mountain itself, and at the bottom, right where it met the smooth floor, a narrow hole had been punched through. Gamil could not imagine who or what had delved the perilous path he had just traveled, but he was at least partially relieved by the signs of dwarven craftsmanship surrounding him.

He looked to his right to where the stairs led downwards curving into darkness. He thought back to the nameless thing in the sunken sea and imagined multitudes of Orcs prowling the dark depths far below. To his left, the stairs led upwards. Without a second thought, Gamil immediately set off upwards, putting as much distance between him and those nightmarish fiends as he could.

Gamil saw the staircase as a sign that he was getting close to the more habitable parts of the colony. After all, he could tell that these stairs were indeed of dwarvish make, each rise and run perfectly hewn from the living rock. Surely, this spiraling stair must lead somewhere. He concluded that wherever that somewhere was, it was better than the depths he was escaping.

He pressed on, climbing up countless curving flights, never seeing an end to the winding way. Along his ascent, he passed the dusty skeletons of several slaughtered Orcs, strewn about the stony staircase. Higher still at another lofty landing, he came across a pair of skeletons laying together upon the floor. He could tell by their raiment that these had once been two Dwarves, their arms still locked in an eternal embrace. The remains were dry and brittle. How long these brittle bones had lain here untouched, Gamil could not guess. Had these two unfortunate Dwarves simply given into their fate and laid down to die beside one another upon this endless stair? A horrible fate to suffer. Had they seen what he had seen before they drifted into that final sleep? Had they both been too injured to continue, or had the companions refused to part from each other, even if it meant an eternity in this terrible tomb?

A noise roused him from contemplation. A drop of unseen water perhaps, somewhere in the darkness below. Visions of red eyes and yellow teeth flashed in Gamil's mind, and he knew that he had to keep moving.

Searching the remains of the fallen Dwarves, he found a dagger laying between the two skeletons. It was of an archaic style, but the blade was of such quality that it still held an edge after uncounted years. Armed for the wicked way ahead, he stepped over the bones and onto the next stair. He swore to himself that he would not become another skeleton upon this dark path.

Gamil forced himself ever higher. His mouth was painfully dry, and his muscles were weak for want of food. Every time Gamil considered giving up, he thought about his comrades back in the colony. He had to warn them of the dangers that lurked beneath their feet. He had to keep climbing. There was no way to know how much time he had spent ascending the staircase. Days? Weeks? Gamil couldn't be sure. Eventually, the muscles in his legs began to seize, and he was forced to crawl on his hands and knees. With his dwarven dagger, he cut from his clothes and wrapped his bloodied hands in the rags.

Each inch seemed like a mountain as he hauled his deteriorating body a little bit higher. But while there is life, there is hope. As long as his heart kept beating, as long as his flesh quivered, he would not allow himself to despair.

While laboring over one of the infinite uncounted stairs, his blistered palm felt the slight presence of cool moisture upon the hard stone. He lowered his head to the perfectly flat surface to investigate. Sure enough, the faint glimmer of life sustaining water was visible in the dim light cast by the dwarven lamps ingeniously inset in the walls. It was only condensation or maybe a rivulet from far away meltwaters. To Gamil, it mattered not.

Driven by extreme thirst and desperation, Gamil began licking the coarse stone. He dragged his dry tongue over the glistening stair, trying to collect as much of the moisture as he could. Each precious drop was an infinite boon to his weak and ebbing life. Gamil was soon disappointed to find that he was barely able to draw more than a couple drops worth of the precious liquid from the dead stone surface. If his eyes were not so arid, he would have wept in despair.

He lay himself upon the finely carved edges of the stairs and stared at the block wall in front of his face. His eyes came to rest upon a symbol carved into the corner of one of the rectangular stones. Two crossed lines, each with a short serif at the top. Gamil recognized it at once as a mason's mark; a signature of the Dwarf who had long ago quarried this particular stone. Perhaps this ancient ancestor had even climbed to this impossible height and laid the stone himself. Somehow, this made Gamil feel less alone. It reminded Gamil that this stairway had been built by real living, breathing Dwarves not so different from himself, and that they must have built a way out. An ember of hope, no matter how small and faint, still burned inside the old Firebeard. He turned away from the wall and continued his climb.

Another eternity later, Gamil was resting, if rest it could be called, on yet another landing when he felt it; an unmistakable draft of cold, fresh air coming from above. Barely able to open his eyes, Gamil was certain he was imagining things, but again, he felt the refreshing air wash over his skin. This must be it, he thought. He must be near the surface. This was the final push. With an extraordinary effort, he heaved his body once more unto the spiraling stairs and began to drag himself upwards on bloodied hands. With each new step conquered, the air became colder and fresher. For the first time in months, Gamil saw rays of sunshine reflecting off the stone walls.

His heart swelled as he labored up the final stair. A bitterly biting wind swirled snowflakes about his face. His torn hands felt the sting of cold as they grasped weakly at drifts of snow. He forced himself forward through a lonely window onto a narrow space. The air was frigid, and the bright sun shone fiercely into his foggy eyes. He squinted into the harsh light of day and saw that he had crawled out of a crumbling tower carved from the living stone of the mountain itself. He breathed weakly in the thin air high atop a peak surrounded by clouds, a dizzy eyrie above the mists of the world. In his last gasp of breath, Gamil realized where he was. Then, at last, his body failed him. His head sank into the snow, never to rise again.

13

The Way is Shut

Holdan entered through the wide wooden doors and strode into the longhall. Firelight glinted off his bright mail and polished scabbard. Bregowald was sitting on the floor and petting a mangy dog while his sister sat in the ancient high-backed chair. He removed his shining helm and addressed Fyrga with a bow.

"The wagons have returned from Dwarrowdelf," he announced.

Bregowald sprung to his feet when he heard this news.

"Can I see what they sent?" he asked, looking up at his sister.

Fyrga nodded with a smile, and the young boy bounded past Holdan and out the wide wooden doors.

"He is growing so fast," Holdan said. "It seems like just yesterday that I heard his first cries in this hall."

Fyrga nodded. "I wish my parents could see him now,"

Holdan turned to his leader with a caring look.

"I served your parents for many years," he told her. "I know they would be proud of you both."

"Thank you, loyal Holdan" said Fyrga. "You have always been there for us in good times and bad. My brother and I are surely in your debt for all you have done for over the years."

"It is truly my honor to see both of you grow up," he said. "In truth, you two are the closest thing to family I have left."

Fyrga smiled and considered herself to have such loving people in her life, even if her parents were no longer there to guide her.

The two walked out the long hall and into the bustling street. For the first time since the end of winter, the rough road leading to Moria was passable. Honoring their agreement from almost three years earlier, Fyrga and her small village had sent wagons loaded with food to the East Gate to be exchanged for riches and finely wrought dwarven craftsmanship.

After a long winter, Fyrga's people didn't have much food left, but nevertheless, they had sent everything they could spare. Sacks of grain, salted meats, apples and even a few barrels of beer had all been sent to Balin's colony. Overall, it had been a profitable relationship for both the village and the Dwarves. Moria had more mouths than ever to feed and Fyrga's people were content to reap their lush farmland along the riverbanks and send some of their best products to their subterranean allies.

In return, the rustic villagers had been rewarded with treasures beyond their imagination. Their local blacksmith could make simple things like crude horseshoes and nails, but the Dwarves sent to them works of unparalleled quality. Iron mail that glimmered like fish scales, gold coins struck with Balin's likeness, spearpoints that never lost their sharpness, and even children's toys that seemed magical to some.

Unfortunately for Fyrga and her little village, the Beornings took the greater part of these precious items. The proud kind of Beorn charged a steep tax to keep the mountain passes and vales of the Anduin free of Orcs and their rates were only getting harder to bear. Still, the few treasures they were able to hold onto were valued immensely and displayed proudly.

The last wagons were still coming down the muddy road as Fyrga followed her brother outside. Men were already beginning to unload the leading wagons, but their faces showed disappointment when they saw the contents. Bregowald scrambled up into one of the wagons and peered inside. The back of the wagon was piled high with lumpy gray stones. Bregowald tried to pick one up and found that it was surprisingly heavy and he had not the strength to lift one.

"What is all this?" he asked Fyrga when she came to his side.

"Not what I expected," she replied with a frown.

"It's pig iron, my lady," came a voice from behind her.

It was Bloman, the village blacksmith. He leaded over the side of the wagon and grasped one of the stones with his strong hands.

"What are we to do with it?" asked Fyrga, touching the stone with an outstretched hand.

"It's a brittle material, but it can be wrought into different forms," replied Bloman.

"I asked for swords, and they sent us this," said Fyrga with disappointment in her voice.

Orcs had been seen prowling the dark slopes of the Misty Mountains, and Fyrga's thoughts had often been on the safety of her small village. Their tiny band of warriors needed keen blades if they were to protect her people.

"There's no toys either," said Bregowald dejectedly.

Turning to the wagon driver she asked "Were the Dwarves unhappy with the food we sent them?"

"Not that I could tell, my lady," answered the driver. "They seemed pleased enough when we arrived. As usual, they wouldn't let us pass the gate, but they unloaded the food in a hurry and then brought out all this." He gestured to his cargo. "I protested, but they told me I could take what they were offering or leave empty handed. I gave them a piece of my mind but took the cargo all the same. If you ask me, these greedy Dwarves don't deserve our best foodstuffs if all they're just going to give us is worthless stones."

"No," said Fyrga after a moment of thought. "I gave my word that we would trade our food for their goods. I will not be the one to break that promise. We will continue in good faith. Hopefully they will send more next time."

Before the driver could object, a murmur of voices arose from the nearby villagers. Fyrga spun around just in time to see a large burly man swagger up to her side. He had a great bushy beard and wore a short broad sword on his belt. He gave her a greasy smile that made her shiver then he began to climb into the cart. Nearby, more men appeared on horseback forming a circle around the heavily loaded wagon.

A familiar voice called out to Fyrga. "I told you we'd be seeing more of each other."

Fyrga frowned and marched over to the scarred Beorning sitting atop a powerful looking horse.

Staring up at the grizzled warrior, she shouted, "You've already taken more than your share from us. We have no more to give. Be gone with you!"

The man let out a deep laugh that sounded more like a growl.

"That's no way to thank your protectors," he chided. "What do you think would happen to this little mud pit if we decided to leave you to the Orcs?"

Fyrga was about to spit out some very unfriendly words when the Beorning in the cart let out a shout.

"There's no gold here!" he exclaimed in a disappointed voice. "Just these rocks."

With surprisingly little effort, the strong man lifted one of the heavy stones and tossed it onto the ground where it landed with a muddy splat.

"Where's the treasure, girl?" demanded the scarred man.

"You took it all!" shouted Bregowald, rushing to his sister's side.

"It's true," said Fyrga, putting a hand on her brother's shoulder. "You lot carried off everything of value last time you came through. This is all the Dwarves sent us."

"How sad," said the Beorning in mock sympathy. "You new neighbors have become misers."

The other mounted men chuckled as they continued to encircle the wagon.

"No matter," their leader continued. "We don't have to leave empty handed."

"I told you, we have nothing else to give!" shouted Fyrga, now quite upset.

Holdan stepped to her side and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword ready to defend.

The big Beorning looked down at the angry old guard and smiled, showing several fang-like teeth.

"You have plenty more to give," he said, looking Holldan up and down. "We'll take the mail and weapons."

His band of brigands barked in agreement.

"But how will we defend ourselves?" said Holdan incredulously.

"My dear fellow," responded the Beorning. "That's what we're here for. Surely we need good steel more than you do."

Fyrga looked around, counted the massive mounted warriors, and came to the conclusion that this was a fight her people would surely lose. With tears of frustration in her eyes and despair in her voice, she gave the order for her guards to disarm and hand over their hard earned weapons and armor to their "protectors."

Obediently, Holdan and the other guards removed their finely wrought coats of mail and threw them in a pile on the damp earth. The mound of sparkling steel glimmered like a dragon's hoard in the afternoon sun. The Beornings dismounted to collect weapons from the unhappy guards. Spears, swords and daggers were reaped and carried away by their greedy hands. When it came time for Holdan to hand over his sword, he reluctantly removed it from the sheath and offered it to the leader of the Beornings. The man took one look at the notched and rusted blade and burst into a cackle of cruel laughter.

"You can keep this one, old man," he said, waving away the ancient sword. "We need better steel than that to keep the Orcs away. Maybe you can melt it down and make a few horseshoes."

Holdan's face burned red with anger, but he held his tongue while he sheathed his sword, thankful to retain the family heirloom, rust and all.

The Beornigns were pleased to discover that their piles of plunder were more than they could carry. One of the villager's wagons was unloaded and the rest of the ores were thrown into the mud. The warriors crammed all of their ill-gotten gains into the rickety wagon and turned their backs on the Fyrga's village. They rode away with the spring sun shining down on the poor farmers' fields.

A shaft of daylight pierced through the dusty gloom within the empty Chamber of Mazarbul. So deep inside the ground, it was difficult to keep track of seasons. By the time fresh air found its way through labyrinthine shafts, any trace of the natural world had long since faded into the damp darkness. Even sunlight brought little warmth when it finally peeked into subterranean chambers. But then again, the cruel bite of winter cold cannot penetrate so thick a defense as miles of mountain stone. As a result, the Mines of Moria were rarely warm, as making fires required vast quantities of wood to be hauled in from far afield in the great green world, but nor was it ever overly cold, being so well insulated by the mountains' roots. It was consistently damp and cool like a deep cellar.

In this world, Balin was seated upon his throne, hunched forward and rummaging through a large gilded box that lay upon his lap. Inside the container was an assortment of rings of every imaginable variety. He sifted through his collection, muttering and shaking his head.

"No, no, no," he whispered to no one but himself.

None of these could be Thrór's Ring, he thought. In truth, neither he nor anyone else in the colony knew what Thrór's Ring was supposed to look like, but all the same, he was disappointed by every ring in his enormous collection. Over the years, the colonists had found vast hordes of treasures untouched by Orcs. Some had been hidden away behind secret doors and others were lost beneath fallen rubble. Each time a new discovery was made, Balin was sure to collect every ring that could be found. Desperately, he hoped that with each new discovery, he was getting closer to attaining his elusive prize.

The Ring of Thrór would be the ultimate symbol of his authority and signify his divine right to rule as king of Khazad-dûm, not merely as a lord. Without it, Balin felt like the colonists, especially those who did not descend from Durin the Deathless, would always question his authority or perhaps even entertain ideas of dissent or rebellion.

Balin reached into the box and pulled out the largest, most exquisite ring in his possession, although he couldn't remember when he had acquired it. He had amassed so many priceless treasures that it was impossible to keep track of them all. The ring was made of Mithril and set with many sparkling jewels, including an enormous diamond the size of a bird's egg. He slipped it on his finger and held his hand out for a view in the low light.

"Yes, this would do," he thought to himself. "This will do just fine,"

His thoughts were interrupted when a knock came from the door. Quickly, he tossed the ring back in the box and snapped the lid closed. He rose from his seat and placed the box upon the large table in the center of the chamber. The table was piled high with papers, scrolls, empty beer mugs and all manner of golden treasures. Every inch of the table including many of the chairs were covered with this mess. With so many Dwarves sent to mine under Caradhras, it was clear that nobody had sat there for some time. From his pile of possessions, Balin picked up his Mithril helm and placed it upon his head. It was still too big for him but with some added padding, the helm at least stayed in place for the most part.

Straightening his long white beard, he turned and faced the doorway.

"Enter," he commanded in his best booming voice.

The heavy doors opened, and Frár entered the room briskly. His wet boots squelched with each step as he approached the Lord of Moria. Balin was momentarily taken aback, surprised to see Frár so soon. Balin composed himself quickly and watched the chamber doors close with a final DOOM. Walking over to Frár, Balin grabbed the young Dwarf with surprising strength in his aged hands, pulling him close. His beady eyes were glowing with anticipation.

"Is it done?" asked Balin in a barely audible voice.

"Yes, Lord," replied Frár, surprised at Balin's fierce behavior. "Just as you commanded."

"And you're sure they're all gone?" Balin asked eagerly.

"Yes, Lord, the tunnel is completely flooded," answered Frár.

"Very good," said Balin, releasing Frár from his iron grasp. His demeanor abruptly changed to that of a wise leader.

Balin leaned over the table and began rummaging through the clutter.

"As I told you before, those Firebeards were plotting to rob us blind," he told Frár.

"Ungrateful traitors!" said Frár. "I can't believe I ever trusted Gamil."

"Now, now," said Balin in a voice full of forced sympathy. "He tricked many of us, but of course, I saw through his lies."

Frár nodded in agreement and looked downwards to where a small puddle had formed around his wet boots. Noticing this, Balin went on while walking towards the table.

"But some of our people will not understand this," he said. "It's best that we do not worry the colony with the truth of his treachery. That's why this business needed to be handled discreetly. If anyone asks, this was all an unfortunate and unavoidable accident."

"Yes, Lord Balin, of course," agreed Frár.

Balin pushed aside some rolls of parchment, kicking up dust which hung in the shaft of white light. He caught sight of a silver tassel peeking out from beneath a stack of unread messages. He paused briefly, distracted by a faded memory.

"It's hard to know who to trust these days," said Balin sifting through a pile of golden jewelry.

"You can trust me, Lord Balin," said Frár.

"And you have proven that," said Balin in a distant, distracted voice. He grabbed one of the lesser treasures and returned to Frár.

"For your loyalty," said Balin, placing a heavy golden bracelet in Frár's hand, "and your silence."

The glittering trinket was made of many braided strands of gold with inset rubies and emeralds. Frár swelled with pride as he slipped it over his hand and marveled at the glimmering gift.

"Thank you, Lord Balin. I am forever loyal to you," said Frár beaming at his childhood idol.

"It comforts me to know that I can at least trust you if no one else," said Balin.

"The whole colony is loyal to you, Lord," said Frár.

"We shall see about that," answered Balin, glancing at his Mithril axe.

Just as Balin had seated himself upon his throne, there was another knock on the door.

"What is it?" snapped Balin

The doors opened, and in walked Náli. He strode across the floor towards the throne. catching a glimpse of gold on Frár's wrist. He glanced at his friend and saw a wide smile upon his face. Turning to the Lord of Moria, he removed his hood and bowed deeply in front Balin.

"Well?" said Balin impatiently.

"Lord Balin, I am told you have a guest," said Náli.

"A guest? Fine, send them in," said Balin turning to peer toward the chamber doors. "Probably one of those lazy good for nothing Ironbeards or Stifffoots," he added with a self-satisfied smirk.

Frár forced a laugh at his benefactor's crude jest while Náli did not join.

"I am told the guest awaits you at the East Gate," he said.

Balin nodded slowly and tugged at his beard.

"I told you those Men would be trouble, didn't I?" said Balin, looking from Náli to Frár.

They both nodded feverishly in agreement with their lord.

"It was bad business to arm those ruffians. Ori should never have let them in here. Just a matter of time before they turn those blades against us," Balin went on. "If they want weapons so badly, they can forge them themselves."

"Very clever to send pig iron to those pig farmers," said Frár.

"That will knock them down a peg," said Náli in agreement.

"I'm going to give that rascal Fyrga a piece of my mind, and her brat of a brother, too," said Balin.

In a huff, Balin grabbed Durin's axe carefully by the shaft and set off at once to dispatch this unwanted guest personally, taking with him, of course, the obedient Náli and Frár as well as a detachment of heavily armed guards. He left the Chamber of Mazarbul through the eastern door, to avoid the bustle of the Twenty-first Hall. Balin and his retinue plunged straight down a set of stairs and followed the dark passage for a mile down until it led into the enormous echoing expanse that was the Second Hall of the First Deep.

Despite the beautifully carved pillars of polished black stone, Balin had never liked this place. The vast gloomy space made him feel small. Like a mouse scurrying across the floor, trying not to get stepped on. Many colonists felt a similar sense of unease, preferring to live and work in one of the multitude of other areas that had been explored since the colony was founded three years ago.

Just as Balin was turning left toward the Bridge of Khazad-Dûm, something to his right caught his sharp eye. Balin turned aside and walked several paces before halting abruptly to stare at the floor.

"Has this crack gotten bigger?" he asked aloud to nobody in particular, pointing at a fracture in the smooth floor that ran from wall to wall.

Although very thin, it nonetheless stood out from the perfectly flat floor.

"I'm not sure, my Lord," said Náli, leaning forward to examine the crack.

The young Dwarf passed his fingers over the thin fissure. He couldn't be sure but it felt as though warm air was rising from the narrow fracture. Frár and several others crowded around to show their interest in the small matter that Balin had pointed out. If for no other reason than to display their commitment to their Lord's concerns.

"I don't remember it looking like this," said Balin, standing up and adjusting his helm which had slid out of place. "I want it repaired sooner rather than later."

Heads nodded at the order and Balin did an about face to continue on with his mission.

Náli marveled as Balin never once looked down or slowed his stride as he confidently led the column across the perilously narrow bridge that spanned the seemingly bottomless abyss. When Balin and his followers finally arrived at the First Hall, brightly lit with sunshine streaming through the eastern facing windows, they were met by a group of guards on duty. The great stone doors were slightly ajar and a bright shaft of morning light was shining through the gap. The captain of the guards tried speaking to Balin but the old Dwarf continued forward without breaking stride.

"Step aside, Toki," said Balin, pushing him aise.

Balin slipped between the thick doors and poked his head out. Whatever he was expecting to see was certainly not what met his eyes.

An Elf lady clad wholly in white stood before the steps of the East Gate. Very tall was she, grave and beautiful. Her hair was deep gold and styled like a crown upon her head. Her face was neither young nor old but her eyes shone with the profound depth of uncounted memories. Balin was momentarily smitten with blindness from the sunlight that reflected off her radiant hair. He rubbed his eyes and searched for words.

Finally, he spat out, "Who are you?"

With a kind smile, the fair maiden responded, "I am your neighbor from the Golden Wood,"

She gestured to the southeast with a long slender hand to where the morning mist hung over the lowlands in a thick haze.

"My name is Galadriel," she said.

Unimpressed with yet another bothersome neighbor, Balin asked "What do you want?"

He thudded the haft of his great axe upon the floor and leaned upon the top of the Mithril blade, making sure not to touch the perilously sharp edges. He stood atop the ancient stone stairs looking down upon his guest.

"I have brought you something," said Galadriel, presenting a small bundle wrapped in green fabric that matched the surrounding lichen covered stones perfectly in both color and in texture.

Balin was wary of Elves, especially those bearing gifts and was suspicious of the uninvited guest.

"I have everything I need," he began but stopped short when the fair lady uncovered the parcel.

Balin stood shocked and stared as still as stone. In her long white hands, Galadriel held a silver crown, wrought in the shape of slender tree branches each adorned with leaves of solid gold.

"This is what you seek. Is it not?" she proffered, holding the beautiful crown aloft so that the morning sun reflected off the bright leaves.

Balin was utterly mesmerized by the alluring offer, and stood transfixed. His whole life, he had served other kings – Train, Thrór, Thorin, and then that fat fool Dáin. Here before him, finally after all these years was the crown he had always wanted for himself. The crown he deserved. No, not like this. Not from the hand of an elf. Nothing in his life had been handed to him. He could not accept a crown this way.

"If this one is not to your liking, my smiths can make one more like Durin's," said Galadriel, as if perceiving his thoughts. "I still remember it well."

Balin regained his composure and remembered his deeply rooted suspicions.

"And what would you ask for in return?" he asked, narrowing his eyes, ever unwilling to trust an elf, no matter how fair and beautiful.

"Only that you heed my counsel, Lord Balin," said Galadriel.

"I don't recall asking for any, and certainly not from you," said Balin, thinking back to the last time he had encountered Elves not far from this very spot, not to mention his time in a prison cell in far away Mirkwood.

He pried his eyes away from the crown, turned and began to head back through the doors when Galadriel spoke again.

"Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla, and fair were the many-pillared halls of Khazad-dûm in Elder Days before the fall of mighty kings beneath the stone."

Balin froze, shocked to hear the secret language of the Dwarves spoken by an outsider. Gasps came from inside the gate revealing eavesdropping ears who were just as surprised as their lord to hear the elf lady speak their secret Khuzdul in such a refined accent. Although it was a cool spring morning, Balin began to sweat beneath his Mithril helm and the padding became slippery, causing it to slide to one side at an awkward angle. Balin straightened his headgear and turned back to Galadriel, eyeing her suspiciously.

"How did you learn our tongue?" he asked.

"The same way Durin did," responded Galadriel as if the answer was obvious.

Unsure of what she meant, Balin changed the subject.

"You seem to know much about my realm," he said. "Been spying on me, have you?"

"Many years ago, I lived in the lands near your West Gate in a fair land called Eregion," said Galadriel. Her voice sounded sad, as if recalling a happy memory that was doomed to live only in the past. "I even passed through Durin's halls before death and destruction drove out your forefathers."

"Well, we're back now, and we won't be leaving again," said Balin loud enough so the eavesdroppers could hear.

"You must know a terror sleeps beneath cruel Cahardras," she said gravely.

"Is that the consul you came all the way here to tell me? Well, we've slain all the Orcs," said Balin proudly. "We have nothing else to fear."

"There is still a more terrible evil. You know of what I speak," said Galadriel, staring directly into Balin's eyes.

A thought then came into Balin's mind. A dim vision of flame and shadow.

"If you mean Durin's Bane," retorted Balin defensively, "just like I told your nosey friends, that was all a lie to keep Longbeards from our birthright,"

"There is no knowing what a Dwarf will not dare and do for revenge or the recovery of his own," said Galadriel, "but this is no lie. A Balrog, a demon of the ancient world, yet lurks within the net of Moria,"

"Are you hearing this?" Balin called back into the darkness behind the doors.

"What have I been telling you all this time?" he said loudly. "You can't trust an Elf. This mistress of magic is trying to scare us out of our home so her pack of thieves can ransack our treasures."

Shouts went up from behind the doors in support of his claims.

"Nay, Lord Balin," said Galadriel firmly.

She seemed to grow taller and terrible as she spoke. A cloud seemed to pass over the morning sun, and even the shining crown in her hands ceased to sparkle.

"Keep your treasures. I want them not. I care only for your lives. You may yet become a king, but only if you lead your people away from this terrible place. Escape for your lives and do not look back. You may leave these mountains and escape to the plain. Stay, and you will be consumed."

For a moment, Balin stood in fear and awe of the great figure. His companions behind the door held their breath as they waited for their leader to speak. Galadriel then seemed to diminish back to her previous form, and Balin was able to breathe a sigh of relief. After a long pause, he forced a bemused chuckle.

"A very scary tale indeed," he said. "Spin your yarns to some other fool. You may keep your silly crown. We will never surrender Khazad-dûm, and you will never enter it again."

Without another word, he hoisted Durin's axe upon his shoulder, which accidentally knocked his helm out of place. Balin repositioned it before he slipped back inside the doors and then immediately ordered them closed. As the great stone doors came together, the guards saw Galadriel still grasping the shining crown with one hand while the other was outstretched, reaching towards them pleadingly.

The heavy doors closed seamlessly and the colonists found themselves in the familiar quiet of Moria. Balin looked around at his followers who silently stared at him, eagerly awaiting his next word, his next instruction, his next order.

"I have some important announcements to make," he said at last. "All colonists who are not otherwise occupied beneath Caradhras are to report to the Twenty-first Hall,"

Hooded and helmed heads hurriedly nodded as Dwarves scattered to spread the word. Balin then turned to Toki and pulled him closer. In a gravelly voice he made his next orders clear.

"You were a fool to open the doors for that lying witch," Balin told him. "If you want to keep your job, these doors will remain closed unless you are ordered to open them."

"But…But…" began Toki.

"What?" demanded Balin.

"What about the caravans that set out for the crossroads?" asked Toki. "And the goods we send to lady Fyrga?"

"Keep the doors shut," repeated Balin. "It's high time we stopped sending away our riches anyway."

"But Lord Balin," Toki protested. "You had ordered that the doors be replaced, as they are very…" Toki began to explain.

"I said they remain shut!" bellowed Balin. "We have timber enough to bar them,"

The terrified captain nodded and bowed, too scared to argue with his incensed lord. Balin turned his back on the East Gate to begin the long walk back to his throne. Within the first few steps, he had already begun crafting an ingenious plan. He would have much more to do before the day was over.

Later that evening, a great crowd of some two hundred Dwarves gathered in the Twenty-first Hall to receive their lord's announcements.

The sun had set in the outer world and the shaft above the eastern doorway was a dark portal to the night sky far away. The colonists were forced to wait for some time before Balin stepped up upon the dais. Despite the long wait, he was greeted with cheers and applause from the teeming crowd.

The Lord of Moria stood before them and basked in their adulations. With the Mithril helm resting proudly upon his head and Durin's Axe grasped firmly in his hands, he looked to many in the crowd every bit the hero they had grown up admiring.

Indeed, as Balin surveyed the crowd, he recognized only a few faces. Almost all of the Dwarves that had turned out to see him were newer colonists from Erebor. Second or third sons who looked to inherit little from their Longbeard families back at the Lonley Mountain and so had made their way to Khazad-dûm to seek their fortunes under the leadership of one of their childhood heroes. Most of the original company of colonists were still away beneath Caradhras with their teams of workers. Just as well, Balin thought; they would hear the news in due time.

As he listened to the roar of the crowd, Frár watched the eastern shaft closely until he saw the first sliver of the rising moon. Right on cue, Frár ascended the dais and stood at Balin's side. This would be the first time the young Dwarf had spoken in front of such a large group, but like any actor upon so grand a stage, he had rehearsed each of his lines to perfection.

"Listen here, friends!" he shouted above the din, calling all the crowd to quiet. "By now you have all heard how the Elven witch offered Lord Balin a crown today. Of course, his humble nature compelled him to refuse such an honor."

The crowd applauded in support of such humility. Word had indeed spread through the colony like wildfire, recounting several assorted retellings of the brief conversation at the East Gate. Some of the most fantastical versions had originated from Balin himself.

"Our Lord was wise to refuse a foreign crown," said Frár. "He above all deserves a crown of dwarven make."

As he said this, he produced a parcel from under his arm and opened it, displaying a Mithril crown for all to see. In truth, it was one of many such diadems found in Moria's numerous troves but to the vulgar crowd, it appeared a regal symbol all the same. The enthralled audience stared at the beautiful circlet, entranced by sudden moonlight dancing off its silvery surface. Balin suppressed a smile as he looked out over the crowd with hungry eyes, feasting upon their attention, savoring every morsel of their praise.

Frár continued speaking to the audience with the crown held high into the air. "Lord Balin has brought us wealth, security and prosperity," he said.

The audience roared in agreement; every one of them had found wealth in Balin's colony. Frár waited patiently before speaking again, knowing how much Balin craved moments like these.

"As Durin's heir, he has earned the right to be crowned King of Khazad-dûm!" Frár declared.

The Twenty-first Hall sounded as if it was in the grips of a ferocious thunderstorm when Frár extended the crown and offered it to Balin. Putting on a shocked expression that even those in the back of the crowd could see, Balin looked upon the offering as if contemplating a difficult decision.

"Take the crown!" came shouts.

"Be our king!" commanded many.

After the crowd had spun itself up to a sufficient whirl. Balin put his plan into motion. With an upturned palm, he pushed away the crown. He had them now.

The crowd roared back to life. The acclimations came even more fervently.

"King Balin!" they cried.

For a moment as the crowd calmed itself, Balin considered changing his plan completely and accepting the shining circlet. Thinking better of it, he decided to stick to his well-crafted scheme. He stole a look at Frár and gave an imperceptible nod. Frár understood the command and for the second time offered the crown to his hero. Again the crowd exploded when Balin pushed away the precious gift. In dramatic fashion, Balin spun on his heels and turned away from Frár's outstretched hands. Frár rose to his feet and called to the crowd.

"Our lord is too humble to call himself king. He cares not for a crown but only for his people," Frár announced.

His final line complete, Frár beamed at Balin, who returned to place a hand on his shoulder. Frár then stepped aside allowing Balin to stand center stage in the middle of the raised dais. Balin thudded the handle of his axe upon the stone floor. DOOM. DOOM. DOOM. The loud booms reverberated across the onlookers and they dutifully quieted down. Balin stared from face to face. The great hall was deadly silent while he inspected each face. At last, Balin addressed the crowd.

"My loyal subjects, listen closely," said Balin. "I will not accept a crown, like someone else back in Erebor who was so eager to be handed a kingdom he did not deserve. I am ever your humble leader and will continue to serve as Lord of Khazad-dûm as long as I have life."

Although he did not say the name, every Dwarf in attendance knew he was speaking about his old rival, King Dáin. Few of the onlooking Dwarves had ill will against the old king but still, they cheered for Balin's refusal to wear the crown. Knowing he had the mob's adoration firmly ensnared within his iron grip, Balin segued into the next phase of his performance.

"Firstly, it is my unfortunate duty to announce that a minor accident has occured," he announced in a grave tone.

The colonists charred concerned looks, as this was the first they were hearing of such an accident.

"As many of you know," Balin went on, "Gamil led a team of his Firebeard kin into flooded shafts beneath Caradhras. Against my orders, he drained the tunnels and pushed his workers to unsafe depths. Alas, the price of his folly was most severe."

At this ill news, gasps came from the crowd. Pleased by their concerned looks, Balin continued in a disheartened voice.

"Sadly, it seems that Gamil's incompetent inventions failed, and the entire group was drowned," he said.

Balin then hung his head to deliver his most dramatic line.

"I am grieved to report that none survived," he announced.

Putting on his best mournful face, he shook his head as he continued speaking only after a long mournful pause.

"I was wrong to trust a Firebeard with such responsibility," he told them. "I know a Longbeard would have followed my orders, and all those lives could have been spared."

"Here, here!" came shouts of agreement from the crowd.

Balin was pleased to see that his ruse was working. No tears were shed for the disobedient Firebeards, and nobody would place their untimely deaths at Balin's feet. Feeding off this success he moved onto his next order of business.

"But there is good news as well," announced Balin, sweeping aside any shadow of sadness or concern. "Yes indeed. Another great discovery has been made."

The crowd leaned forward, eager to hear such news.

"Behold!" bellowed Balin. "The Ring of Thrór has been found!"

At this moment, he reached into his pocket and produced a magnificent ring. He held aloft the glittering treasure so all could gaze upon it. Looks of wonder and amazement stared back at their lord as the moonlight danced off the jeweled ring.

"Long have I searched for this mighty heirloom," he told them. "One of the seven Rings of Power worn by dwarven kings of old. Now, by fate's mysterious ways, it has come to me. Let this be a symbol of my right to rule,"

He placed the glittering ring upon his finger and rested his hand upon the blade of his great axe displaying it for all to see. Standing powerfully above his subjects, Balin went on.

"Do not trust in the lies of outsiders," he told them. "Elves, Men, and even foreign Dwarves aim to rob us of our treasures. They are devious schemers, jealous of our wealth. We must remain vigilant of their machinations. Gamil's disobedience led to his death, but your loyalty will be rewarded beyond your dreams."

His message was clear. His words were met with thunderous applause and shouts of acclamation. He stood before his subjects and greedily soaked in their praise.

14

The collapse

Onar listened with trepidation as the thick wooden timbers cried under immense pressures. Cruel Caradhras was pressing all of its malevolent weight downwards upon the Dwarves that bored slowly into the mountain's dark heart.

The work had started like many other mines Onar had worked in over the years. Ori and Onar supervised two teams of miners that worked in alternating shifts around the clock. As the Dwarves delved ever deeper into the roots of the mountain, they were forced to brace the walls and ceiling as they encountered unstable rock. Trees that had grown tall in clear mountain air found themselves felled, shaped, and then carried down into the dark abyss so the Dwarves' pickaxes could press onward a few more feet. Onar had his concerns about this site and tried to ensure the safety of his comrades.

Onar was constantly worried for the safety of his workers. Even with one eye, he could see that the crumbling red stone made for unsafe digging. As each hard one basket of material was removed, they seemed to be no closer to striking their elusive prize.

Ori was less concerned than his Broadbeam friend. He was, at least at first, content to follow Balin's orders to the letter, delving deeper and deeper into the red rock. As fresh supplies were routinely delivered from above, Ori would send back reports of their progress for Balin.

However, when conditions soon began to deteriorate, Onar sent his own urgent message up to the Chamber of Mazarbul to inform Balin of the unsafe conditions and to ask for permission to explore other areas. The Lord of Moria sent back a clear message: "Keep digging."

And so they did. Weeks passed as the colonists burrowed deeper and deeper. As they descended into the earth, the temperature rose gradually. At first, the heat was welcomed as dark, damp tunnels at the bottom of the world can get awfully chilly. However, as they continued, the hardworking Dwarves began to sweat until they could wring out their soiled hoods. Eventually, the workers were forced to strip nearly naked to avoid overheating. On top of this, their food deliveries were decreasing in quantity and frequency.

Again, Onar sent messages to the Chamber of Mazarbul, and again he received the same answer: "Keep digging."

Another hellish month of work followed. By this point, the Dwarves had been forced to ration their food, and many of the workers were feeling the effects of malnutrition. Their weak arms could barely swing their heavy picks. On top of this, the mine had grown so hot that some of the stouty Dwarves began succumbing to the immense heat. In an attempt to preserve the lives of his workers, Onar ordered snow and ice to be carted to the mineshaft so that the Dwarves could be cooled down as they rested every hour.

Even these measures could not protect the wearisome workers from an unseen danger, the lack of breathable air. Miles from the outside world, there simply was not enough of the life-sustaining vapor making its way down crooked and blocked airways to this forsaken oven. When sturdy Dwarves, known for their hardiness, began fainting and falling into foaming fits, Onar and Ori sent a desperate third message to the top begging for aid or respite.

For a third time, they were told "Keep digging."

When the curt response finally came, Onar defiantly stopped digging.

"You need to go up there and try to talk some sense into Balin. You've known him longest. He'll listen to you," said Onar, throwing down his tools in protest.

"I doubt that would do any good," said Ori mournfully. "I don't even think he reads my messages."

"All the more reason to pay him a visit. We needn't risk lives here. Balin should know that," said Onar

"I don't want to anger him," said Ori. "Trust me, his temper is hotter than this shaft."

"I know he sent you down here to keep an eye on us," Onar said in disgust.

Ori's face became crimson red and he began several stuttering excuses.

"It's fine," said Onar. "I don't blame you."

"I'm sorry, Onar" said Ori, putting his face in his filthy hands. "I trust you, I really do. It's just that Balin…"

The heat and stress finally did their work on Ori, and the old Dwarf slumped to the floor.

"I'm sorry," Ori said in exhaustion.

"I know," said Onar, saving his friend from further strain. He patted Ori on the shoulder. "I'll go myself."

Ori, his face still obscured behind his dirty hands, nodded, appreciating Onar's boldness.

Promising to return soon, and hopefully with good news, Onar dressed himself in what tattered rags remained of his clothes, packed what little food his team could spare and began the long southward ascent to speak with Lord Balin in person.

After walking over twenty miles through dark, winding passages, Onar crossed the stone floor of the Twenty-first Hall, filthy, exhausted and desperate. Heads turned as he walked through a beam of sunlight cascading down a shaft in the eastern wall. Curious colonists were shocked to see his sunken face and skeletal frame. His soiled clothes looked like filthy rags and his belt hung loose about his shriveled waist.

Undeterred, Onar continued down the passageway toward the Chamber of Mazarbul. Outside the door, Frár and Lóni stood as sentries proudly wearing splendid new armor. Their faces showed concern and confusion as Onar approached them.

"Lord Balin is busy," said Frár, extending a mailed arm to block Onar's way. On his wrist, he wore an elegant bracelet that caught Onar's eye.

"It seems so," said Onar as he pushed Frár's jeweled hand and heaved open the heavy doors.

To Onar's surprise, Balin was not seated upon his throne; instead, the Lord of Moria was seated at the large stone table, nearly buried in the heaped mess. The ancient Dwarf was nearly buried in scrolls and bits of parchment. He had a quill in his hand and seemed to be sketching something furiously by the light of the small shaft of sunshine when he was interrupted.

Without looking away from his work Balin shouted, "I told you, I am not to be bothered!"

"This must stop," said Onar firmly from the doorway.

With a start, Balin's quill stopped scribbling, and he raised his head above the clutter to view the unexpected guest.

"Apologies, Lord Balin, he just…" began Lóni, trying to drag Onar out of the chamber.

With a furious look in his eyes, Balin set down his quill and rose from his seat. He stomped toward Onar, pointing with an ink-stained hand, and began shouting.

"This lazy Broadbeam has been trying to skirt his assigned duties for weeks, and here he is, far from his assignment, galavanting into my chambers uninvited!"

"Nay, Lord, I am not galavanting," responded Onar, composing himself while holding up his loose trousers. "I am here to report that we cannot delve any deeper without putting our workers in mortal peril. The heat is too great, and the air is too thin."

Balin gave him a cold look, staring intently into Onar's single eye.

"I don't care if it's a bit warm down there. Your lord ordered you and your work-shy rabble to keep digging," said Balin. "You dare disobey me?"

"No Mithril is worth this risk," pleaded Onar.

"Get him out of here!" shouted Balin with a crazed look in his eye.

Before the guards could put their hands on Onar, the doors crashed open again. This time, it was one of the young workers from Onar's team. He was soaked in sweat and breathing hard. He immediately collapsed upon the floor at Onar's feet.

Onar dropped down and took the youth's head in his hands.

"What's happened? Is everyone alright?" asked Onar in a panic.

A hoarse and feeble voice croaked a single word in response. "Collapse."

Without another thought about Balin or his cruel words, Onar rushed out of the Chamber of Mazarbul and into the Twenty-first Hall. With tear-filled eyes, he could only see a blur of faces and colors. He could hear shouts coming from behind him, but he could not make out what the enraged voices were saying. He seized reins out of a stranger's hands, mounted a startled pony, and took off down the winding path back to his comrades. He rode so hard that his mount collapsed a furling from the tunnel entrance, and he had to run the rest of the way.

As he neared the mineshaft, he saw Ori limping toward him, his arm hanging at an unusual angle and the leg of his trousers stained with blood. Thankful that his friend was alive if not unscathed, Onar's thoughts turned to the others he could not see.

"How bad is it? How many are lost?" he asked, afraid to hear the answer.

"The bottom half caved in," said Ori solemnly. "We're not sure how many workers were still down there. No less than a dozen, I'd say. I barely made it out with my life. They've started bracing the walls, and the search is underway for survivors."

"We need a full head count of our entire team. I'm going to join the search," said Onar.

Without a moment's hesitation, Onar scrambled into the gaping adit, climbing over shattered stones and splinted beams. Workers rushed new logs down the tunnel and battered them into place with heavy hammers. Others stacked rubble along the walls, hoping to prevent another catastrophe. Farther down, Onar saw two Dwarves coming his way, hauling a heavy load between them. As they came closer, Onar could see through the dusty gloom that they were carrying the mangled body of an unlucky miner. There was so much blood that Onar could not even guess which color the Dwarf's hood might have been.

Onar had seen enough tragic sights to last a lifetime before he reached a point where he could go no farther. The tunnel was completely blocked with the deep red stone of Caradras' cruel core. The ill will of the mountain had no love for Dwarves or their greed. He had devoured their bodies and would not surrender them willingly.

Onar's head swam, and he sank down to the tunnel floor. He wept for his lost comrades. He wept for the Mithril the poor miners had died for. His remaining eye wept for the futility and the waste of so many young lives for the sake of greed and glory.

Onar listened as footsteps faded distantly. The last of the rescue party had given up hope and left the tunnel. All that remained was the setting silent heat of the mine. Mournfully, Onar got to his feet and wiped the tears from his eye. The creaking timbers reminded him how dangerous this deep dark place was. With a sigh, he turned to follow the retreat. His legs ached and his feet felt as heavy as lead. As he hobbled up the tunnel, he ran his hands along red stone walls. Every inch of the surface was pocked by countless hours of grueling labor. Each groove stone was now paid for in dwarven blood. Onar despaired, thinking how it had all been for nothing. Dozens had died horrible deaths without ever reaching a new Mithril lode. Those brave Dwarves who had left their homes for riches or adventure had found neither beneath cruel Caradhras.

About halfway back to the top of the mineshaft, Onar stopped to wipe his brow. Even at this level, the air was still suffocating and hot. He leaned his back against the wall, preparing himself to continue the climb after he caught his breath. As he looked up the tunnel, something caught his eye. Along the wall, there was a narrow fissure. Onar moved closer to examine this fracture in the stone. Onar wondered how he hadn't noticed this before. Clearly, this gap was caused by the calamity that had brought so much death upon his workers. A flicker of hope was then kindled in his heart. Perhaps there were survivors trapped in this narrow place. Looking into the crack, Onar saw nothing but inky blackness.

With an effort, Onar wormed his way into the tight space to take a better look. To his surprise, it continued for some distance. Feeling with his hands and his feet, he wriggled further and further into the crevice. It was only at this point that Onar realized how much weight he had lost. Before so many weeks of work in this subterranean furnace, there was no way he would have been able to squeeze into this small space.

Suddenly, Onar no longer felt the press of stones upon his sides and knew he had entered into a larger space. Even his keen Dwarf eye could make nothing out of this utter darkness. He felt for his tinder box and candle on his belt. He dropped to his knees and set to work. Orange sparks spit on the candle's wick. Onar's sweat had gotten to the candle and it was taking longer than usual to get it lit. The repetitive rapping of flint on steel echoed deafeningly loud in Onar's ears. At last, a tiny pinprick of orange light glowed faintly before his perspiring face. Holding the candle aloft, Onar rose and began to survey his surroundings.

The crack he had climbed out of had breached the wall of the chamber he was now standing in. Limited to the small flickering glow of the candle, Onar continued his investigation. Examining the workmanship, Onar determined that this was indeed the work of ancient days, when the forefathers of the Longbeards had first carved these halls. Straying farther from the walls, he looked down and surveyed smooth square stones that made up the floor. He continued forward, hunched over a couple more paces until he came upon a dark spot on the floor. Candlelight reflected off the flat surface. Even in the dim light, Onar knew blood when he saw it. As he straightened up and raised the candle, his mouth opened, but no scream came out.

Before him was a mound of severed heads. The blood-soaked beards glistened in front of Onar, who stood frozen in horror. After uncounted seconds of terror, Onar steeled his resolve and yet was unable to look away. Finally, Onar approached the grizzly sight. He held the candle closer to the mangled faces to see which of his workers had met this unfortunate end.

Without touching the bloody flesh, he was only able to see a few faces but was shocked to find that they were not his workers at all. He could tell by the beards that these Dwarves were Firebeards from Gamil's team that had been missing for weeks, ever since the entire party was lost in a catastrophic flood. How could this be? Onar's mind was foggy with confusion and questions.

He pried his gaze away from the terrible sight and he saw that the macabre mass was placed in front of a stone altar, stained dark with dried blood. Behind the altar was the opposite wall of the chamber and upon this stone surface was once a finely carved relief. It depicted a scene familiar to all Dwarves as it told the tale of their creation. The artwork had originally depicted the mythic scene of Aule creating the seven fathers of Dwarves. However, the beautiful handiwork of bygone days had been marred by evil hands in this long abandoned place. Crude gouges had been carved into the stone, distorting the image and dramatically changing the figures. The horrid scratches covered Aules divine face and formed a great menacing shape in its place.

Onar began shaking in terror when, instead of seeing his creator standing proudly above his creations, he saw a horned demon wielding a whip and blade while each of the seven fathers was ablaze with roughly carved flames.

Overcome with terror, Onar spun on his heels and threw himself into the fissure by which he entered this waking nightmare. Onar squirmed and furiously fought his way through the crack until he was back in the mineshaft. A great rumble and growl filled his ears. For a moment, Onar thought the beast from the carving had pursued him into the tunnel, but then all was made clear.

Farther down the tunnel, stone was falling onto the floor and braces were buckling with sickening snaps. The appetite of Caradhras was not yet satiated. The tunnel was collapsing again. Marshaling all his strength he took off up the tunnel as fast as his exhausted legs could carry him. Death and darkness nipped at his heels until he reached the top of the shaft. A fog obscured his vision, his legs crumbled beneath him, and Onar collapsed upon the floor.

Onar coughed up lungfuls of coarse red dust that burned like hot ashes. A concerned crowd had gathered around and helped the Broadbeam to his feet. Onar immediately launched into a frantic account of the demonic dungeon he had just escaped. His descriptions of severed heads and flame-wreathed monsters were met by gasps of revulsion from all close enough to hear his raving. He then heard Ori's voice above the sea of voices that filled the narrow space.

"No!" shouted Ori "Stop! You can't do this!"

Onar then saw the stern faces of Frár, Lóni, and Náli flanked by a company of Balin's armed guards. They were pushing their way through the disheveled crowd, heaving aside the weak and injured miners, their hard eyes fixed on Onar. Relieved to see that Balin had sent aid so quickly, Onar shouted to the rapidly approaching guards in a hoarse and desperate voice.

"In the tunnel! Orcs! Corpses!" he exclaimed, pointing back toward the crumbling passage. "There is a demon under Caradhras!"

He turned around just in time to glimpse the bright glint of gold as Frár's heavy fist met his face with a tremendous blow. The world went dark, and he saw no more.

When Onar awoke, he was lying on a cot and staring up at the ceiling of his private chambers not far from the Twenty-first Hall. His whole body ached, and his head pounded. He turned his eye and saw that Ori was sitting at his side on a small stool. The kind Longbeard's arm was in a sling and a wooden crutch leaned against the wall behind him.

"Tell me," said Onar, turning his sore head toward his friend.

Ori removed his hood sadly to deliver the grave verdict.

"Thirty seven workers are dead or lost," he said. "The tunnel has completely collapsed."

Onar closed his eye when he heard this crushing news. This number was far higher than he expected.

"I'm so sorry," continued Ori in a whisper. "I should have spoken to Lord Balin sooner. Perhaps. Perhaps…"

"There's nothing we can do now," said Onar, trying to comfort his grieving friend.

Ori raised his uninjured arm and ran his hand over his face.

"How did I get here?" asked Onar, trying to change the subject.

"Balin's guards hauled you away. They told us all that you had gone mad and we were not believe a word you said. I had to beg them just to let me sit beside you."

Onar felt a large welt on the side of his skull and then recalled his violent abduction.

"Is any of it true?" asked Ori, looking into Onar's eye fearfully. "The heads, the demon?"

The horrifying scenes Onar had witnessed came flooding back to his mind.

"All of it." Onar nodded, unable to shake the nightmare from his mind.

"I believe you," said Ori, almost shaking in fear. "And so do many others. The whole colony is talking about it now,"

The troubled expression on Ori's face told Onar there was more bad news to hear.

"What else?" Onar asked weakly.

"You have been summoned to The Chamber of Mazarbul," said Ori. "Lord Balin has demanded your presence as soon as you are able to stand."

Onar and Ori limped their way out of the chamber and saw two armed sentinels standing outside the door. Escorted by these silent guards, the two wounded Dwarves finally made their way through the eerily empty Twenty-first Hall, leaning on each other for support. All was dark and quiet. There were no days or nights inside Moria, but in the outside world at least, the sun had long since set. They found Náli and Lóni standing at the closed door of the Chamber of Mazarbul. Onar stared at Náli in disgust, but the young Dwarf took one look at Onar's swollen face and swiftly shifted his gaze away.

In a barely audible whisper that only Onar could hear, Náli croaked, "We were just following orders."

The door suddenly swung inwards and there stood Frár. Unlike Náli, he did not look away from Onar's disfigured face. With one strong hand, he reached forward and grabbed the Broadbeam by the collar and roughly pulled him into the room.

"What is this?" asked Onar, trying feebly to escape out the doorway as a wash of panic flooded over him.

"A trial," responded Frár as he dragged Onar to the center of the darkened room and forced him onto a small stool.

Balin was seated upon his high throne with his mighty Mithril axe laid across his lap. The large table and its familiar mess that had been in the center of the room was now gone. A small audience was standing silently around the walls of the chamber, looking inward at the cleared space in the center of the room.

"Let him go!" called Ori vainly, but he was pulled away by Lóni and forced to stand with the other onlookers.

Onar looked up at Balin, equal parts terrified and confused. The Lord of Khazad-Dum glared down at the bewildered Dwarf sitting alone on the small stool.

After a crushing silence, Frár spoke. "Balin, Lord of Moria, charges you with treason. What do you have to say for yourself, traitor?"

"Traitor?" said Onar incredulously. "I have always been loyal to this colony."

Seeing no mercy in Balin's eyes, he looked over his shoulder at the gathered gallery of observers. He scanned the mass of strangers hoping to see a friendly face that would listen to reason. More than ever, he missed his closest friend Gamil, whom he now assumed had met death or some even worse fate.

He looked for Óin who had always been kind to him. Surely, he could talk some sense into Balin if anyone could. Alas, he could see no familiar face in the crowd. Few of the onlookers met his gaze, their eyes instead fixed upon their terrible tyrant upon his tall stone throne. They seemed to Onar to be hungry young newcomers loyal to Balin alone, no doubt handpicked to witness his twisted spectacle, this miscarriage of justice.

"I ordered you to cease working in that unsafe area," announced Balin, speaking loud enough so the audience could hear him clearly. "Instead, you disobeyed my direct orders and pressed on, leading to the deaths of many Dwarves. That's not loyalty. That is treason."

"No!" shouted Onar. "It was I who counseled caution! You forced us to keep digging even though I pleaded on behalf of my workers."

"Lies!" bellowed Balin. "I did no such thing. Do not try to shift the blame because of your failure."

"Nay, Lord!" shouted Ori, breaking free of Loni's grasp and limping out from the knot of spectators. "Onar did everything he could to save the lives of his workers!"

"You side with this foreign fool?" demanded Balin.

Ori froze, unsure of what to say. Balin's wrathful face was terrible to behold.

"Bring him forward!" ordered Balin.

Náli grabbed Ori and dragged him into the center of the makeshift court. With a final push, Ori's crutch slipped and he fell to the floor in a heap at Onar's side.

"There is no time for this!" shouted Onar, rising from his seat to aid his friend. "We are all in danger. There is an awful evil beneath Caradhras"

"Silence!" commanded Balin, now gripping the handle of his axe.

Undeterred by Balin's threatening posture, Onar continued to speak out. Now to the crowd of Dwarves, whose faces now looked concerned.

"Before the tunnel collapsed, I discovered the bloody heads of Gamil's team piled before an altar," Onar explained.

There were gasps from behind him as the crowd erupted in chatter. They were all aware of the swirling rumors but to hear it from a direct witness was unnerving for even those hoping to see him discredited.

"These are all lies!" shouted Balin, rising to his feet and addressing the assembled witnesses.

These whispers immediately ceased and all eyes turned to the irate lord who looked down at them with Durin's Axe gripped rightly in his hand.

"Can't you fools see that this Broadbeam is filling your heads with fear so you forget the fact that his incompetence cost the lives of thirty-seven of your fellow colonists?"

Several Dwarves shot Onar suspicious looks while he held up a grimacing Ori.

"No!" retorted Onar. "I tell the truth,"

"Alright, then," said Balin in a calmer voice.

He descended from his raided throne and came forward to face Onar.

"Where is this altar?" he asked, narrowing his eyes to smoldering embers.

"It was through a crevasse in the mineshaft, but as I said, the passage has collapsed, and we can no longer reach it," responded Onar.

"Well, isn't that convenient?" Balin mocked. "First, you try to avoid responsibility for your failure as a miner, and now you try to peddle this tale that nobody can prove."

Balin now wore a self-satisfied look on his face as he watched bedient heads nod in the gallery.

"It's the truth," demanded Onar resolutely.

"Did you see this altar?" Balin asked Ori.

"Well…" stammered Ori, his voice quaking from the excruciating pain in his leg. "No, Lord Balin. I was not with Onar when he found the altar."

"Very convenient, indeed," said Balin, now nodding with a smug smile.

He turned to the assembled onlookers.

"So, we are to take the word of a one-eyed liar?" he asked them.

"No!" shouted Frár

"Never!" echoed Náli.

Onar shook his head in disbelief. His lone eye filled up with tears while the crowd began to yell.

"Please, believe me, Lord Balin! I have seen proof of Orcs and of something much worse down there. We are all in mortal peril. You must believe me!" pleaded Onar.

Balin ignored him and instead turned his attention to Ori. Shaking his head like a disappointed father, he pulled Ori away from Onar. He then spoke in a jarringly kind manner to the Dwarf he had known for so many long years. Onar resumed his seat upon the tiny stool and put his head in his hands.

"Even after reading all those books, you still aren't smart enough to see past this charade?" he said, pointing at Onar.

"This foreign rabble-rouser is trying to stir up my colony to distract them from the catastrophe he caused. He might have hoodwinked you, but I know the truth."

Ori hung his head and began to weep.

"I'm sorry," said Ori.

"I know you had nothing to do with this traitorous betrayal," said Balin.

He brought the sharp blade of his axe close to Ori's tear-streaked face. With the slightest of motions, the keen edge barely touched Ori's cheek. A trickle of blood then mixed with his tears. Red drops splashed on the chamber floor.

"I'm sorry," repeated Ori.

"You better be," Balin whispered in Ori's ear. "Defy me again, and you will share his fate."

Ori's head remained bowed. Blood and tears continued to drip off his pained face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

"Get in line with the others," Balin said and then roughly pushed Ori away from him.

He then turned his attention back to Onar.

"And what should I do with you?" he asked.

Frár gave a silent signal to the patiently waiting audience and all at once they began shouting and hurling insults at Onar.

"Traitor!"

"Liar!"

"Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!" they chanted in unison. A flock of carrion crows cackling for another corpse.

Ori collapsed to the floor whimpering in pain but said nothing. Onar sat alone before the wrathful Balin who seemed then to grow in stature as if feasting on the clamor of the crowd. Climbing back onto his throne, he looked down upon Onar with cold malice.

Towering above the helpless Dwarf, he set Durin's Axe across his lap once again. Balin announced his verdict in commanding a voice that all in attendance shuddered to hear.

"Onar of the Broadbeams, I, Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria, name you a traitor and a liar. I hereby sentence you to death."

15

Silence

"This is pointless," said Anar, wiping his brow with the back of a filthy hand.

Óin couldn't argue with his assessment. They had been hammering away for weeks in their assigned sector and had yet to find anything of value, let alone the elusive Mithril vein they had been sent to find. Gold and silver had been plentiful in other shafts, but Óin and his eastern friends seemed to have drawn the least productive place to dig in the whole of the misty mountains. Their workers had toiled ceaselessly to burrow deeper and deeper through hard stone with little to show for it. Despite all the stories of the endless riches of Khazad-dûm, there were clearly vast areas of simple, worthless rock.

"Any word from the top?" asked Nar.

"Nothing at all," said Óin, shaking his head.

He wondered why his cousin had not sent back a response. It had been some time since they had sent a message suggesting the idea of abandoning this desolate endeavor and trying their luck somewhere else. Óin wondered if Ori and the Broadbeams had found any Mithril in their assigned area. This far beneath the earth there was no way to communicate with the other teams, and yet rumors had reached them that some calamity had taken the lives of several Firebeards, although the details of such a tale were hard to sort out so far from the source. Óin wished he could just walk back to the Chamber of Mazarbul and see what was going on up there with his own eyes.

"Perhaps you could ask in person," suggested Hannar, as if knowing Óin's mind.

"That's exactly what I'll do," agreed Óin. "We're just wasting time here anyway. I'll try to convince Balin that our time is best spent elsewhere."

"Should we come with you?" asked Anar, putting down his pick to massage his bad shoulder.

"I appreciate the offer, my friend," said Óin, "but I think we have a better chance at success if I go alone. Unfortunately, my cousin doesn't seem to appreciate advice unless it comes from a Longbeard."

"I don't believe he takes advice from anybody these days, Longbeard or otherwise," said Hannar under his breath.

"Well, I, for one, appreciate your advice," said Óin, looking at each of his eastern comrades.

"I'm going to head up there now. I should be back in a day or two."

"And ask for more food," chimed in Hannar. "We're starving down here."

Ori wholeheartedly agreed to this suggestion. Indeed, their regular deliveries had become anything but regular. For the first time in years, the Dwarves were forced to ration their food and oftentimes work on an empty stomach. Just as Ori was turning to leave, Lofar called after him.

"Bring back some news from the top. I'm running out of stories," he said.

"You could always make one up," said Óin with a wink and a smile.

Óin packed some provisions, making sure to leave enough for his friends, and set off for the journey up to the Twenty-first Hall. Based on Óin's rough calculations, their work site had been some ten miles North of the colony proper, but it would be many more miles of walking before he stood before Balin in the Chamber of Mazarbul. The journey was easy going and mostly flat. Unlike some other work parties, Óin and his team were not mining down as much as they were mining due north under the pass between Caradhras and Fanuidhol.

After weeks of dreary hardship in the mines, Óin was looking forward to seeing some new scenery and hopefully some new faces. He was eager to hear what else was going on in the colony and if any of the other teams had found success. As he journeyed through passageways, he followed makeshift signs that workers had crudely constructed as a means of navigating this endless warren of shafts and tunnels.

With minimal delays, Óin made his way South and back to the habitable parts of Durin's mansions. Instead of roughly hewn mine shafts, he was now walking down hallways of black polished stone and across great halls with many pillars. The floors were smooth and level; a testament to dwarven attention to detail. Óin had not made it far through these areas before noticed how quiet these halls were.

He halted for a brief rest next to two enormous slabs of stone. One was roughly hewn and vaguely rectangular. All around it lay discarded chisels and hammers as if the workers had simply dropped their tools to attend to something more important. The other slab was similar in size but more finely carved. Heavy lifting even for a troll, and challenging to move for even the most ingenious Dwarves, the great slabs rested upon thick wooden logs, patiently waiting to be rolled away. They looked to Óin to be great stone doors, although not yet complete. Their uneven edges would need many hours of fine craftsmanship before they were ready to swing and close effectively. There were so many projects going on around Khazad-dûm in those days, that Óin could not guess what hall these doors were destined for. After this short respite, he set off again for the final leg of his journey towards the Twenty-first Hall.

As he walked closer to the hub of the colony he had expected to see more colonists. Instead, he saw even more work stations abandoned and had only his echoing footsteps and worrisome thoughts for company.

At last, he found himself walking down a familiar passageway. As he approached the doorway to the chamber of Mazarbul, he was surprised to find the door closed with no guards posted outside. Before he had time to think about this, his ears picked up voices coming from further down the passageway. Confused, Óin walked southwards toward the doorway which led to the Twenty-first Hall. As neared the opening, the din of voices raised to a clamor and eventually to a roar. When he entered the immense hall, he at once realized why he had seen no other Dwarf during his journey.

To Óin's astonished eyes, it seemed as though the entire colony was in this single space, all jostling to get close to the raised dais. A red dawn was breaking outside, and scarlet light poured in through the eastern window painting everything in the Twenty-first Hall a deep crimson. Óin could see Balin standing upon the platform above his subjects. One foot was on a large block of stone while in his hands he held Durin's Axe, which gleamed in the dim light.

Balin gave a command command to Frár but Óin could not make out the words over the hum of voices bouncing off the stone walls. Frár turned and gestured toward the guardroom. A column of guards then marched out with a chained prisoner in tow. The prisoner looked thin and filthy as Náli and Lini pushed him up the steps to Balin's side.

"Silence!" roared Balin as he struck the handle of his mighty axe upon the floor.

The crowd hushed immediately. Óin tried to work his way closer to the front to get a better view, but the crowd was so dense, he could only get about halfway across the hall before Balin began speaking again.

"Before you stands a traitor and a liar," announced the Lord of Moria. "He has disobeyed my direct orders and is responsible for the deaths of your comrades. He has spread vicious lies in an attempt to disrupt our colony and seize its riches."

Balin paused here and stared across the crowd. Even from his distant position, Óin could see that Balin's face was grim and terrible.

Óin craned his neck, trying to get a look at the prisoner, but dirty, lank hair obscured his downturned face. Óin began asking questions to the Dwarves around him. Who was this hapless prisoner? Who had died? What was going to happen to him? Óin received no answers from the strangers. The stone faced Dwarves near him refused to utter a word in quiet obedience to their lord.

Balin went on. "This deceitful blaggard had ill will towards you all. But fear not. I will not let one drop of Longbeard blood fall while I draw breath."

Óin began pushing his way forward to speak to Balin directly and stop this madness before it was too late.

"Let this be an example for you all," continued Balin. "Khazad-dûm is mine, and my word is law. If you go against my word, then you shall share his fate."

Balin nodded to Frár, and the prisoner was forced to his knees and bent forward so he leaned over the stone block. Balin stepped forward and raised the great Mithril axe above his head. Óin then began fighting furiously now to get to Balin and stop this spectacle. Just then, the prisoner lifted head, and his lone eye met Óin's. Óin gasped just as Durin's Axe severed Onar's head from his body.

Frozen in terror, Óin was as silent as the other onlookers. Balin turned to survey the crowd, searching their faces for challenges to his authority. His great axe dripped with dark blood that gleamed sickeningly in the incarnadine sunlight.

"It is clear to me now that this colony's greatest threat is not from without but from within," proclaimed Blain.

His eyes were wild and crazed. He began pacing about the dais as he ranted to the crowd.

"Durin, Durin! He was the father of the fathers of the eldest race of Dwarves, the Longbeards, and my first ancestor: I am his heir. Henceforth, Durin's mansion will only be for Durin's folk. All other houses are unworthy of Khazad-dûm. All other Dwarves will be subject to my justice,"

If Balin continued talking, Óin did not hear it. In a shock, he turned, half dazed, and wandered out of the crowded hall and into the deserted hallway by which he had arrived. He slumped against the smooth stone wall and wept for his friend Onar. He also wept for Balin. The cousin he thought he knew was gone. In his place was a monster worse than any he had seen in all his adventures. He wrestled with his thoughts and cleared his mind to plan his next moves carefully. He knew he had to get back to his eastern friends deep in the mines before Balin's guards came for them. He rose to his feet and set off northward, hurrying away from Balin's raving monologue.

When Óin returned to his assigned mine, his comrades greeted him with smiles.

"That was fast," said Nar, "We didn't expect you back until tomorrow."

"Balin probably dismissed our request out of hand," guessed Anar.

Óin searched for the right words to say to his friends. They could tell by his haunted expression that the news was more serious than what they had expected.

"I never spoke to Balin," said Óin, "but I did see him."

Ori explained all he had witnessed in the Twenty-first Hall. His comrades were horrified at the death of Onar, who was much beloved by all who knew him. They were equally disturbed by Balin's calls for their capture.

"This is indeed a dark tale," said Lofar. "Why are you warning us instead of arresting us?"

"I don't care what Balin says. You have all been dear friends to me ever since we left Erebor."

Lofar smiled kindly when he heard this, but Óin looked more distraught than ever.

"I am so sorry this is happening to you," he said sadly.

"It is clear that we must escape Khazad-dûm at once," said Nar.

"What can we do?" asked Hannar "We can't make it to the Dimrill Dale without passing Balin's guards."

"We don't have the numbers to fight our way past them either. How I regret saving his wretched skin. I should have let that arrow take his life," said Anar bitterly.

The four eastern Dwarves began arguing in their native tongue about what to do next.

"There is another way," said Óin, interrupting their debate. "The West Gate. No enemy can open it from the outside, so it is left unguarded. I have been there before and can lead you there now."

"You would do that for us?" asked Anar. "What if Balin finds out?"

"I convinced you all to come on this awful adventure," he said. "The least I can do is help you get out alive."

Before the eastern Dwarves could express their heartfelt thanks, Óin added, "Now, get your people ready for a long march before Balin sends guards this way."

The four Dwarves rushed off to warn their kin, who were scattered up and down the winding shaft. Hastily, they stuffed their remaining food and tools in their packs and set off at once, mournfully thinking about their hard-earned treasures left behind in their quarters.

They kept their voices low and hurried along towards salvation. The Mines of Moria were vast and intricate beyond imagination, but Óin did his best to navigate the twists and turns as he led them southwest at an exhausting pace for many hours. Although Óin was at times unsure of his bearings, he was relieved when their path began to ascend gradually.

After climbing a steep section, the group came out of the passageway and found themselves under a wide dark arch. Looking back, they could see that two other tunnels from the East led to this intersection as well. Knowing they had many hours of traveling still to go but not the strength to continue on, Óin pushed open a stone door to their right and peeked inside.

"We can rest here," Óin said, "and watch for anyone pursuing us."

The stone door swung open noiselessly to reveal a wide chamber cut from the rocky roots of the mountain. Inside was a sparse guardroom used by the infrequent parols that strayed this far from the main colony. The Dwarves were weak on their feet after so many hours without rest. Óin waited outside the door listening for any footsteps coming from the three dark passages. After the whole group was safely inside, Lofar and Anar slumped to the floor and began digging food from their packs.

Nar and Hannar struggled to remove the thick stone lid from a well. Their exhausted fingers faltered, and the heavy slab of stone crashed to the floor with a reverberating DOOM. The noise echoed loudly, and everyone froze, expecting to hear the shouts of guards outside the door. Luckily, the only sound that met their ears was the trickle of unseen water.

"I don't hear anyone," said Óin, still looking down at the broken pieces of the stone lid.

The eastern Dwarves breathed a sigh of relief and seemed to finally relax a little.

"It is at least forty miles from gate to gate, but I believe we have had a fair head start," Óin explained.

"I hope you're right," said Nar, lowering a bucket down the well on a long, rusty chain while his nervous eyes kept darting to the doorway.

The Dwarves sat down on the floor for their last meager meal within Mines of Moria. They ate the last of their food and refreshed themselves with the cold water drawn up from the well, one of the few which had not been fouled during the ages of disuse.

After the others were fast asleep, Óin remained awake watching the three passageways. His tired body craved sleep but his mind raced. He shuddered as he thought about his cousin cruelly killing Onar. What a fool he had been to think he could keep Balin in check. He wished he had stayed in Erebor with the others. Regrets haunted him, while time ground on in the deep darkness. Only a few short hours had passed when Óin woke his snoring comrades.

"We need to press on," he told them. "It's some twenty miles uphill before we reach the doors."

"And I for one cannot wait to see them close behind me," said Lofar.

He went to hoist his pack, but upon realizing it was empty, merely cast it upon the floor with a sigh. The company of escapees set off again behind their leader.

Back on a familiar route, Óin led his friends for some time over level ground and then ever upward. They weaved around cracks and chasms in the floor where the sound of rushing water far below echoed up from the roots of the mountain. The Dwarves hustled along the ascending passage gladly welcoming the cooler air on their sweaty faces as they passed unseen openings in the walls. After a few turns and many weary miles, the passage leveled and they were able to make quicker progress.

At last the tired Dwarves were looking down from the top of a wide steep set of stairs. Beyond the lowest step, the floor ended abruptly at a smooth wall of stone.

"This is the Hollin Gate," said Óin, stepping off the last stair on his sore feet.

He put his hands on the wall and gave the cold stone a push. The immense door swung smoothly outwards on its hidden hinges. Óin had lost all sense of time in the mines and wondered what time of day it would be in the wider world.

As a narrow slit opened between the stone slabs, golden sunlight poured into the passageway, blinding the Dwarves, who had not seen its fiery brightness in months. Ori shielded his eyes with a hand as he stuck his head out the narrow opening.

He rubbed his eyes; he at first believed his vision to be clouded by the bright sunshine. But when he looked again, he saw the same strange sight. The Sirannon stream, which began as a mere spring tumbling down the slopes of Silvertine just to the north of these doors last time Óin saw it, was now swollen to many times its size. The broad shelf looked soggy with shallow water covering the roots of some of the hedges that lined the path.

"What is it?" asked Anar, trying to peek over Óin's shoulder.

"Is it safe?" asked Hannar from further behind.

"Yes, everything is fine," said Óin, pushing open the door a bit wider so they could all see "There is more water here than last time. The spring thaw must have started already. Your feet might get wet, you'll take this path to a steep staircase…"

"You're not coming with us?" Lofar interrupted.

Óin turned aside and looked out over the vast landscape that lay before them. Maybe it was the months of darkness or the midmorning sun illuminating the landscape, but the colors seemed more vibrant than anything he had seen before in his long life. He wondered how long it had been since he had seen anything this green. His eyes swept north to where the Hollin Ridge extended way into the distance. A bright world, full of life. One so different from the realm behind him.

"I can't, Lofar," said Óin, turning back mournfully. "I need to try and speak sense to Balin."

"You'd have better luck talking to a rock," exclaimed Anar, shaking his head.

"Come with us," begged Nar. "You will be in danger once Balin learns how you helped us escape."

"I know, my friend, but there are still more that need saving," said Óin. "Perhaps I can lead more Dwarves to safety."

Try as they could, the others could not convince Óin to change his mind.

"Get as far from here as you can," said Óin.

"But where should we go?" asked Lofar. "We are strangers in a strange land."

Óin thought for a moment before speaking.

"Follow the Sirannon downstream to Tharbad," he explained. "From there, you can take the Greenway north to Bree. It's a town of Men and Hobbits. My old friend Bilbo lives around there, if I remember correctly. Or you can take the Greenway southwards to warmer lands. Whichever way you go, may fortune follow."

Óin reached into his pocket and drew out his prized tinder box. Without a second thought, he offered it to Lofar and the other escapees.

"I wish I had more to give," he told them.

Knowing how much the treasure meant to Óin, Lofar accepted the gift reverently and bowed low in bittersweet appreciation.

The ragged group of eastern Dwarves thanked their dear savior graciously, making sure to remove their hoods and bow low enough so that their beards brushed the ancient threshold.

After many parting words and more than a few tears, they stepped out into the world and eased the doors shut behind them. Óin watched as the last rays of sun peeked between the swinging slabs before he found himself once again in the dark gloom of Moria.

Óin turned himself back to the east and with a great effort climbed the steep staircase. Thinking about the long journey back to the colony and the grim reality that awaited him, Óin grew utterly exhausted. Right at the top of the stairs, Óin laid his weary head upon the floor and fell into an uneasy sleep.

His dreams were filled with troubling scenes: Dáin's words of warning, Durin's tomb, Onar's death. Óin was unsure how long he had been asleep when he was awoken by the hard kick from an ironshod boot.

"Just as Lord Balin said," said a gruff voice.

Strong hands jerked Óin to his feet. His old gray good fell to the floor. It was so worn and dirty that it almost matched the color of the stone. Nursing his bruised side, Óin looked around at the angry faces surrounding him. A company of armored Dwarves scowled at him from all sides. Óin did not recognize any of them and knew these newcomers would show him no kindness. They were loyal to Balin and Balin alone.

"You're too late," said Óin reaching down to pick up his hood. "They've already gone."

"We know," said one of the grim guards grabbing Óin's wrist with an iron grip before he could retrieve his beloved hood."We're here for you."

Óin sighed, knowing there was no chance of escape now. Without protest, Óin submitted to his captors. He was bound with heavy iron manacles and chained about the waist.

"You should have left when you had the chance," said a guard. He gave the chain a hard tug and began pulling Óin eastwards, trampling the old hood into the dusty floor.

The guards dragged Óin through the Twenty-first Hall, now a swarm of activity in the dim light. Unfamiliar faces gawked at him as he was pulled along like a dog on a leash. Shouts of "traitor" and "turncoat" came from the blur of strangers. Those who remained silent averted their eyes with looks of shame or fear upon their faces.

Óin's eyes passed over the raised dais at the end of the hall where several dark stains discolored the floor. How many more innocent colonists had fallen victim to Balin's justice? He expected he would soon be adding another stain to the floor but was surprised when the guards continued across the hall and down the passageway.

Óin was pushed through the doors of the Chamber of Mazarbul and forced to the foot of Balin's throne. The darkened chamber looked much as it did with one glaring exception. The large table that had once stood in the center of the floor was gone. The room looked strangely foreign without the familiar meeting place. The guards stood silently in a ring while Óin remained on his knees. His body ached and his bonds were cutting into his wrists. He looked up at Durin's Axe leaning against Balin's empty throne. Óin was horrified to see that the Mithril blade was encrusted with dried blood.

From behind him, a cold voice spoke. "So, this is how you show your loyalty?"

Óin looked up and saw Balin circling him. His face was stern, and on his head rested Durin's Helm, shining in the dark. Óin said nothing, knowing it was too late for an alibi but instead returned Balin's gaze in silence.

"I saw you in the crowd, you know," Balin continued. "You saw where treachery leads, and yet you still aided our enemies."

"Enemies?" Óin rebuffed, breaking his silence. "They were our companions. Our friends."

Balin struck Óin across the face with the back of his hand. A heavy jeweled ring on Balin's finger struck Óin's face with tremendous force. The metal cut open Óin's nose and blood began trickling out of an ugly wound.

"No friends of mine," scoffed Balin, seating himself upon his throne and massaging his hand. "Good riddance, I say. Less mouths to feed. Pity, though. I had plans for them." He glanced at Durin's Axe. "I suppose you'll have to take their place now."

"This is madness!" shouted Óin as red blood poured over his mouth and onto his filthy clothes.

"A king can do as he will!" bellowed Balin, jumping to his feet and hoisting the great Mithril axe.

With a wave of his hand, he ordered his guards to lower Óin's bloody head towards the stone floor.

"You're no more a king than that helm is a crown!" shot back Óin with one last look towards the tyrant.

Many in the room gasped, shocked to hear anyone defy Balin's rule even if it would be Óin's last , Balin raised his axe high above his head. His face was contorted in rage and his eyes were ablaze in furious anger.

"Nay Lord!" came a voice. "Please stop!"

Although hobbling on a crutch, Ori pushed through the guards and forced himself between Balin and Óin. He raised his uninjured arm to block Balin's fatal blow.

"Get out of my way!" shouted Balin trying to shove Ori aside.

"You can't do this," begged Ori frantically, his hand still raised towards the deadly axe.

"He is guilty of treason. He must be punished," argued Balin, lowering his weapon to point at Óin.

"Of course, Lord," said Ori in a calmer tone. "Of course, he is guilty. But you can't kill him. You said yourself that you would never let one drop of Longbeard blood fall,"

Ori gave Óin a quiet glance while Balin began pondering this predicament.

"He's not just a Longbeard," Ori went on. "He's your cousin, your kin. I beg you. Do not tarnish your legacy with such needless cruelty. History does not look fondly upon such severity,"

All eyes were now on Balin. A room full of Durin's descendants stared at their ruler, anxiously waiting for his decision. Balin began pacing to and fro, unintelligibly muttering to himself. He glanced up from time to time at the many onlookers. His knuckles turned white from clenching the shaft of his axe so tightly. Finally, he let out an exasperated yell.

"Fine!" he bellowed.

Many in the room, Óin most of all, let out a sigh of relief. Balin sat down heavily upon his throne and gently laid his axe across his knees.

"Get this traitor out of my sight," said Balin, waving his hand dismissively.

As he did so, his finger touched the edge of his Mithril blade.

He reflexively clutched his injured hand, and added angrily, "I never want to see him again!"

He pressed his bloody hand into his robes and continued muttering to himself, never once looking Óin in the eye. The guards raised the frail and bloody Óin to his feet and roughly dragged him out the doors of the Chamber of Mazarbul.

After the last of the guards had left, Ori returned to his small desk in the corner and wiped the sweat that had beaded on his brow. When he looked up, he saw Balin staring at him from his throne. The old Dwarf's gaze was searching, as if he was trying to decipher Ori's thoughts. Questioning his motives, his potential schemes. Ori was a thinker, after all, and thinkers can be quite dangerous. After a time, Balin spoke.

"When you write an account of today's events, let the record be clear that I was merciful to my traitorous cousin," he said.

"As you wish, Lord Balin," replied Ori.

With a trembling hand, he picked up a quill and obediently dipped it in ink .

Then Balin added, leaning back onto his high seat, "And say that I was more merciful and noble than Dain ever was."

16

Sorrow

Fyrga had been awake most of the night. Tossing and turning in her bed, her thoughts had tormented her with anxiety while the dark hours dragged on. It had been a week since the Beornings last came to reap even more tribute from her tiny town. A larger group than ever before, the band of Beornings knew too well that the village had been trading with the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm and called for the rest of the riches, convinced that they had left some behind the last time they had come through the impoverished village.

Fyrga had protested, trying to explain that trade had decreased to a trickle over years, and now any exchange had been halted until winter loosened its grasp upon the treacherous road to the East Gate. The unwanted warriors searched each dwelling, upturning beds and frightening children until they had collected everything of value they could get their hands on. Once assured that they had sufficiently ransacked the town and filled their saddlebags with booty, the "protectors" turned their backs on the village and trotted away down the snowy road.

Fyrga closed her eyes and tried to force herself to sleep. She must have finally dozed off because she was soon awoken by a shriek in the night. Springing out of bed, Fyrga flung open the door of her chamber and rushed barefoot into the hallway. She saw nothing but darkness as she surveyed the dark corridor. Then, she heard a door creak open.

"What's going on?" asked Bregowald, stepping into the hallway and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

He was dressed in a nightshirt and stockings, and in his hands was his most prized possession, a small silver toy he had received from Master Ori of the Dwarrowdelf..

Suddenly, another cry cut through the night. Fyrga grabbed her brother's hand and led him through a door and into the main room of the longhall. The fire in the hearth had died down to embers but the large room was thick with dark choking smoke. The familiar mangy dogs rushed toward them and stood by their side, clearly ill at ease about something. The siblings heard more screams and howls from outside the longhall doors.

Fyrga looked up and saw more smoke pouring through the thatched roof. Their home was burning. They had to get out. Fyrga pulled Bregowald along towards the great front doors but stopped short when one began to creak open. Horrible noises echoed into the hall, as did the smell of acrid smoke. Knowing there were no weapons to be found, Fyrga armed herself with a bent fire poker from the dying hearth and then crept closer to the ominous doorway.

Fyrga inched closer cautiously, flanked by her loyal dogs and watched closely by her brother. The dogs' low growls were quickly replaced by wagging tails when in through the doors slipped Holdan, the captain of her guards. His rusted sword was broken about a foot above the crossguard. It clattered to the floor as he slumped at Fyrga's feet. His blood-soaked tunic was pierced by several black arrows. His breathing was ragged, and his limbs began to quake. Gasping for his last breath in the dark smoky air, the loyal soldier forced out a single word to warn his charges.

"Orcs."

Holdan's body then went limp and lifeless in Fyrga's hands. Softly, she let her lifelong friend slip to the earthen floor. Bregowald began to sob at her side. Wiping away her own tears, she turned to her brother and wrapped her arms around him. Flaming chunks of thatch began to fall from the ceiling as the blaze spread across the roof.

" You must be brave now," she whispered in his ear.

She handed the fire poker to her brother and picked up Holdan's broken sword for , she poked her head through the doors and beheld a terrible sight.

Bright flames surrounded her. Everywhere she turned she saw fire and smoke. The entire village was consumed by hungry, flickering flames. In one hand she wielded the rusted stump of a blade, and in the other, she clung tightly to her brother. They rushed into the narrow street, too afraid to even feel the fresh snow upon their feet.

They emerged from a thick cloud of dark smoke and were then met by even more horrors. The bodies of her people lay in mangled heaps in front of their burning homes. Dark arrows stuck out from their bloodstained backs. Bands of Orcs chased after the last few survivors with curved swords and laughed their terrible laughs as Fyrga's people begged for mercy with outstretched arms. With no weapons to defend themselves, the poor villagers were slaughtered easily by the evil invaders.

She pulled Bregowald past one terrible sight after another until they were set upon by a long armed orc with bright red eyes who seemed to have been spawned by the very horrid shadows that surrounded them. In an instant, Fyrga's loyal dogs leapt to her defense. The Orc raised his wooden shield, but it was too late. A tangle of teeth and snarls rolled upon the ash stained snow. Fyrga rushed forward into the fray and slew the Orc with the point of her broken sword. When she stepped back, her dogs lay motionless on the muddy ground beside their fallen foe.

With no time to mourn another loss, she picked up the Orc's shield and led Bregowald onward past the burning buildings. They searched frantically for anyone who had escaped the butchery but found none alive. Every person they had known had been heaped upon the piles of carrion.

"The Beornings have forsaken us," Fyrga told her brother as they rushed toward the edge of the village.

They passed an overturned wagon with a limp body slumped over the side. It was then that they heard the howls of Orcs coming from behind them. They had been spotted. Fyrga and Bregowald sprinted southward to the bridge, as their pursuers followed closely behind. Looking over her shoulder Fyrga saw half a dozen dark shapes silhouetted by the burning village. They were coming fast, galloping on their bandy legs and swinging their crooked scimitars lustily. When their feet stepped upon the swaying planks of the rope bridge, Fyrga halted.

"You must make for the Dwarrowdelf," she said, panting. "Only the Dwarves can protect you now."

"But what about you?" Bregowald asked, looking up at his sister.

Her face was stained with soot and blood, but still she looked beautiful and fierce, like a warrior queen from ancient tales.

"I will meet you there," said Fyrga. "Now run, and do not stop until you reach the gate!"

She pushed Bregowald across the bridge and onto the frozen ground on the far side of the rushing water before hurrying back to the other side. Bregowald trembled alone and watched his sister's silhouette against the bright light of the burning village.

With swift strokes, Holdan's blade cut the rotting ropes, and the bridge fell into the dark water below. Fyrga took one last look at her brother, and then she turned and ran back towards the approaching Orcs with the broken blade held high. Bregowald watched in horror as his sister crashed shield-first into the barbarous band of charging foes.

Dutifully, he forced himself to turn aside and took off down the dark road as fast as his frightened legs could carry him.

"Now remember," said Frár addressing the crowd of colonists, "when Lord Balin comes out, be sure to give him a warm welcome. We will be watching to see who is not cheering loud enough."

The crowd of Dwarves stared stonily back at Frár. The Twenty-first Hall stood still as hundreds of hungry looking Dwarves waited for their lord to appear. To Ori, standing alone towards the back of the crowd, the lofty room seemed more vast and gloomy than ever. It was night outside the eastern windows and a depressing darkness hung over the pillared hall. Ori was one of many Dwarves who privately mourned their comrades that had been lost over the past year, not they could show their sorrow, of course. The official line was that the many deaths in recent months were unfortunate mining accidents caused by individual incompetence. The only exceptions were the executions of dozens of "traitors" that Balin had personally dispatched in front of similar audiences. Any deviation of this narrative was punished severely.

Finally, Náli and Lóni were sighted marching out of the passageway leading from the Chamber of Mazarbul. Just behind them strode Balin, Lord of Moria. With a signal of his heavily jeweled hand, Frár gave the crowd the cue to begin cheering. All at once the host of colonists roared to life, summoning all their effort to put on the best show possible. Ori applauded with all the others as Balin mounted the dais. Balin puffed out his chest and waved to his loyal subjects, making sure that all could see his hand. Scarred by past scrapes with danger as well as from handling Durin's axe, upon one finger rested a massive, gleaming ring.

Does he know this is all a ruse? Ori thought to himself Does he even care?.

Balin thudded his mighty axe, and the crowd immediately silenced. They knew how to act by this point.

"I've called you all here to announce some grave news," said Balin, pausing for dramatic effect. Scanning the crowd with his sharp eyes, he continued.

"A dastardly plot has been uncovered," he said.

The crowd remained silent. Balin nodded back to the passageway and his guards led several forlorn looking Dwarves towards the dais. They looked even more starved than those in the audience. They were chained together in a line and prodded with spear points until they stood behind Balin in front of the onlookers.

Ori looked at the prisoners but could not recognize them from where he stood. Their faces were so bruised and bloody that he doubted he would be able to anyway, but could tell by their dress that they were Broadbeams. Probably the last of their clan still alive in Moria. Their heads hung forward as if ruefully resigned to their fate.

"These traitorous cowards that stand before you," Balin called out, "were caught trying to desert the colony. Luckily their craven plot was foiled before they could betray you,"

At Balin's side, Frár shouted "Traitors!" and the crowd picked up the hint and joined in throwing abuses at the chained Dwarves. Nodding in approval, Balin continued addressing the colony.

"Traitors indeed!" agreed Balin. "Under interrogation, each of these would-be deserters admitted to several sickening schemes. They planned to turn their backs on you loyal Longbeards. They had schemed to run off to Men, or even Elves. Elves!"

"Despicable!" shouted Lóni

"Deplorable!" cried Náli

Balin turned his eyes on the crowd, who continued hurling insults at the prisoners. Balin's eyes darted from one Dwarf to the next, looking for any sign of deceit or disagreement.

Slowly, Ori backed away from the shouts and into the shadows at the edge of the hall. He knew exactly how this would end. Balin's public form of justice had become an all too common spectacle lately. Like all his other spectacles, Balin would rant for some time before getting down to the bloody business. Ori didn't think he could bear to see it again.

Just as the first prisoner was forced to his knees at Balin's feet, Ori slipped out of the horrible hall and disappeared down one of the passages. For some time, Ori wandered aimlessly through the seemingly endless labyrinth of Moria before the pain in his leg made him pause. His leg had never fully healed, and even though the tunnel collapse had been over a year ago, he still felt the pain of it every day of his life. After shaking out his leg the best he could, he picked up a few items from his quarters and headed down a descending path.

After many turns and winding steps, Ori pushed open a stone door and entered a dark, damp chamber lit by a single torch. Two guards rose from their chairs at a carved stone table as Ori approached.

"Greetings, Master Ori," said one of the guards with a slight bow. "Welcome back."

"Hello again," said Ori. "May I speak with him privately?"

The guard gave his partner an apprehensive look before answering.

"Certainly; we'll be right outside. Just shout if you need anything," he replied after a pause.

The two guards left the chamber and closed the door behind them. Ori pulled one of the chairs next to a row of thick iron bars and took a seat.

"Come to set me free?" came a voice from the darkness.

"I'm sorry, my friend, not today," said Ori with a mournful smile.

Behind the bars was a dark hole carved into the rock. Out of these shadows, Óin came forward to meet his old companion.

"How are they treating you?" Ori asked.

"Well enough, all things considered," responded Óin. "The guards usually leave me alone and don't tell me much about what's going on in the colony. Probably best I don't know anyway."

"I do feel terrible that you're locked up down here. The least I can do is make sure you're well taken care of," said Ori, passing a small bundle of food through the bars to his friend. "I wish I could bring more, but supplies are running low, and we're down to rations of Earth-bread and cram."

Gratefully accepting this gift Óin replied, "Even more than the food you bring, your company is what's kept me going this last year."

"Surely, the guards let you speak with other prisoners?" asked Ori.

"Oh, sure," said Óin through a mouthful of cram. "Not that they ever stay long. After a day or so, they are taken away, and I never see them again."

Ori then noticed that the other cells were indeed empty and then thought of what Balin was doing with his prisoners at that very moment.

"I've got my very own guarded quarters in Durin's Mansion," joked Óin. "How many Dwarves can say that?"

Ori smiled sadly through the bars and watched as his imprisoned comrade savored every morsel of the bland food.

"I've brought you something else," he said, handing Óin a small bundle of fabric through the bars.

To Óin's surprise, he was holding a new hood, the exact shade of gray as his old one, or at least the shade it had once been before many long journeys. He placed it on his head. A perfect fit, even over his tangled mass of filthy, matted hair. He stared back at his old friend, positively glowing with appreciation.

"It looks ready for a new set of adventures," said Óin, holding back tears. "Alas, it may be staying down here with me for a rather long time."

Ori looked mournfully at Óin recalling all their past travels far from this miserable hole in the ground. After a moment of silence Óin spoke again.

"Does Balin know you come down here?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm sure," said Ori, rising to his feet and walking over to a well in the corner of the room. "He seems to know everything that happens in Khazad-dûm. Even many things that don't happen at all."

Ori drew up the long chain, hauling up a bucket of cold water.

"It seems that his obsession with security has him seeing conspiracies around every corner." He sighed.

Óin chuckled. "You've got that right. I'm guessing he hasn't mentioned my case at all?"

With some strain, Ori waddled back to the bars, carrying the heavy bucket awkwardly with his good arm.

"I can't even mention your name out loud," said Ori, setting the bucket down with a wince.

"He likes to remind people that he would have taken your head if you weren't a Longbeard. You've got quite a nasty reputation up there as a master saboteur."

"I always knew I'd be famous one day," said Óin, handing Ori a filthy cup through the bars. His familiar grin peeked out behind his unkept beard.

There was a pause in the conversation. While Ori rinsed the cup and then filled it with fresh water. Without saying a word, Ori passed the cup through the bars to his imprisoned comrade. The silence grew heavy and weighed upon the Dwarves as they sat in the darkness. Unable to bear the deafening quiet any more, Óin drained his cup and spoke.

"Anything interesting going on lately? It does get rather dull here."

Ori thought back to the unsettling scene he had just left in the Twenty-first

Hall.

"Oh you know," he said in an uneasy voice, "The usual."

"I'm sure it's anything but usual up there," said Óin. "I overheard the guards talking about a foiled escape out the East Gate,"

"Lord Balin is dealing with them now, but I couldn't watch that again," admitted Ori, shaking his head. "We should have listened to Bombur and the others. It was a mistake to ever come here."

"At least some others had sense to escape," said Óin. "Perhaps I should have fled when I had the chance."

"Then who would I have to talk to?" asked Ori, trying to lighten the mood, but Óin continued on.

"Would that someone put an end to this madness," he murmured.

Ori glanced towards the door to make sure it was closed, but assumed the guards, always loyal to Balin, were listening at the keyhole.

"What can we do? Balin has a host of guards at his command," whispered Ori. "There are not enough with sense and spirit to speak against him."

"Even a single person can change the course of the future," replied Óin.

After much more hushed talk, Ori said farewell to his friend and promised to visit again soon. He ushered the guards back inside and thanked them on his way out. Ori began climbing the stairs back to the main colony but then turned aside, wanting to avoid the Twenty-first Hall until the ugly injustice was over with. Thinking back to the events at the East Gate, he realized he had not been that way for some time and desired to speak to the guards there and ask them some questions about the unfortunate Broadbeams.

Soon, he was staring across the perilously narrow bridge that crossed the bottomless abyss. Ever since his near fatal fall into the endless void, Ori had hated having to traverse this narrow span. Fortunately enough, he had only had to do it a handful of times since, and never again had it been in such a hurry.

He remembered a bit of advice that Hannar had given him long ago. He turned his head upward and focused his eyes on the far side of the gaping space. Forcing himself not to look down, he focused hard, walking upright with firm steps until he had reached safety.

When he stood on the other side, Ori wiped a cold sweat from his forehead and strode forward through the First Hall. He thought back to his old friend Hannar and the other eastern Dwarves that had escaped the madness of Moria. He wondered where they could have gone, penniless refugees forced to flee from yet another home. He hoped they were happy wherever they were.

When he arrived at the First Hall, he noticed several guards huddled in conversation before the closed stone doors. The faint glow of dawn light peeked in through the windows, raising Ori's spirits. Before Ori could say anything, Toki, the guard in charge of this gate, spotted him and came over quickly to meet him

"Thank you for coming all this way, Master Ori," said Toki. "We didn't want to open the doors without permission."

"Excuse me?" Ori said, confused.

"As I said in my message to Lord Balin, someone was knocking on the doors and yelling to be let in," Toki said.

"Oh, right, of course," said Ori, playing along. "Who do you suppose is outside?"

"Can't be sure. Didn't sound like an Orc though," answered Toki. "Whomever it was stopped hollering hours ago."

"Let's have a look then," said Ori, taking advantage of his status. As something of a celebrity in the dwarven world, Ori knew to expect special treatment from time to time.

With weapons drawn, the guards slowly opened the doors. Icy cold air rushed into their faces as they stuck their bearded heads outside to look around. It may have been spring in the green lands of the south, but the mountains were still held tightly in winter's grasp. The ground outside the doors was covered with a delicate dusting of frost.

Ori cautiously stepped outside and scanned the environs. The first rays of dawn were peeking through the cloudy horizon. The gray lines that laced the clouds presaged another raw day in the mountains. All was still and silent.

On one of the wide weather-worn steps lay a bent iron rod. Ori bent forward and picked up the piece of metal to examine it; a fire poker of sorts, crudely made. Ori's puzzled thoughts were interrupted when an owl hooted nearby. Ori's eyes darted up just in time to see the bird take flight from near a shape obscured by fresh snow. Ori approached and saw it to be a figure lying on the ground, curled into a tight ball. Ori brushed the shimmering crystals of frost from the body and rolled it over. He saw that it was a barefoot boy dressed in thin torn rags. Ori looked upon the lifeless face and recoiled in horror when he recognized the individual.

Although it had been some years since he'd seen the boy, Ori still remembered the first time he had met the child sitting upon his sister's lap. His eyes were closed as if sleeping peacefully, but Ori had seen enough bodies to know that this boy was unmistakably dead. The dead boy's hands were wrapped around a small object, clearly clutching it until the very end.

With a trembling hand, Ori reached forward and uncurled the small frozen fingers revealing a silver dwarven soldier with a gold axe gripped in his little hands. Tears welled in Ori's eyes as he refolded Bregowald's cold hands around the toy.

"Filthy beggar must have frozen to death during the night," said Toki, coming to peer over Ori's shoulder. "We'll leave the body as a warning for other unwanted guests."

The other guards chuckled at this crude display of cruelty but Ori remained silent, his eyes transfixed on the lifeless Bregowald laying dead near his very doorstep. His learned mind swirled with questions. What had driven this child so far from his home? What became of his proud sister and their village?

In a daze, Ori followed the guards back inside, leaving Bregowald's body in the cold morning air. He hardly remembered crossing over the abyss on his way back, stumbling through the dark corridors in a haze of haunting thoughts.

Ori entered the Chamber of Mazarbul through the small eastern doorway. He was still not used to seeing the room so empty. He wondered what had happened to the large table that had once seated so many friendly faces. A small beam of morning light shone through the shaft in the eastern wall, casting a small square of light on the stone floor. He walked under the golden beam, and stood with his face toward the distant sky. He was met only with the cool damp of Moria, too far buried for any warmth to reach these depths.

He turned and took a seat at his tiny desk in the corner of the room facing Balin's throne. Moving aside some loose scrolls, he opened a massive tome and flipped to an empty page. For many minutes, he sat there in silence staring at the blank space, still too rattled to think clearly. He was shaken from his thoughts when the doors swung open.

Balin entered, followed closely by Frár, Náli, and Lóni.

"If that doesn't dissuade ideas of treachery, I don't know what will," said Balin with a smug smile on his face.

"Certainly, Lord Balin; you sent the colony a strong message," said Frár

"Exactly what those traitors deserved," said Náli.

"Merciful to give them such a quick death this time," chimed in Lóni, coming in last.

"Find out if any of the colonists have Broadbeam relations. Or any foreign blood, for that matter. Can never be too sure with half breeds. They must be watched closely," said Balin, swiftly crossing the room.

Balin set aside his great Mithril axe and sat down heavily upon his throne, letting out a self-satisfied sigh of someone who had just returned home from a hard day's work. The blade was still glistening with dark, wet blood. Looking very pleased with himself, Balin finally noticed Ori sitting in the corner.

"Oh, there you are," said Balin. "Just in time. I want you to write up a full account of today's events for my approval. Let the record show how I brought justice to those deceitful deserters. Posterity needs to know how I, once again, saved this colony from certain destruction."

17

Crowned at Last

Balin lay in his luxurious bed but could not find rest. His growing anxiety had been eating away at his soul like iron rusting in a damp cave. Behind every smile and benign gesture, he suspected sinister plots to seize his throne. Even after years of stomping out resistance, both real and imagined, he still felt as though his grasp on power was tenuous at best. Surely, he thought, there must be something he was missing, some secret rite to secure his rule and dispel all doubt, especially his own. Fears, regrets, and unrealized dreams swirled about him like gliding ghosts.

He sat up, still wrapped in his blanket like an old crone. He could feel the cold damp of Moria sinking into his old bones. How much longer could he go on like this? He tried to push the thought from his mind and reached for a jeweled goblet from a nearby table. He took a long gulp of the bitter beer to try and clear his mind, but the drink only made him more uneasy.

As he set aside the now empty goblet, he paused to look at the massive ring on his finger. How long could he keep up this charade? Did anyone know this wasn't actually Thrór's Ring? Did everyone know? Were they laughing behind his back? Were they plotting to remove him from power? Who was behind it all? Ori? Fyrga? The Elves? Where did truth stop? Where did error begin? His thoughts were all adrift among a thousand contradictory hypotheses, but he could not lay hold of one. He tore off his ring and flung it across the room. The heavy piece of jewelry thudded onto the stone floor and tumbled out of sight into a dark corner.

Frustrated by all the answers he didn't have, he rose from his bed and began pacing about his chamber, dragging along his blanket like a royal mantle. This far from the sun, there were no days, no time. It was neither early nor late, but still he felt rushed to find what he was missing; whatever that was. He looked at Durin's Axe hanging proudly on its wooden stand, freshly cleaned so that not a drop of blood could be found upon it. No, that wasn't it, he thought to himself. He needed something more to prove that he was the rightful lord of Khazad-dûm.

He wandered over to another shelf and grasped Durin's Helm. He took it over to a tarnished mirror that hung on a wall of black polished stone. He raised the Mithril helm and set it gently upon his head. It slid down over his bushy white eyebrows and pushed uncomfortably at his ears. Balin felt as if it had grown several sizes since the last time he wore it. Nevertheless, he did not remove it.

Words from years ago in a far away thicket then came to his mind: "You will see a crown upon your head ere the end."

This reverie made Balin frown at his reflection. Is this what a king looked like? Although beautiful and immensely valuable, this oversized helm was not exactly a crown. Was this it? Where was the crown he was missing?

Suddenly, an idea came to Balin. He thought back to when he and his companions had first come to the Dimrill Dale all those long years ago. He had been so eager to gaze into the dark waters of Kheled-zâram, but had not seen Durin's legendary crown of stars hanging above his head, as all the songs had promised. One thing had led to another as they say and Balin had never been back to the Mirrormere since that lost moment. This must be what the old stranger had meant. This was what he was missing. He needed to see Durin's crown. He needed to see it now.

Balin burst through the doors of his chambers, startling the guards that stood on duty outside. Balin's heavy footfalls drowned out their pleasantries, and they were forced to race being him, trying not to step on his fur fringed train. He continued down the corridor to the doorway leading to the Chamber of Mazarbul where his guards rushed forward and pushed open the stone doors for their lord. Balin hurried inside the square chamber and looked to the eastern wall where a narrow beam of sunlight shone through a deep shaft. Balin nodded, pleased to see that it was day time in the outer world. With a flourish, he threw off his makeshift cape and tossed it upon his throne.

Ori looked up from his tiny desk in confusion and set down his quill.

"What time is it outside?" Balin asked, squinting at the bright square of light.

Caught off-guard by the odd question, Ori turned and squinted at the shaft of light. "I'm not sure, my lord. Some hours past midday I should think," said Ori

"Good; we will arrive just in time," said Balin, nodding his head some more.

He gestured for Ori to follow him before turning to leave the chamber without another word. Ori scrambled after the old Dwarf and trailed along as fast as he could. His injured leg cramped but still he chased after Balin.

"Where are we going?" Ori asked after he had caught up to Balin in the hallway, hoping beyond hope that the old Dwarf had changed his mind about Óin's imprisonment.

"Azanulbizar," Balin grunted without looking in Ori's direction.

"But, but…" Ori stammered, surprised by Balin's unprecedented desire to leave the gates of Moria.

They were now walking swiftly across the floor of the Twenty-first Hall. Colonists scattered to make way for them. Their faces looked fearful and drawn. Many of the common workers looked a good deal thinner than they had some months ago. The food rations had been hard for all to bear; the humblest most of all.

Spying Lóni nearby, Balin called to him, "Quickly, assemble my guards!"

Obediently, Lóni turned and rushed westward towards the guardroom.

By the time Balin and Ori reached the Second Hall, they were accompanied by Náli, Lóni, Frár, and no less than two dozen other guards, all heavily armed with a prickly array of pikes, spears and axes. By now, Ori's bad leg was screaming with pain and he had more questions with every step, but still he pressed on. Remorsefully, he recalled the first time he had looked upon this immense hall with such dear friends. So many were now gone. Killed in battle. Missing and presumed dead. Cruelly executed. Fled, never to be seen again. Left to rot in a slimy cell.

He stared at Balin's armored head bobbing in front of him. He missed them now more than ever. Behind Balin's back, Ori's face was grim as he mourned his lost friends. The past few months had been the worst of his life. The death of Bregowald had wounded him deeply, and a deep resentment for Balin and his subterranean realm was festering inside his heart. Aside from the imprisoned Óin, Ori had not a soul in Moria to commiserate with.

"This should have been fixed by now!" shouted Balin as he took a bounding step over a wide crack in the floor.

Behind him, Ori peered into the crevice and saw only darkness. A rush of hot air swept up from the darkness and into his face. He shuddered and leapt across the short span while the retinue of guards did the same. The floor soon gave way to a wider bottomless abyss spanned only by the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. Balin was the first to step foot on the narrow way, fearless as always of the perilous path. Just behind him, Ori was not tempted to look down into the blackness below. They were fixed on Balin's back.

Ori recalled Óin's words: "Even a single person can change the course of the future."

Just before he stepped upon the stone span, Ori looked behind him. Náli was the nearest guard to him and was several paces behind him. Too far away to stop him in time even if he suspected anything. Ori hurried onto the bridge and quickly gained ground on Balin.

Soon, it was now just the two of them cresting the highest point of the fifty foot arch.

It could all end now, thought Ori, getting so close to Balin's back that he could almost touch him with his outstretched hand.

All the death, all the pain, all the lies could end right here with the slightest push. Ori committed his mind to the deed and extended his arm, ready to stop the suffering no matter the cost. His fingertips just grazed Balin's back when his right foot stepped forward and touched nothing but empty air. In his distracted state, Ori had veered to the right and stepped off the edge. He fell forward, crashing hard onto the hard stone bridge, the air pushing violently from his lungs.

Balin looked over his shoulder and scoffed at Ori, who was now a gasping mess and trying to stand up on shaky legs.

"Hurry up, you clumsy oaf," said Balin over his shoulder, stepping off the bridge and onto the level floor beyond.

Náli pulled Ori to his feet and helped him across the bridge, clearly unaware of any ill intentions. The Lord of Moria and his followers climbed the great stairs beyond the door and made their way down the wide echoing passage.

As he limped through shafts of cool daylight, Ori's heart raced thinking about how close he had been to killing his old friend. Not a friend. A murderous tyrant. They would have to cross the narrow bridge again on the way back. Yes, I will push into the bottomless abyss, even if I must fall with him.

Stepping finally into the First Hall, Balin barked towards the guards, who were lounging lazily against the closed stone doors.

"Get these opened at once," he commanded.

Toki and the other surprised guards jumped to their feet and scrambled to obey the Lord of Moria without question. They began hastily removing long pieces of wood from the doors. As guards scrambled to remove the bracing, he realized that he was looking at the remnants of Balin's long table which he had eaten at one Durin's Day long ago. Happy memories from those bygone days pierced Ori's heart with grief. He looked around him at the guards. Nowhere did he see a friendly face. How he wished he could go back to when things were better.

After the last plank was removed, the Great Gates were opened on their huge hidden hinges, letting in the dying light of a cold November afternoon. Winter had come early in this part of the outer world and all about the ancient threshold was covered with a coating of fresh snow.

Trying his best to ignore his sore leg, Ori descended the great stairs slowly as several guards passed him in their pursuit of Balin. Ori turned and saw a snow covered lump not far from the bottom step. Many would have passed the spot and thought it was perhaps a stone or log obscured under the snow, but Ori knew a forgotten boy's skeleton lay there, frozen and alone.

Balin made his way quickly down the winding path towards the Dimrill Dale, his accompaniment of guards following his footprints. Ori lagged behind and shuffled in pursuit at the rear of the column. By the time he caught up with the group, the guards were standing about near the broken pillar near the shores of Kheled-Zaram, listening to Náli and Lóni tell of their exploits in the Battle of the East Gate. Frár stood alone off to the side with his head bowed.

Ori remembered the sunny spring morning then they had buried Flói under the green grass and guessed Frár was thinking back to the same sad memory. For a moment, he considered joining Frár to share in his grief but then thought better of it as he remembered all that had transpired since they lost their comrade.

Óin turned and saw Balin trudging to the shores of the Mirrormere. The ladder of short falls tumbled into the frigid water sending ripples across the surface until they were lost in its glassy stillness. The sun was quickly sinking toward Moria's mighty peaks, Celebdil, Fanuidhol, and cruel Caradhras. The last red rays reflected off Balin's polished helm. The first stars shone faintly away to the east, and a cold silence crept into the great dale.

Balin sank to his knees, the soft snow giving way and crumbling into the dark water Kheled-zâram where it faded into the shadowy depths. Balin leaned forward and stared into the still water. His thoughts were swirling like snowflakes scattered in a strong wind.

Ori wandered about the dale by himself for a time until he found a quiet place to rest. He seated himself upon one of the many stones that thrust out of the snow. He watched Balin alone on the banks of the mere, bending closer still to the still surface of the mere. Were these to be Balin's final moments? Could he really put an end to his old friend's life? This quiet interim in the calm dale pained Ori's heart like a hideous dream he could not awake from.

Balin thought of the witch in the tangled wood, he thought of his father, of Óin and of Thorin and Dáin. So many had doubted him just as he had doubted himself. Surely, this time he would see Durin's Crown above his head. Surely, after a life of serving other lords, he would be anointed by the seven stars and reassured of his right to rule. He bent closer still until his long white beard was dangling just above the water's edge. Then in the endless expanse of darkness that hung over the hunching Balin, there appeared a star, faint but clear. Its glow grew stronger and there appeared another and another until Balin could see all seven, set like jewels upon the crown he had waited a lifetime to behold.

Nearby, Ori made up his mind that now was the time to finally confront Balin about all the wrongs he had put the colony through. Outside the crumbling gates, the wretched old Dwarf seemed less powerful, less dangerous. Ori decided that this could be his only opportunity to speak with Balin outside of his hellish halls. He rose to his feet and took the first step toward the Lord of Moria.

The halcyon serenity of the scene was shattered by twang of a bowstring cracking through the cold air. An instant later, a splash. Balin fell forward into the frigid water, sending a chaos of ripples across the dark surface. A clamor of cries went up from the guards as panic poured about the place. Some rushed to Balin's aid while others brandished blades and went after the concealed bowman. Balin was quickly pulled from the water. A black arrow was buried deeply in the back of his neck, just above his collar. His white hair fell lank over his pale face while blood and water streamed down his lifeless body.

Ori froze in terror at the horrible sight. His head snapped around just in time to spot the assassin. From behind a stone, the dark shape of an Orc could be seen scurrying southwards toward the silverlode. The evil attacker was pursued by many furious Dwarves and was soon slain by spears and axes. Black blood stained the starlit snow as the orc's death bleats echoed across the empty bowl. But these were not echoes that the Dwarves now heard. These were the harrowing howls and cries of innumerable Orcs rushing up the rocky road. Ori lumbered through the snow to the safety of the guards and fell to the ground beside Balin's cold body.

The Orcs poured over the stone lip at the bottom of the dale and set upon the vastly outnumbered Dwarves. A fierce battle then raged under the cold night sky. The sharp dwarven axes found their mark in many an orc neck but still more Orcs charged up the Silverlode to join the fray.

"We must get back to the gates!" shouted Ori, regretting stepping outside without weapon or armor.

The host of Dwarves, knowing they were outmatched by the endless onslaught, sought the safety of their stone halls and beat a hasty retreat back up the path. Ori helped carry Balin's body in the center of the tight knot of guards. Black arrows glanced off the shields and armor of the beset Dwarves as they were chased all the way to the great stone stairs.

Hearing the cries of their comrades, Toki and his guards rushed out of the stone doors and battled the attackers upon the steps. They were able to push the Orcs back for a brief moment; barely enough time for the entire group of exhausted Dwarves to rush past the threshold. The heavy doors were pulled shut, locking out the swarming Orcs, just as a fresh wave came up the path to swell their ranks.

The Dwarves piled the wooden bracing upon the cracked stone gates and then slumped to the floor to catch their breath.

Inside the First Hall, the weary guards could hear the harsh voices of the Orcs through the high windows.

"Let us in, little Dwarves," came a cruel cackle. "We have enough arrows for all of you."

Náli looked terrified, his eyes wide and his face white. Lóni was as still as stone, frozen in disbelief as he looked upon Balin's body laying on the smooth stone floor. Frar on the other hand, looked fierce and determined in comparison.

"They cannot get inside," he told the others. "We can hold them long if need be. The gate is strong and cannot be breached."

He tapped upon the thick timbers with a clenched fist as if to demonstrate their strength. This reassured many of the Dwarves and a few breathed a sigh of relief. Ori however looked at the ancient stone doors. Barred or not, the enormous slabs of stone looked more weatherworn than ever and their cracks seemed more numerous and pronounced. Ori turned and saw Toki also looking at the doors with a similarly worried expression on his face.

"All the same, we should double the guards here in the First Hall and post more near the bridge," suggested Ori.

"What if they find some other way inside?" Lóni asked while looking toward his older brother.

"Lord Balin said the two gates were the only ways in or out of Khazad-dûm," Náli answered forcefully.

Ori was about to express his private doubts about this point when Frár spoke.

"Where is his helm?" he asked.

Heads turned downward toward their fallen leader, but nobody answered. Indeed, Balin's head was bare exposing his tangle of white hair matted with drying blood. His eyes were closed and for the first time in many years, his face bore an expression of peace like one resting after a long labor. Ori's emotions swirled in a confusing cacophony. Just mere moments ago, he had been so close to ending Balin's life, so why did he now feel such sharp pangs of grief? Lying before him, still upon the floor, was not the cruel tyrant of recent years, but the loyal companion from a lifetime ago.

"It must have fallen into the mirrormere," said Ori, looking up from Balin's body with a sigh.

"We must sally forth and retrieve it!" exclaimed Náli.

"Not yet," said Frár. "We need to muster a larger force."

"Are you mad?" asked Ori, staring at his companions incredulously. "There must be a thousand Orcs outside!"

"If you're too craven to avenge our Lord, just say it," snarled Frár.

"Unless you are seeking a glorious death. You are only courting disaster by going out there," said Ori.

"What do you suggest, then?" asked Lóni.

Ori froze. He didn't have an answer. All his late nights pouring over ancient manuscripts had not prepared him for such a moment. He was no military tactician, just a worn-out wanderer at the end of his rope.

"He was right to mistrust you," said Frár, shaking his head.

Ori turned away in frustration and saw the guards crowding around them. All their eyes were on Frár, awaiting orders for their next move.

"A dozen of you will stay to watch the gates so that Master Ori feels safe," said Frár to his guards.

"Now, we must take our Lord back to the Chamber of Mazarbul," commanded Frár.

The guards obeyed at once, hoisting Balin's body upon their riven shields and marching out of the First Hall.

18

Drums in the Deep

And so the company of bloodied, battle-weary guards carried their fallen lord across the bridge where he had so recently eluded death unknowingly. The Lord of Moria was then brought into the enormous Second Hall. Ori stumbled on, trying to keep up with the group, but sharp pain was tearing through his bad leg. He lagged farther behind and was the last to cross the wide fissure in the floor.

Knowing he could not bound across the gap in his condition, Ori hobbled along the jagged edge until he found the narrowest point where the span was no more than a foot across. He summoned his strength and took a wide step across the void. Just as his boot touched the smooth stone floor on the far side, he thought he glimpsed a tiny flicker of orange, no more than a mere pinprick of faint light far below in whatever dark depths lay down there, still unseen and unexplored.

He spun around and peered down into the crack. He saw nothing but unending darkness. Had he imagined the light? Was he losing his mind? He heard fading footsteps and looked to see the column of guards winding their way through the forest of black stone pillars, clearly uninterested in waiting for him to catch up. Ori retreated from the edge of the crack and limped as fast as he could through the vast empty space before climbing the many winding stairs back toward the heart of the colony.

Ori had just caught up with the procession as Balin's body passed under the archway on the southern side of the Twenty-first Hall. The grizzly sight was met with gasps and cries from the astonished colonists as the bloodsoaked corpse was carried down the passageway to the Chamber of Mazarbul.

Once inside, the doors quickly closed to keep out curious colonists. Without the once familiar large table present in the room, Ori and the guards were forced to lay their fallen leader on the dusty floor. Bali's body made for a haunting sight in the dim light. His face was now a ghastly white and his stiffening limbs stuck out at awkward angles.

"We must cover him, at least," said Ori, looking around for anything to hide the corpse.

Lóni noticed Frár's eyes flickering toward the empty throne. He followed the gaze and retrieved a fur fringed blanket that had been tossed upon the high back of the seat.

"This must do for now," he said, casting the heavy blanket over the body.

Word spread rapidly and Dwarves from many far flung corners of Moria rushed to see for themselves if the terrible rumors were true. The clamoring colonists were blocked from the Chamber of Mazarbul and corralled into the Twenty-first Hall.

Inside the chamber, Ori could hear the many voices outside the doors. He looked around the room at the few faces he recognized and then realized that he was now the most senior member of the colony present. Without a word, he stepped past Frár and walked out the doors of the chamber and into the mass of assembled colonists. Sharp dwarven eyes bored into him, greedily digging for answers.

Many hands pushed him toward the raised dais. Ori climbed the stairs and for the first time, prepared to address the colony himself. He tried to shout above the clamor for the crowd to quiet down, but he found that his reedy voice did not carry the booming authority that Balin's had. Nonetheless, the colonists demanded answers and soon quieted themselves. When the noise finally faded, Ori solemnly removed his old brown hood and bowed his head. He saw now that the faded brown fabric was stained with fresh blood. In the dim light, he could not say whether it was from a Dwarf or orc. Some of it might even be from Balin. He had never spoken in front of such a crowd before. His heart was racing and his head felt light. He tucked the soiled hood into his belt and at last raised his head.

"My friends," he began.

Already his voice cracked as it caught in his throat. He coughed twice before continuing.

"Lord Balin is dead," he blurted abruptly.

Their suspicions confirmed, the colonists hurled a fresh barrage of questions at Ori who only heard a roar of harsh voices. He was not sure why, but at this moment, his eyes filled with tears and his throat became tight.

"Balin was my friend for many years," said Ori, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "I mourn the Dwarf I knew in our younger days. He was kind and loyal, but somehow, he lost his way."

Ori could hear the objections coming from Balin's most ardent supporters. Frár now stood in the front row next to Náli. They were both shaking their heads and had sour looks upon their faces.

"I blame you not for praising Balin so," said Ori, looking down at the two angry-faced Dwarves. "As Lord of Khazad-dûm, he achieved more than we could have ever dreamed possible."

But this did nothing to cool Frár's temper. He continued to glare up at the nervous Ori. "We all know that our colony groaned beneath the yoke of his harsh rule," explained Ori.

Many Dwarves in the crowd nodded silently, relieved to hear someone speaking these treasonous thoughts aloud for once.

"There are enemies massing at the East Gate," he said. He paused momentarily as his eye caught several dark stains on the dais floor. He pushed dark thoughts from his mind and forced himself to look away. "We no longer have the numbers to defend against such a force."

Panic began to creep into the colonists, but Ori continued.

"We all know that we are running out of food. If we are besieged, we will starve," he told the crowd.

Ori took a deep breath before announcing the painful truth. "We must leave Khazad-dûm," he said in a soft voice that only those in the front rows could hear. "We must leave Khazad-dûm at once," he repeated more forcefully than he meant to, so that his voice echoed all the way to the back rows of onlookers.

Shocked mouths hung agape and eyes widened when they realized the gravity of his statement.

"We must set off westward for the Hollin Gate. Bring only what you can carry. Hurry–"

He felt strong hands push him to the ground, and before he knew it, he was looking up at Frár, standing menacingly above him with his fists clenched a furious look in his eyes.

"No!" bellowed Frár.

The Twenty-first Hall was now as silent as a crypt. The colonists had been forced to listen to Frár so many times in the past that they now held their tongues out of a fearful reflex rather than free will.

"This Dwarf is nothing but a coward and a liar," he yelled to the crowd, pointing an accusatory finger at Ori.

All the sudden, his manner changed as if a sympathetic veil had been cast over the ugly face of rage. "Just because there are a few Orcs knocking on our door, that does not mean we need to abandon our home," he said.

He let out a hearty laugh to underscore the absurdity of the notion.

"I was just at the East Gate," he told the wide-eyed Dwarves, "and trust me, it's nothing my guards can't handle,"

He rested his hand on the axe hanging from his belt as though he could deal with the ruffians himself if he wanted to. To Ori, it seemed that Frár's confidence was washing over the anxious crowd, absolving them of their fears and worries and calming them with the reassuring voice all crave in such moments. It reminded Ori of the way Balin could woo a crowd and dominate the will of those around him.

"Balin was a firm ruler, yes," continued Frár, "but he had to be to keep us safe. Master Ori seems to forget that Balin was even so humble as to refuse a crown! In the seven years he served as Lord, we never had to worry about Orcs, especially those outside our thick stone doors."

He smirked at Ori who was struggling to get to his feet. Frár gestured comically toward the lame Dwarf mockingly and was met by nervous chuckles from the calming colonists.

"I wonder," Frár went on. "How many of you built new lives under Balin's rule? How many of you left behind meager lives as coal miners, or blacksmiths, or third sons with no prospects?"

Many in the crowd grudgingly acknowledged this reality.

"My dear friend Flói gave his life so we could live in Durin's halls. I will not dishonor his memory by fleeing in the face of danger. Cowards die many times before their deaths, but the brave need only face it once," he said.

At this, he shot an exaggerated glance at Ori, plain for all the crowd to see.

"For myself, I would have my throat cut before I turn my back on Khazad-dûm," declared Frár, pulling down his collar to expose his bare neck in a dramatic fashion.

If greed had drawn the colonists to Khazad-dûm, Frár knew that greed could keep them there. His chance at a bold move was now upon him.

"If you choose to crawl back to the pitiful lives you had before, you will regret it for the rest of your days!" he cried. "Dear friends, can't you see? We have barely scratched the surface of the wealth these mines have to offer. As your Lord, I will share the wealth of Khazad-dûm more freely than Balin ever did. Remain here with me and you will all be richer than the wealthiest kings,"

Frár had learned much in his many years as Balin's lieutenant. He knew the answer before he even asked his next question.

"I ask you now, will you help me defend our home?"

Frár's gamble seemed to pay off. Gravelly cheers erupted from the throats of excited Dwarves while only a few others remained silent and pensive.

Ori hung his head in defeat when Frár hopped off the dais and walked among the adoring colonists. Ori knew there was at least one Dwarf in Khazad-dûm who would listen to reason. He turned his back on the colonists and set off at once. Ori beat a hasty retreat out of the Twenty-first Hall and was so lost in his thoughts that he barely noticed Náli and Lóni off on a corner locked in a heated argument.

After a long walk, Ori finally pushed open the heavy door and was surprised to find the prison unattended. He looked around for the guards but saw no sign of them. Their chairs at the messy table were crooked and ajar and the bucket was knocked over next to the well in the corner. Ori closed the chamber door behind him and barred it from the inside.

"They all left as soon as they heard about Balin," said Óin, emerging from the shadows of his cell.

"Is it true?" he asked.

He looked worse than ever; thin and gaunt like a filthy wraith. Only his eyes still shone with their same lively vigor. Ori met his old friend at the rusty iron bars and nodded silently.

"Well," said Óin with a stern face tinged with sober sadness. "That's that."

Ori looked at the floor but said nothing.

What now?" Óin asked.

"There is an army of Orcs at the East Gate," Ori said. "Frár and many others want to stay."

"And what do you want?" Óin asked.

"Do you remember the way to the Hollin Gate?" Ori answered.

Óin's tangled beard split into a grin.

"Yes, but I am rather restricted at the moment. Even if I am the last prisoner left," said Óin with a hoarse chuckle, his thin hands still grasping the bars.

"Not anymore," said Ori, rushing over to the guards table and rummaging through the clutter.

He returned with a ring of keys and began trying each one on Óin's cell door.

"Balin is the one who put you here, and now he's dead," said Ori, frustratedly moving onto a different key.

"As far as I'm concerned, you're a free Dwarf, and damn what Frár says about it," he said.

Then the lock made a dull click, and the heavy door swung freely on its ancient hinges.

Óin had just taken his first step out of the cell when there was a loud bang on the chamber door.

"Were you followed?" asked Óin with wide, terrified eyes.

"I don't know," Ori answered in an unsure voice

"Who is it?" called Óin through the thick door.

"Lóni," said a soft voice from the other side. "I need to speak with you."

Ori and Óin shared a confused look.

"Please," said Lóni. "I want to help."

Ori and Óin briefly discussed the matter in low whispers and came to the conclusion that if Lóni had malicious intentions, then they were already caught like rats in a trap so they might as well see what he had to say. Cautiously, Óin approached the door and removed the heavy bar. When he peeked out of the doorway, he was shocked to see that Lóni was not alone. With him were some two dozen other Dwarves. Not the armed guards, as Ori would have expected, but simple miners with drawn, scared faces. Ori opened the door wider and welcomed them all inside the small prison.

"What do you want?" asked Óin, not yet ready to forget Lóni's role in Balin's tyrannical regime.

"You're making for the West Gate aren't you?" Lóni asked, looking at Ori with pleading eyes.

"Are you here to stop us?" asked Ori.

"No," said Lioni quickly. "We want to go with you."

Lóni looked at Óin's shabby state and hung his head in shame.

"I'm so sorry," he began. "I didn't want any of this. I didn't want to come here in the first place. I was just… I was just…"

"Following orders?" suggested Óin.

"Yes," muttered Lóni. "I hated Balin for what he did, for what he made me do. I want to do something right while I still have the chance."

Óin nodded thoughtfully, and his mood toward the young Dwarf softened.

"You all want to leave as well?" Ori asked the huddled group of colonists. They nodded in agreement, and Óin saw then that many of them had packs slung on their shoulders; their whole lives crammed into small sacks. More than their luggage, their resolute faces told Ori that they were ready to leave Khazad-dûm at once and never return.

"It's about a three-day journey to the Hollin gate," said Óin, "but if we hurry, we can be out the doors in two,"

"Are you sure you're up for such a long journey?" Ori asked in a concerned voice.

His old friend had never looked worse with his emaciated frame and gaunt face.

"Trust me, dear Ori: I have never been more eager for a walk in my life," replied Óin.

He grasped the iron door that had held him captive for so many long months and slammed it shut behind him.

"Off we go," he said gladly.

Óin led the way toward the door with a smile on his face. They made to leave the prison, but Lóni paused.

"I can't leave without my brother," he told Ori and Óin.

"Náli isn't coming?" Ori asked, confused.

"He wants to stay with Frár," Lóni said in exasperation.

"Well, then, he's a fool," said Óin, eager to leave as soon as possible.

"I tried to talk some sense into him, but he won't listen to me," explained Lóni. "Maybe one of you can change his mind."

Ori and Óin looked at each other.

"I'll go back," said Ori. "Maybe I can convince some others to leave while they still have a chance."

"Thank you!" blurted out Lóni in relief.

"Are you sure?" asked Óin, surprised to hear his timid friend taking so bold an action.

"Yes," said Ori. "I sat on my hands for too long while Balin was in power. I too have my share of wrongs to right."

"Then, I will come with you," said Óin.

"No," said Ori firmly, putting a kind hand on Óin's bony shoulder. "You must lead these people to freedom. There's no telling what Frár might do if he sees you out of your cell. Lóni and I will meet you outside the gates with whomever we can convince to join us."

"I look forward to it," said Óin. "Thank you for everything, my dear friend."

The two old Dwarves embraced, for what they knew could very well be the last time. A deep rumble met their ears and caused all the Dwarves in the chamber to stand still as stone.

DOOM DOOM came a low beat, as if huge hands were pounding a massive drum far away.

Startled eyes darted frantically, searching for the source of the noise..

DOOM DOOM thundered two more booming sounds.

"It's coming from down there!" exclaimed one terrified Dwarf, pointing to the well in the corner of the chamber.

The Dwarves crowded around the circular hole and stared into the fathomless darkness. They could see nothing, not even the water far below; only darkness.

DOOM, DOOM, DOOM rolled the distant beating, louder this time and sounding closer and more terrible. It was as if the hard heart of Moria had awoken.

"We need to leave now!" shouted Óin over the profound percussion.

The walls and floor seemed to shake in time with the distant cadence, sending the panic-stricken Dwarves rushing toward the door. Óin led the way to the end of a hallway where he took a sharp turn westwards while Ori and Lóni took an eastwards turn to rush back to the colony.

Ori's lame leg was screaming in pain by the time he and Lóni returned to the Twenty-first Hall. They had not passed a single Dwarf on their long journey back to the main colony and had assumed that everyone who had chosen to stay would still be in the area. To their surprise, the large echoing space was completely devoid of life for the first time in several years. The polished black pillars stood as silent stone sentinels, watching over their subterranean realm. They looked around to the far corners, distant and gloomy but saw not a soul.

Something did catch their eyes though as soon as they passed under the northern arch. On the floor of the wide corridor, lay several large logs. They were of uniform length and had been shaped so as to be smooth and round. Ori had seen logs like these before in Erebor, used as rollers to move heavy blocks. He wondered what Frár and his followers could be up to. Ori's keen mind conjured up visions of massive stones rolled in front of doorways to deny entry to their attacking enemies. He was not expecting to see the real purpose of the rollers when they rounded the corner.

The first thing Ori noticed was the glimmer of white daylight coming from the open doorway. He realized then that it was already morning in the outside world and though he didn't feel the least bit tired, he had been awake the whole night. They heard the murmuring of many voices coming from inside the Chamber of Mazarbul. Lóni hesitated just before he reached the door and let Ori walk in front of him. Ori stepped over another wooden roller and looked into the room.

He blinked several times to be sure his eyes were not deceiving him. An angled shaft of light was falling directly on a shape in the middle of the square room. A massive rectangular box carved from a single oblong block, about two feet high. upon which was laid a great slab of white stone. A great many Dwarves were crammed into the room, making the chamber look even smaller than it really was. Some Dwarves were moving aside rollers while many others were organizing stacks of weapons near the smaller eastern door. The rest were strenuously sliding a single slab of white stone onto the top of the box. The lid was thick, and to Ori's eyes it must have been hard to move on its own.

"A little more to the left," came Frár's commanding voice.

Ori stepped into the chamber and saw Frár sitting upon Balin's throne. The infamous Mithril axe lay across his lap.

"No, no, no," Frár continued, rising to his feet and holding Durin's axe in his hand. "Your other left."

DOOM. With a great thud, the lid fell perfectly into place. Expert dwarven masons had crafted the box and lid to such precision that any seam between the two pieces was now invisible. All activity ceased when the Dwarves noticed Ori and Lóni standing in the doorway.

"Well, I will admit," said Frár, turning to them with a haughty look on his face, "this is a surprise,"

"Shouldn't you be running off with the other traitors?" asked Náli, his eyes fixed on his younger brother.

"We came back to help you," said Ori

"Help us?" asked Frár, gesturing to the stone box. "We just finished."

Ori stepped farther into the chamber and looked upon the illuminated stone lid. Written in the ancient runes of Khazad-dûm, but in the common tongue rather than the secret Khazdul of the Dwarves, was a finely carved inscription:

BALIN, SON OF FUNDIN, LORD OF MORIA.

"It is done, then," said Ori, continuing to stare at the gleaming white stone.

"No thanks to you," said Frár, descending from the throne. "Balin was wise to trust me. He had this sarcophagus made some time ago and stored away. He told me several times how much he wanted it to look like…"
"Thorin's?" Ori interjected, looking up into Frár's eyes.

"Exactly," said Frár with a slimy grin. "It seems like he didn't trust you at all."

Ignoring the insult, Ori turned to the sweaty Dwarves who were standing around watching him.

"There is still time to leave!" he explained. "I can lead you to the Hollin Gate if you will just follow me."

He saw now how none of the Dwarves seemed to be mourning the loss of their leader. There were no tears, no signs of grieving. None would meet his gaze. Instead, they looked to Frár and remained silent.

"They won't follow you!" shouted Frár. "The colony is mustering at the First Hall as we speak. We are setting off to join them now. Move!"

With that order, the eastern door was flung inwards, and the mass of Dwarves turned and began filling out the room. As each Dwarf exited the Chamber of Mazarbul, he was handed weapons and sent marching down the steep stairs at double time speed. Frár pushed his way toward the front of the column, Durin's axe raised high for all to follow. Náli followed close behind and the two Dwarves quickly disappeared into the darkness.

"Wait! Stop!" Ori called desperately

"Náli, please!" shouted Lóni, but his cries fell upon deaf ears.

Ori and Lóni were forced to chase the armed company down the narrow staircase and through a long passageway. The corridor was lit by no shafts and was utterly dark and the jostling warband was reduced to groping their way along the tight walls, Ori was swept along with the hurrying Dwarves like a barrel floating upon a swiftly flowing stream. The walls seemed to be trembling with the pounding of so many ironshod feet in such a constricted space.

With each descending step down the winding passage, Ori could hear the pounding growing louder and louder DOOM. DOOM. DOOM. until he could no longer hear Lóni calling for his brother in the darkness. He knew then that the thundering sound was not the echoes of their soles upon the floor, but the war call of some new devilry that lay ahead of them.

DOOM. DOOM. DOOM.

After a mile, when the doorway to the Second Hall lay just ahead of them, the deafening beating ceased altogether.

The perplexed Dwarves tumbled out the passage and into the wide hall, where they were met by an eerie silence. Now that he could see, Lóni rushed forward and grabbed Náli by the arm.

"Please, listen to me!" he cried desperately.

Náli pushed away his brother's hand.

"No!" he yelled, sending his voice echoing off the black pillars.

"I will not leave!" he continued. "I will not go back to Erebor to stand like a doorpost in Dáin's cellar. There is nothing back there for us."

"There is nothing for us here either!" exclaimed Náli pointing eastwards.

Just then, faint sounds met their ears, barely audible like the lightest wisp of wind.

Then the sounds grew louder. They were cries. Terrible cries. Their heads spun to the east to where the narrow bridge spanned the wide bottomless void. Beyond the bridge a short set of stairs led to a small arched doorway. The arched void gaped like a dark mouth as more nightmarish cries erupted from it.

A lone figure emerged from the darkened doorway, and tumbled down the stairs onto the stone floor. He was unarmed and his helmet had a dent so profound that Ori could see it from such a distance. The terrified Dwarf sprang to his feet and rushed toward the narrow span as if he was being pursued by death itself.

"Forward!" called Frár, pointing Durin's axe in the direction of the retreating colonist. Without a second thought, Náli followed him with Lini close behind. Ori joined the rest of the stampede as they rushed towards the bridge.

Panting, the running Dwarf glanced behind him towards the cacophony of noise emanating from the small doorway. With renewed vigor, the Dwarf then galloped onto the perilous bridge without breaking pace. He then spied Frár and the others rushing to his aid. He waved his arms furiously and began screaming. They were now close enough to see the whites of his wide eyes. At the head of the column, Frár had almost reached the bridge when the Dwarf shouted to them.

"Stop! Turn Back!" he cried madly.

Frár skidded to a stop and signaled for his followers to do the same. They stood still and listened to the Dwarf's cry as it echoed in the thick air.

"The gates are broken!" he bellowed.

He had just crossed the arch at the center of the span when a single arrow, black feathered with a sharp iron point, flew out from the doorway, pursuing its prey like a hungry hawk. The arrow found its mark in the runner's back before he ever reached the far side.

Ori and the others watched in horror as the Dwarf swerved and tumbled off the edge of the bridge. The Dwarf fell silently into the darkness, growing smaller and smaller until he was completely consumed by the insatiable nothingness. All that remained of him was a splatter of blood upon the narrow stone.

19

Shadow and Flame

Like the bursting of a great dam, hundreds of writhing bodies poured out of the doorway and careened down the stairs toward the bridge. In the tangle of flesh, there were many Dwarves running for their lives and flailing their blood drenched weapons wildly, but the vast majority of the figures were Orcs of all shapes and sizes. They swarmed over the retreating Dwarves like a pestilent plague, overwhelming them with incredible numbers.

Witnessing the bloody slaughter, Frár and his retinue of warriors at once rushed across the bridge to the Dwarves' aid. Ori had no weapon but nonetheless joined in the charge out of innate reflex.

Once across the narrow bridge, a fierce battle then erupted in the small space between the stairs and the edge of the abyss. Frár swung Durin's axe with ferocious strength. The incredibly sharp Mithril blade cut through armor and bone as if they were the softest silk. Blood splashed over him like waves breaking on the prow of a ship. Scores of enemies fell at Frár's hand as he let out a crazed cackle of a laugh, drunk off the intoxicating fervor.

Ori climbed over a tangle of corpses and found a notched axe with which to defend himself. He slew a long armed goblin that was sinking his yellow fangs into a crumpled Dwarf. When he heaved aside the lifeless orc, he found that the colonist had already perished. More and more bodies streamed out of the doorway.

Bloodstained Dwarves pursued by red-eyed Orcs shoved their way onto the crowded platform until it was impossible for Ori to swing his axe. He could feel elbows and sword hilts pressing into his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs. The churning sea of bodies seethed with a stifling heat and putrid stench.

Ori heard several screams as Dwarves and Orcs alike were being pushed off the railless edge and fell into the bottomless pit beyond. As even more combatants hacked their way onto the tiny battlefield, Ori could feel himself being pushed closer and closer to the perilous edge. He tried to look down at his feet, but he was so constrained by the mass of Orcs and Dwarves that he could only feel the crush and squish of unseen objects beneath his boots. He had to recross the bridge or he would soon follow the unfortunate others into the abyss.

Like a swimmer fighting a strong current, he used his arms to push himself through the wriggling crowd. He was certain that some of the figures he passed were already dead and kept upright only by the crushing force of the throng. When he finally neared the bridge, he saw that many others had already come to the same thought. There was more space to breathe here and the combatants seemed to set aside their slaying until they reached safer ground on the other side. The narrow strip of stone was packed with fleeing fighters as Ori joined in the hasty retreat.

The flow of Dwarves and Orcs quickly became too great for the dangerously narrow bridge. Many unlucky warriors tumbled off the sheer sides before they could set foot on the floor of the Second Hall. Ori's axe was knocked from his hands but it disappeared into nothingness before he could reach for it.

Determined not to meet the same awful fate, Ori put his head down and grasped the figure in front of him. In the rush of blood and sweat, he could not tell whether it was a Dwarf or Orc, but all the same, he held tightly and pushed forward, just as someone was pushing upon his own back. The column shuffled along like this, but Ori dared not let go. He heard cries coming from being and then felt strong hands tugging at his clothing. He clenched his eyes shut and pushed forward even harder. He felt desperate hands grabbing at his back, fumbling for purchase, but still he kept his feet moving. He felt his hood being snatched from his head and then, suddenly, he felt nothing at all.

For a moment, he thought he had been pulled off into the void. He opened his eyes and saw that he was standing on the flat floor of the Second Hall. He looked behind him in time to see a knot of Orcs and Dwarves falling into the abyss, all grabbing and clawing at each other, not yet aware that they were doomed to the darkness below.

He watched as Frár carved a path onto the bridge and quickly made his way across, sending several Orcs and even one Dwarf to their deaths in the process.

"Frár, wait!" pleaded Ori with his hands upraised. "We need to retreat!"

Frár pushed the old Dwarf aside and held his dripping axe high into the air. In a fierce voice, he let out a cry in the ancient tongue of the Dwarves.

"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mânu!" he bellowed over the sounds of battle.

Ori knew then that his words were useless to quell his comrade's rage as Frár ran forward to join the battle that had spilled into the Second Hall. Like a war raging under the eaves of massive black trunked trees, Dwarves and Orcs hacked viciously at each other as they weaved between the many dark stone pillars. Ori dropped to the floor to avoid a dagger tumbling through the dark air and then crawled upon his hands and knees through the tangle of legs searching for a new weapon. Just as he found a short dwarven sword, he heard familiar voices nearby.

Lóni and Náli stood together near several dead Orcs. The blades of their axes ran wet with dark blood, but they themselves seemed unharmed aside from a nasty cut above Náli's left eye.

"You were right!" said Náli, wiping the blood out of his eyes and surveying the carnage that surrounded them "We cannot win."

"So you will leave with me?" asked Lóni, turning to his brother in surprise.

"Yes!" shouted Náli "But I do not know the way."

"He does," said Lóni, pointing to Ori crawling nearby.

They hoisted Ori to his feet and pulled him to shelter behind one of the pillars.

"We must leave now," Lóni said to Ori in a desperate voice.

"I am sorry I did not believe you earlier," said Náli, hanging his head.

Lóni placed a hand on his brother's shoulder and looked at Ori with hopeful eyes.

"Will you help us?" he asked.

Ori caught his breath and nodded.

"Yes, if there is still time. We need to get out of this hall and head west as fast as we can," he said.

He poked his head out from behind the pillar and saw that battle had devolved into several smaller skirmishes spread throughout the enormous room. The colonists were fighting bravely, with each axe wielding Dwarf fighting off several Orcs. Despite their best efforts though, more enemies poured in from the East and crawled like angry unceasing ants across the narrow bridge. Keen yellow eyes turned in the trio's direction and their hearts grew cold with fear.

"Run!" cried Ori, pointing to a doorway on the far western wall. Pursued by the relentless outpouring of Orcs, the three Dwarves took off across the hall weaving their way between combatants locked in mortal struggle. The air was thick and warm and Ori's breathing had become labored. Ori soon lagged behind and cursed his lame leg and the calamity that had caused it. He watched as Náli and Lóni raced ahead towards the center of the rectangular space. Suddenly, Ori felt a sharp pain tear through his shoulder, and he fell forward upon the hard stone floor with an anguished cry. Lóni skidded to a stop when he heard Ori fall and at once turned back to aid his friend.

"Náli! Wait!" he cried over his shoulder, but his brother could not hear him over the clamor of steel and kept running westwards. Lóni saw a black shaft of an orc arrow driven deep into Ori's shoulder and for a moment feared him to be dead but was relieved when the old Dwarf stirred. Ori raised his head and saw more black arrows arcing above him in all directions, finding their marks in any flesh, Orc or Dwarf, unfortunate enough to receive their painful kiss.

Ori felt a rush of hot air upon his sweaty face, like one who has just opened an oven door. The floor below him began to shake and a great cracking and rumbling filled the cavernous hall so that no other sound could be heard. The shaking continued and grew more violent until it was so great that many of the fighters could not stay upright on their feet and fell to the floor. His past experience in a collapsing tunnel flashed in Ori's mind, and he thought then that the arched roof high above him was going to fall and crush them all.

But it was not the ceiling that he saw being torn apart. The floor on which he lay was crumbling into sharp fragments and falling into a bottomless expanse of inky darkness. Just ahead of him, close to the feet of two huge pillars, the once familiar crack was now a widening crevasse, devouring Dwarves and Orcs alike. A dim red glow was emanating from the great fissure. The awful echo of Orc laughter began to slither through the choking smoke-filled air.

"Ghâsh! Ghâsh! Ghâsh!" they chanted in their terrible voices.

Letting go of Ori, Lóni rushed to the jagged edge and yelled to the other side.

"Náli! Are you there?"

"I'm here Lóni!" came the response though the smoke, distant and weak. Náli could be seen getting back to his feet on the far side of the wide crevasse.

"Stay there!" yelled Lóni. "I will find a way around!"

Lóni raced frantically to his left and right only to discover the gaping canyon had bisected the Second Hall from wall to wall.

"Ghâsh! Ghâsh! Ghâsh!" the chanting continued.

The thick air became even hotter. Lóni wiped the perspiration from his brow and called again to Náli.

"It's too wide!" he cried in despair. "I cannot cross. I will have to find another…"

Lóni's face then became distorted in terror. His eyes widened as he saw a dozen shadow figures emerge from the smoky gloom behind his brother. Lóni watched helplessly as the Orcs then set upon the unsuspecting Náli, crushing him into the cracked stone floor with heavy clubs before hacking at his body with their crooked blades. Like demons from a nightmare, the Orcs' faces were hideously underlit by the growing red glow. Their eyes like hot coals turned upon Lóni, weeping helplessly on the far side of the expanse.

"Ghâsh! Ghâsh! Ghâsh!" they cackled wickedly.

Flames began spewing from below, licking at the edges of the broken floor. The wisps of smoke stung Lóni's tear filled eyes. He rose to his feet and hurled his axe at his brother's killers. The span was too great and the axe clattered off the black stone and fell down into the steaming furnace below.

The battle commenced in the Second Hall as Orcs and Dwarves once again crashed into each other. Ori tried to crawl away from the carnage and towards his grieving comrade. He then felt strong hands grasp him and drag him to his feet. He was met by Frár's blood splattered face, no longer confident and bold, but fearful and full of panic. He was dragging Durin's axe upon the floor, too exhausted to swing it anymore.

"There are too many," he panted "We must retreat,"

"Not without Lóni," said Ori, gesturing westwards to where the young Dwarf stamped his feet and cursed the wicked Orcs. He screamed at them from his powerless position upon the edge of the abyss, too incensed to feel the heat of the growing inferno.

Through the smoke, Ori could see an Orc on the far side of the crack drawing back a bowstring with a fanged smile. The shaft was loosed before Ori could speak. He watched despairingly as the arrow struck Lóni in the center of his chest. The young Dwarf's hands dropped to his sides and he stumbled upon his heavy legs as life poured out of him.

"No!" cried Ori and Frár at once.

"Ghâsh! Ghâsh! Ghâsh!" chanted the Orcs from all directions

Frár staggered forward toward his last living friend dragging with him the great Mithril axe. But it was too late. Lóni's eyes closed and his legs went limp. Before Frár could reach him, Lóni's body tumbled forward into the flames and disappeared into the hellish conflagration.

"Ghâsh! Ghâsh! Ghâsh!" wailed the Orcs, so incensed and distracted by their chanting that many were slain by their dwarven foes.

DOOM! came a great subterranean blast that sounded like an enormous explosion had shook the very roots of the mountain.

All at once, the Orcs ceased their terrible chorus, and the hot air began to thrum as if fanned by unseen wings. The flames leapt higher, belching smoke to the apex of the towering roof. Frár dove backwards onto the floor barely avoiding immolation. A flaming tendril emerged from the blaze, like a glowing whip with many red thongs. With a crack like thunder, it wrapped itself around Frár's legs, searing his flesh and sending yet more smoke into the air. Like a fish caught on a line, Frár was slowly dragged toward the towering column of fire. Frár cried out in pain and tried to bring his axe down upon the constricting strand. The sharp edge of the great Mithril blade merely glanced off the fiery whip in a shower of orange sparks. Then with one last violent jerk, Frár and Durin's Axe were gone in a flicker of flame and a wisp of smoke.

Ori remained where he stood, paralyzed with fear. The Orcs howled with wicked delight and resumed their butchery with renewed zeal.

"Retreat," Ori mumbled to himself.

The entire hall now glowed red, and the air pulsed with a pounding pressure that made Ori's head ache. Grotesque shadows were cast upon the towering columns while scenes of slaughter played out on their mirrored faces.

"Retreat," he said louder, turning North towards a low archway with a small stone door.

He tried to run, but the arrow in his shoulder and his lame leg slowed him to a shuffling shamble. Now he yelled to a knot of nearby Dwarves who were somehow still alive and fighting.

"Retreat!" he cried, pointing to the doorway.

The warriors took up his call, shouting to their embattled kin, and soon every Dwarf in the hall with life enough to stand was beating a retreat northward. Many dropped their weapons to flee the battlefield all the faster. The first Dwarf skidded to a stop in front of the door. He grasped the iron ring and pushed the heavy door open with a mighty heave. He was met by a refreshing blast of cool air, a welcome relief to the stifling closeness in the Second Hall. A dark ascending passage lay ahead of him. Just as he was about to set foot into the narrow sanctuary, an orc arrow passed through his head, and he fell dead upon the floor.

Several undeterred Dwarves scurried over the fresh corpse and raced through the doorway to safety. When Ori finally made past the threshold, he ordered the Dwarves to form a blockade with their riven shields in front of the door, securing the exit for the others still desperately hacking their way out of the fray.

The orc army tried to pursue the Dwarves into the passage, but the defense held them back with exhausted axe strokes. Some two dozen more Dwarves were able to fight their way to safety. Ori looked between the shields but could see no other Dwarves among the sea of hideous orc faces.

"Get inside and close the door!" he commanded just as arrows started clattering off the spandrels above his head.

The battered defensive line edged backwards into the darkness. With a tremendous effort that cost another brave Dwarf his life, they are able to slam the thick door shut. Ori and the others were enveloped in total darkness. They fumbled blindly in the blackness until they were able to drop the heavy bar across the door. Ori collapsed against the wall of the passage and felt the arrow shaft break beneath his weight with a loud snap. He winced in pain but was too tired to move at the moment. He could hear his comrades nearby. Most were panting breathlessly, some were wailing in pain or grief and at least one was sobbing.

Through the stone door, he could hear the dull thuds of orc clubs as they pounded away at the hard surface. Ori wanted to believe that the door would hold back the attackers forever, but then thought back to the East Gate that had fallen after so many years. He clawed at the stone fall and picked himself up off the floor. He turned to the section of darkness where he thought the surviving colonists were.

"We need to keep moving," he told them.

He could hear groans and the labored movements of weary limbs.

The survivors of the horrific battle stumbled their way up many steep steps. The mile long journey back to the Chamber of Mazarbul was haunted by the echoes of Orc howls from behind the barred door, but thankfully the awful noises faded by the time Ori's hand found an iron ring in the darkness. He pushed open the door slowly and looked inside cautiously. The sun had set in the outer world and no light shone in through the shaft. The room was dark and silent as a crypt. Ori stepped into the chamber and beckoned the other Dwarves to follow him.

As the column of wounded warriors staggered inside, Ori rushed to his small desk in the corner and retrieved a small key. By the time he hobbled back to the door, some thirty Dwarves were safely inside the chamber. Ori looked around confused.

"This can't be it," he mumbled to himself in disbelief..

He stepped outside the doorway and looked down a long flight of steps certain that many more Dwarves must have survived the battle.

"That's everyone," came a weak voice. "Shut the door."

Ori turned and saw the captain Toki he had met before at the East Gate. He was slumped upon the floor with his back leaning against Balin's sarcophagus. Ori shut the door and turned to the heavy iron key, moving the old lock into place with a dull click. He came to Toki's side and took a seat near him on one of the thick wooden rollers.

"What happened at the gate?" Ori asked.

The other Dwarves scattered about the chamber remained silent, clearly unwilling to relive the terrible nightmare.

"Frár had ordered most of the colony to assemble in the First Hall," explained Toki. "He wanted to drive the Orcs from the Dimrill Dale once everyone was ready."

"A foolish idea," mumbled Ori.

"But orders all the same," added Toki.

"Did you open the gates?" asked Ori.

"Of course not," said Toki. "We barred the way with all the timber we had at hand, but the Orcs began hammering away at the doors with a mighty ram."

Ori could already guess where this story was going, but he let the captain finish.

"The doors were very old," Toki said, "and they soon began to crack even more."

His eyes closed and he shook his head.

"I knew we should have replaced them when we had a chance."

"Why didn't you?" asked Ori.

"Orders…" mumbled Toki.

He opened his eyes and continued his tale.

"The gates all crumbled at once. The Orcs, so many Orcs. I think I saw cave trolls with them too. They were carrying the battering ram. They just kept coming. We were forced out of the First Hall and into the passageway toward the bridge."

Ori placed a comforting hand on Toki's shoulder.

"What about the other colonists?" Ori asked. "There must have been hundreds with you at the East Gate. Where are they?"

"Gone; they're all gone," said Toki, covering his face with his hands.

Ori recoiled, horrorstruck. He struggled to understand how so many lives could be extinguished so quickly. He looked around the room at the fearful faces. They were turning towards him now, with pleading eyes begging for direction.

"Not everyone is gone," he announced to them. "Óin has led a large group to the Hollin Gate. They should be nearly there by now."

Ori glanced up into the eastern shaft, trying to gauge the time, but in truth, he had already forgotten what day it was.

"We know Khazad-dûm better than these Orcs do," he told them. "If we hurry, we can make it to the West Gate before they do. We can escape,"

The weary Dwarves rallied to Ori and pulled each other to their feet. They bound their wounds as best they could and made ready for their exodus. Ori crept out the western doorway and peered into the hallway. All was silent and still. Despite their horrible losses, the resilient Dwarves were reassured and their hopes rose. Ori gestured for them to follow and led them deeper into the shadowy labyrinth of Moria.

20

Flight to the Hollin Gate

Óin gently pushed open the thick stone door. The rectangular slab swung inward noiselessly, and he led his band of followers forward into the empty guardroom. Many of the Dwarves dropped their heavy packs and fell upon the floor, utterly exhausted. They had covered many miles with Óin leading them at a furious pace though many winding passageways. It was only when they had traveled countless paces west that the great pounding noises faded into the darkness and Óin felt it safe to call for a brief halt. His shrunken muscles burned, and his throat was parched. He was finally out of that wretched prison cell, but he was not yet free. He stepped over to the well and began drawing upon the chain.

As he pulled the heavy bucket onto the floor, he saw several broken pieces of stone that had once been the well's lid. He thought back to the day it had been dropped and its crumbling pieces scattered across the floor. He wondered where his friends were now, or if they were even still alive. He wondered if he would ever see them again. He hoped so.

The Dwarves rested in the dark chamber for some time, whispering their worries in huddled knots. They nibbled on what little food they had in their packs and were happy to share with Ori who had come along with only the filthy rags on his back.

"Rest here while you can," he told them. "It is still twenty miles up to the Hollin Gate."

This was met by groans from even the most steadfast of the escapees. Their packs were heavily laden with precious jewels and heavy ingots that made their marching slow and labored. Many had refused to leave behind such prized possessions, the culmination of years of toil. There was great uncertainty about where they would go after they passed into the outside world. Some suggested crossing over the High Pass and then back to Erebor. Others preferred continuing west to the Blue Mountains, not willing to return to their homes as failures.

"Once we are outside the gates, you can each go where you will," said Óin, thinking about his own future.

For himself, he was planning on waiting outside for Ori and they could make their way back to the Lonely Mountain together. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had left their comfortable lives behind. It had been so long since he had seen his dear friends and family. Happy memories played out in his mind as he laid his head down to rest.

Óin's dreams began as visions of his mountain home, of feasting, of laughing and walking in the sunlight. His reveries soon took a darker turn, and he saw himself trapped again in his prison cell. Orcs were laughing at him from behind the iron bars. Their yellow fangs were stained red with blood. Their howls grew louder until it felt as though they were with him inside the tiny cell, clawing at him, tearing him to pieces with their sharp claws.

"Master Óin!" came a distant voice floating through the darkness without a body.

"Wake up, Master Óin!," called the voice.

Óin opened his eyes and saw several concerned faces looking down at him. He was soaked with a cold sweat and his whole body ached from head to toe.

"I'm alright," he told them, sitting up and mopping his brow with his hood.

The others looked worried but did not press him further. Óin rose to his feet, still breathing hard. He walked over to a dusty rack of weapons near the well and picked out a small axe.

"We need to get out of here," he said, sliding the weapon into his belt.

Óin and his followers roused themselves and resumed their westward flight, silently creeping through the twisting route. Óin struggled to clear his mind of the specters that had haunted his fitful sleep. The mines of Moria are intricate beyond the imagination and there were many turns and forks to remember. It had been a long time since he had walked through this part of Khazad-dûm, but Óin never led his people astray. If not for their guide, the refugees would have soon become lost in the dark labyrinth. The column of Dwarves followed Óin in silence for many more miles, only pausing briefly to catch their breath and listen for pursuers.

"I have no memory of this," said Óin, raising his hand for a halt.

They had come to a spot where the ascending floor had been torn apart, creating a gaping chasm that spread across the entire passageway. In disbelief, Óin retraced his steps to assure himself that he was indeed on the right route. Convinced that this was their intended course, he leaned over the edge and stared down into the darkness. A great churning of water far below could be heard, unseen and invisible in the void. Because of the incline of the floor, the far side, which was about seven feet away, was also slightly higher than where they stood on the eastern side.

"We're going to have to jump," he announced to his followers.

The Dwarves eyed the perilous chasm in disbelief but saw no alternatives.

"Hold onto your weapons," he told them, "but the luggage must remind behind."

Arguments erupted from the enraged escapees. For those who had already lost so much, abandoning their precious packs was an enormous sacrifice even for salvation.

"There is no time for this," he said firmly. "This is the only route I know to the Hollin Gate, and we've already run out of food. We can't risk going all the way back to the colony now."

Several of the Dwarves refused to abandon the sum of their worldly possessions and tried to toss their overstuffed packs across the abyss. The Dwarves watched with tearfilled eyes as their packs bounced off the rough rocks and fell into the chasm. Several sickening thuds followed by distant splashes told them their hard-earned treasures were lost forever. Frustrated, saddened and hurt, the Dwarves leapt over the void and landed safely, but penniless on the other side.

Óin took a running start and was barely able to grasp an outstretched hand when his feet landed on the broken stone floor.

One Dwarf remained on the far side. He was still wearing his pack and was tightening the straps with quaking hands.

"You need to leave it all behind!" pleaded Óin.

"No!" the Dwarf refused. "I won't leave empty handed!"

The determined Dwarf dug his ironshod boot into the dusty floor and took off at a sprint. He sprang into the air and flew like a bat through the darkness. The Dwarf's chest struck the edge of the floor. His hands clawed desperately before he slid backwards. In an instant, he was gone. His horrified companions covered their ears as they tried to block out his screams, which grew more distant with each fading thud until they ceased to hear his shrieks all together. The terminal splash was their unspoken signal to continue their march.

Just as they were stepping away from the chasm, Óin paused to let the others pass straining his ears. He thought he had heard faint knocks out of the depths: tom-tap, tap-tom. The noises ceased, and when the echoes had died away, they were repeated: tap-tom, tom-tap, tap-tap, tom. They sounded disquietingly like signals of some sort, but after a while the knocking died away and was not heard again. The last Dwarf passed by Óin and their eyes met for a mere moment. Neither had to speak a word, but they both knew what the other was thinking. They both knew the sound of a hammer strike when they heard it.

Óin trotted to the front of the group, trying to conceal his uneasiness and set an even faster pace than ever before. Their route continued to climb and the air became cooler. There were many stairways and passages branching off from their intended path.

At several of the descending branches, Óin could hear more tapping far below. He looked back at the other Dwarves and could tell by their fearful expressions that they could hear the haunting echoes too. He gripped the handle of his axe tightly, expecting danger at every turn. It was impossible for them to hurry across the stone floors and remain quiet at the same time. Their heavy footfalls were magnified by dark rock that encircled them until it sounded like the thundering of many hooves.

Ori listened to the rumble of their feet, and an awful thought crossed his mind. In addition to the rhythmic thud of ironshod Dwarf feet and the ragged breathing of his exhausted companions, he could now hear the quick scurrying of other, quicker feet coming from behind them. He lept over pitfalls and cracks in the floor trying desperately to lead his people away from the unseen evil that hounded them. The sounds of their pursuers grew louder to the point that Óin heard snarls and howls. A lifetime of adventure and warfare had taught him that Dwarves could never outrun Orcs. Even now, the slowest of his followers were lagging behind and would soon be overtaken. Óin refused to leave any of the stragglers to a grizzly death. After rounding a sharp turn, he called for a halt and let the entire column catch up. They spun around and formed a tightly packed line that stretched right across the narrow tunnel.

Óin drew out his axe and the other Dwarves followed suit brandishing knives, clubs and mattocks. Here they waited silently for the oncoming assault. Shoulder to shoulder, they listened as the Orcs rumbled toward them. It was impossible for them to know how many attackers were headed their way. The evil voices cackled and roared like oncoming phantoms as they ran to the turn. The Orcs rounded the tight corner and careened straight into keen dwarven steel. Many Orcs were slain before they even saw the Dwarves. Their black blood pooled upon the dark stone floor.

More Orcs crashed into the fray but the dwarven line remained strong. Óin hacked at the pressing wall of black bodies, but every time one enemy fell, there was another to take its place. An idea flashed in Óin's mind that there could be hundreds or even thousands of Orcs relentlessly pouring down upon them. His arms grew weary, and his axe began to feel heavy in his weakening hands. He began to despair, thinking he would be washed away by the evil tide of attackers. He shut his eyes and kept slashing wildly until all of the sudden, there was silence.

He opened his eyes and saw nothing but the rough tunnel walls. The entire battle had concluded after only a few fierce moments. To his surprise, instead of an enormous army, they had only faced about twenty Orcs who now lay still upon the floor. He looked to his left and right and was pleased to see that his comrades, aside from a few minor wounds, were all still standing and very much alive.

Óin stood on the narrow battlefield and listened for the sound of more Orcs, certain that there had to be others. To his relief, there was nothing to be heard but the heavy breathing of the victors. The Dwarves were emboldened by their victory and they praised Óin for his courageous leadership.

"We have scored one victory, yes," he said, "but we have not the strength to withstand another attack. There may be many more Orc bands wandering through Khazad-dûm as we speak. We must reach the doors before another finds us."

They continued on in silence for many more miles. Every now and again, a waft of cool, fresh air met their faces, urging them forward with a taste of freedom that waited outside the gates. Óin wondered what had become of Ori and the rest of the colony. He fretted about his old friend and the others who had decided to remain behind. He thought of Ori fighting off Orcs on his way out of Khazad-dûm and for a moment, considered turning back to aid his old friend. He looked back at the grim faces of his followers.

Having lost their home, friends and now even their possessions, they seemed in no mood to remain in Khazad-dûm, a movement longer than thay had to. He could not abandon them now. Ori led them through several turns to a level passage with an arched roof.

"We are close," Óin told them encouragingly, but their faces remained sour, and their eyes hard and downcast.

Before them was a set of two hundred stairs, broad and shallow. Óin began descending slowly. His weak body ached after such a long imprisonment, but he felt energized knowing the gates stood just ahead. On one of the last steps, he saw a small lumpy shape kicked to the side. Curious, he picked up the object and was shocked to see that it was his old hood. A good deal dustier, and with a bit more mold than it had been before, but to Óin, it seemed as though all was going right for him. He couldn't wait to tell Ori about his good luck.

He tucked his old hood into his belt and gave one of the doors a heave. To his surprise, the door did not swing forward as he had expected. He knew he had lost much of his strength over the past year, but a well made Dwarf door such as this should have swung freely on its hinges with the slightest push from inside. His comrades stepped forward to aid him and together they pressed upon the mighty stone slab until it finally began to move. They immediately jumped backwards, feeling cold water rush inside and over their feet. A faint twinkle of starlight snuck inside the doors and danced in Óin's widened eyes.

Perplexed, Óin shuffled sideways between the doors to assess the situation. Standing up to his ankles in the frigid water, in the deep shadows of the massive holly trees, Óin looked out upon a wholly unexpected sight. Where once stood a wide, flat shelf, now stretched a dark still lake. A sharp sickle of a moon did little to illuminate its sullen surface, and even the stars were lost in its blackness. The ominous water had completely filled the space outside the doors, completely submerging the road and swallowing the hedges that ran beside it. Óin looked to the north and could barely discern the stream tumbling down from the mountain heights and pouring into the gloomy pool. He remembered how the Siranon had seemed swollen the last time he looked out of these doors, but he never would have guessed that the water could have risen to this level.

The other Dwarves came out to join him and stared in dismay at the pool. Most of them had never seen this place before, having entered Khazad-dûm from the east and after that, never had a reason nor opportunity to come this far west. Those who had entered from the west barely remembered the place as it was. For them, it was a passing blur before their exciting entrance to Durin's Halls. The sky was clear except for a pillar of clouds in the western sky that glowed in the faint moonlight. Ori climbed upon one of the thick holly roots and scanned the shores for a dry path to skirt the unwholesome lake, but saw none.

"It looks to be only two or three furlongs in breadth," said Óin. "If we leave our weapons behind, we can swim across."

He pointed to the northwest to where the road could be seen emerging from the green gloomy abyss before it disappeared over the edge of the shelf. His followers were not overly fond of entering the stagnant pool but saw no alternative with their salvation lying just ahead on the distant shore.

"Leave the door open for Ori," he added. "He should be following us soon."

Óin left his axe on the doorstep with the others' weapons and eased himself deeper into the lake. His feet slipped on submerged stones, and he struggled to keep himself upright. In the distance, he heard the mournful howl of hungry wolves. He thought to himself that he would rather face wolves in the wild than turn back now. He took a few tentative steps forward and was surprised to find how quickly the unseen floor descended, sending the water up to the level of his chest. He took several rapid breaths as the cold sank into his very core. He made his way northward, staying close to the sheer face of the walls of Moria until he was about even with the exposed roadway on the far side. He gestured for his companions to follow, and they began to wade over to his position.

"I will cross first, and then you can all swim to me," Óin suggested, hoping to dispel their worries.

Once all the Dwarves were lined up along the wall and bobbing in the dark water, Óin made his move. Unencumbered by baggage or gear, he pushed off the wall and began paddling his way across the water, sending ripples across the dark surface. He had been an able swimmer in his younger days, but he soon became tired after a short distance. He straightened his body and tried to rest his foot on the bottom. For an instant, he thought his toe had grazed something.

He spun around and floated upon his back to look at the others. They remained huddled against the sheer rock face, reluctant to brave the inky depths until their leader had reached the other side. Óin remained on his back for some time, pushing himself along with small kicks, not wanting to appear winded so early. He looked up at the stars and breathed in the cool November air. He rolled over onto his stomach to find, to his relief, that he was already nearing the far side. He placed the small strip of dry land in his sights, deciding he would remain there for Ori, no matter how long he had to wait for his friend. After one more flurry of splashing strokes, his probing feet touched the rocky floor. He pushed forward until he was stumbling on the greasy stones.

He turned and waved both his arms, signaling for the others to begin their crossing. One by one, they set off until they were strung out like a slow-moving chain across the breadth of the lake. Feeling exhausted but relieved, Óin cast himself upon the shore and rested with his hands behind his head. He stared up at a thin wisp of cloud passing across the starry sky and thought about where he would go after Ori came to join them. Should they go straight back to Erebor and live out their days comfortably with the rest of the company? Or perhaps they could amble up the greenway and try to find Nar, Hannar, Onar, and Lofar.

He let his mind wander down many distant roads until he was roused from his thoughts by a swish of water. He raised his head, expecting to see one of the swimmers staggering out of the shallows. Instead, he saw the other Dwarves still paddling their way across the water, the fastest already drawing close to Óin. He took a last look at the Hollin Gate and breathed a sigh of relief knowing he would never have to face such horrors again. He lowered his head and reclined upon the stones once again.

All at once, Óin heard a great splash of water and then felt something seize him with tremendous strength. His head shot up just in time to see a pale green tentacle constricting itself around his legs. He tried to scream in fear but the sound stuck in his throat. The glistening arm tightened like a noose and began dragging Óin across the shore toward the dark water. He clawed like mad at the slippery stones, but the luminous tentacled drew him ever closer to the water's edge.

When Óin's feet sank beneath the lake's dark surface, his hand grasped a large rock. He tried to hold on and resist the deadly pull of this unseen enemy, but the stone began to move with him. With a swift motion, Óin swung the stone forward, and with a splash struck the tentacle with all his might.

As if stunned, the slippery arm let go of Óin's legs and retreated to the depths, leaving behind a hideous stench. The swimmers, unaware of Óin's brush with death, continued paddling across the lake. Óin stood up and watched in horror as the inky water began to boil and writhe with dozens of other snakelike arms. Now the swimmers began to panic, floundering and splashing in all directions.

"Get out of the water!" he called across to the swimmers, the first of whom was almost at the shore.

As fast as striking vipers, two of the tentacles slithered out of the water and seized Óin; one about his chest and the other around his legs. They lifted Óin high into the night sky, his shrieks echoing all the way to the west wall of Moria. With a mighty twist and a wet snap, Óin was torn in two and dragged into the depths, never to be seen again.

Unsatisfied by only one victim, the tentacles turned their attention toward the other Dwarves. One by one, the swimmers started being pulled underwater by the powerful tentacles where their screams were lost in a rush of black bubbles. Seeing their comrades disappear, those toward the back of the column tried to turn around and swim desperately back toward the gates. They flailed their exhausted limbs frantically, as they listened to the splashing and gurgling that pursued them.

Many were snatched just as they were close enough to stand on the eastern shore. Eventually, only four Dwarves had retreated safely back to the Hollin Gate. They lumbered between the stone doors as angry tentacles licked at their waterlogged boots. They reached for their discarded weapons and swung at the striking serpents. Unable to halt the slimy assault, the four survivors splashed farther inside Khazad-dûm and bounded up several stairs until they had completely escaped the menacing water. Strong, sinewy arms gripped the doors and slammed them shut with tremendous force. The Dwarves trembled in the familiar dark silence of Moria.

Dripping wet and shivering with cold, they pulled each other to the top of the stairs. After a very brief discussion, the four survivors agreed that an escape out of the Hollin Gate was now impossible. The only option that remained was to return to the colony and hope beyond hope that they could escape out the East Gate instead.

21

The End Comes

"Another dead end," Ori told his weary band of wounded warriors.

"Why don't we take the main path west?" suggested Toki, who was rapidly losing patience with Ori's circuitous sense of direction.

"I'm worried the Orcs have already found those passageways," explained Ori. "I wanted to take a safer route, even if it takes longer."

"We can't go on much longer," persisted Toki. "You can't keep dragging that lame leg around, and many of us are wounded even worse."

"Please," Ori begged. "Just a little longer."

"We're moving slow enough as it is, and we've wasted at least a day with these wanderings," said Toki. "If we don't hurry, the Orcs will get to the gates before we do. We are running out of time."

"You're right," Ori conceded, reluctantly admitting his failure to find a safer path.

He had hoped to creep through smaller side passages all the way to the Hollin Gate, but every route that branched off from the main road soon became tangled in the labyrinthine net of Moria.

"We will have to take our chances," he added.

They worked their way back to the main east-west thoroughfare and were disappointed to discover how little ground they had covered.

"We're barely half a day out from Twenty-first Hall!" hissed Toki.

"I know" began Ori. "I just…"

"I don't care," snapped Toki. He turned to the others, many of whom had served under him at one point or another. "Hurry up. We need to make up for lost time."

Ori kept his trepidations to himself and limped along with the others. To his relief, they heard only their own footfalls and the unsettling drip of unseen water. As they crept down a wide hallway, Ori admired the craftsmanship shown in every inch of the smooth floors and the intricacy of the arched ceiling above him. For all the hardship he had endured and all the horrors he had witnessed beneath these mountains, Ori knew he would never again see such splendor of ancient days once he crossed into the outside world.

All the same, he was as eager as the others to put this place behind him. They wandered further down the route and Óin's mind was eased a little more each time they made a turn and saw empty hallway ahead of them.

He wondered how Óin had fared. From the deserted passages they had seen so far, Ori assumed that Óin's journey must have been uneventful and successful. He pictured Óin waiting for him on the doorstep, ready with a quick joke as soon as they saw each other. He thought about what the two of them would do once they freed themselves from Moria's clutches. He supposed they would return to Erebor and resume their comfortable retirement in peace. A happy thought.

He glanced at Toki and the other hard faces around him and was assured that Óin was his only friend left at this point. The guards didn't like him much to begin with, and now that he had proven a lousy guide, they merely tolerated his company in grudging silence. Ori was roused from his thoughts when Toki suddenly halted at the head of the column. They were standing in a long straight hallway. Ahead of them at the far end was a small arched doorway, dark as coal.

"What is it?" Ori whispered.

Toki leaned his ear forward and listened closely.

"Someone is coming," said Toki, pointing to the doorway ahead of them.

"We must hide," suggested Ori.

Judging by the faces of the other Dwarves, Ori was not the only one wanting to flee from the oncoming danger.

"Where?" asked Toki as panic began to set in among the group.

Ori looked around for a place to hide but this stretch of hallway had no turns or exits.

"We will run, then," he concluded.

"We couldn't outrun anything, let alone Orcs," retorted Toki, surveying the poor shape of his followers. "Draw your weapons."

The Dwarves obeyed, and even Ori drew out a small knife he had brought along.

"We charge the doorway on my signal," instructed Toki.

Ori and the others nodded in agreement. They could all hear the rumble of rapid footsteps drawing near them accompanied by a slower deeper beat that shook Ori to his core. Ori felt very small and weak as he imagined what was coming at them. He wondered if this oncoming force would spell the end of their escape plans.

"Now!" commanded Toki.

The group of some thirty Dwarves rushed forward to face one more bloody battle. They yelled war cries at the top of their lungs and waved their weapons menacingly in the air. Just before the charging warriors reached the doorway, Ori saw the last thing he had expected to emerge from the black void. Four frightened Dwarves came rushing out at a frantic pace.

"Turn around!" they cried "Run!"

The four barreled into Ori and the others, barely breaking stride before they resumed their retreat. Just then, an enormous head poked through the doorway, hideous and fierce. It had been many years since Ori had looked upon such a creature, but it was one he recognized instantly.

"Troll!" he yelled, spinning around to join in the retreat.

The massive monster lumbered forward and gave chase to the Dwarves, dragging along a mighty hammer. It caught up to one of the stragglers, struggling to rise to his feet. With one swing of his mighty weapon, the troll smote him into the floor, spreading cracks like spider webs across the black stone. Seeing the carnage, Toki wheeled around and bravely charged at the troll.

"Attack!" he yelled.

His comrades ran to his aid, and the Dwarves began swinging their axes at the terrible foe. Only the sharpest blades cut through the thick greenish skin, spilling black blood that smoked in the damp air. Ori stabbed the troll's hand with his knife and the creature's heavy hammer fell to the floor with a crash. Disarmed but undefeated, the troll swung a huge fist and crushed Toki against the wall of the passage. The guard slumped to the floor, lifeless and still.

Energized by their leader's fall, the Dwarves redoubled their arrack, their axes chopping like busy woodsmen felling scally trees. Overcome by many grevious wounds, the troll finally collapsed, only narrowly missing Ori.

The battle won and the hallway once again silent, Ori rushed to Toki's side but hung his head when he found that the captain had already perished. He backed away from the corpse, wiping blood from his hands. He rejoined the others who looked ready to collapse to the floor with weariness.

"You were with Óin, weren't you?" he asked, recognizing one of the four Dwarves that had just joined them.

The young Dwarf had fear in his eyes and was visibly shaking as if recalling a terrible nightmare.

"We were," he answered. "The watcher took him. The way is shut. We cannot get out,"

The four Dwarves from Óin's party continued to relay the tale of their failed flight. When they told of Óin of being dragged into the abysmal depths by a nameless horror, Ori wept for his old friend, not caring that his sobs echoed loudly down the hallway. When his tears finally ran dry, the surviving Dwarves began asking for answers that Ori simply didn't have.

"Where will we go now? Do you know another way out? Are we doomed?" they asked him.

"I don't know," admitted Ori.

They stood silently in the hallway staring at him, starving for any guidance that could deliver them from this evil plight.

"We cannot stay here," said Ori, gathering his thoughts, "and now we cannot use the Hollin Gate or the East Gate."

He removed his old hood and scratched his head. He looked around at the desperate faces and tear-filled eyes brimming with despair. Ori could not now tell them how unlikely survival was at this point. He felt as though had to come up with some idea; something for them to cling onto and hope for, no matter how small.

"Perhaps we missed something in the old scrolls," he suggested, not knowing a better alternative. "Maybe there is another, secret way out that we have not discovered."

The desperate Dwarves seized upon the idea, happy to believe that hope of salvation still existed somewhere upon the dusty shelves within the Chamber of Mazarbul. They set off eastwards at once, leaving behind Toki's body alongside the dead troll. Staying on the main road, Ori and the last remaining colonists hurried as fast as their stout legs could carry them. All the while, the air grew steadily warmer, and soon the Dwarves were perspiring beneath their hoods. The air soon became hazy with smoke, and the Dwarves' breathing grew labored. They dared not stop to rest, and within a few hours, they passed through an arched doorway into a black and empty space that had once been the beating heart of the colony.

The Twenty-first Hall looked like a deserted forest of black-barked trees wreathed in dark clouds of acrid smoke. No light penetrated the gloom from the eastern windows on the far side of the hall.

The emptiness of the space reminded Ori of how it had appeared the first time he had laid eyes on it. But back then, the vast space had awed him and kindled dreams of prosperity and wealth but now it was only another reminder of wasted opportunities and painful losses. The thick smoke hung like spectors above them, obscuring the ceiling far above. Ori cautiously surveyed the room, peering into every dark corner for hidden enemies. His timid followers could hear a distant rumbling coming from the southern entrance to the hall, and a faint red glow emanated from the ominous archway.

When he was finally assured that they were alone and unwatched, Ori led the others across the expansive floor and made for the doorway on the northern wall. They tiptoed through the dense smoke, trying to be as quiet as possible to avoid sending echoing footsteps to the ears of their enemies. Inside the hall, the thick air was positively stifling and Ori found it hard to breathe. When he neared the center of the hall, the rumbling noise grew to a deep growl that shook the floor beneath his feet. The Dwarves halted, frozen in fear. Ori looked to his right and saw the hall's southern entrance glowing like a hot forge. More dark vapors billowed out of the infernal portal, belching blackness across the smooth floor like a mighty furnace covering a vast plain. The darkness spread to either end of the hall, encircling the Dwarves like two mighty wings.

A great figure then emerged from the doorway, wreathed in flame and cloaked in shadow. What it was, Ori could not be sure. Terror flamed within the menacing shape and went before it, devouring the Dwarves' hearts with despair.

"Durin's Bane!" cried one Dwarf, falling to the ground in fear.

"No!" yelled Ori, grabbing the Dwarf and trying to drag him upright again.

The flaming figure stepped forward and began stalking towards them. The entire hall was shaking with its malice as if the stones themselves were quaking in fear.

Through the blinding swirl of shadows and sparks, Ori could see the figure's streaming mane blazing behind it. The other Dwarves took off running for the northern archway, and the ancient horror gave chase. Ori tried again to raise the terrified Dwarf to his feet, but the terror in his heart had sapped the remaining strength from his limbs. A crash like deafening thunder ripped through the hellscape, sending many of the Dwarves tumbling to the floor. With a flick of its left hand, the figure swung a fiery whip, ensnaring the cowering Dwarf at Ori's feet. In an instant, the Dwarf was jerked out of Ori's grasp and into the flames. Like a stabbing tongue of fire, the figure brought down its right hand and smote the Dwarf dead with a single shower of sparks and smoke.

Fire spewed from the demon's nostris as if chuckling at its hellish handiwork, and pleased by the Dwarves' horrified wails. Ori and the others raced toward the hall's northern exit but the demon was not yet satisfied. Ori turned to sprint to safety but bad leg seized and he was reduced to limping away from the murderous horror. The others soon outpaced him, and Ori was forced amble along as the thunderous whip licked at his heels. He watched helplessly as the glowing thongs toyed with the fleeing Dwarves, dragging many more into the conflagration before they ever came close to escape. Those fortunate enough to reach the archway raced down the hallway and into the Chamber of Mazarbul.

Ori was the last to enter, and the door was slammed shut behind him. The Dwarves hurried to block the door with the heavy wooden rollers that littered the floor. After the last log was laid in place, the Dwarves held their breath and listened through the barricade for any sign of the terrible enemy. The deep rumbling rolled on like a cruelly contented laugh, seemingly satiated, if only for the present. The haunting noise faded into nothingness, and the Dwarves finally breathed a sigh of relief.

While the others were slumping to the floor in utter exhaustion, Ori crawled across the small square chamber and checked the eastern door. He was relieved to find that the door was still locked and undamaged. Clearly, the Orcs had not forced their way through the passage from the Second Hall. The chamber was now hauntingly silent and Ori began to feel impossibly tired. He now felt every bit his age as he hobbled over to his tiny desk in the corner and sat down heavily. He stretched out his bad leg and felt his whole body sag in exhausted relief.

Ori did not know how long he had been asleep. He guessed it could have been hours or maybe years by all the terrible images that had haunted his dreams. When he finally opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a shaft of white daylight shining down on the lid of Balin's sarcophagus. Without moving his sore body, Ori looked around the chamber and saw the other Dwarves strewn about the floor, all asleep and snoring. The empty throne towered high above them all, standing like a stone sentinel, watching, waiting.

Ori let his gaze creep over to the deep shelves inset into the walls, many crammed with old scrolls and bits of loose paper. He wondered if the key to their salvation was hidden in one of these old manuscripts. Although he didn't want to admit it, he highly doubted it. He had written many of the documents himself and read most of the others.

Nevertheless, he could not think of a way out of Khazad-dûm other than the two gates. He rose from his seat and stretched his injured leg, wondering if it would ever heal. His back arched where the arrow had stuck him earlier and his feet were still sore from their long journey in the dark. Silently, so as to not wake the snoring sleepers, he retrieved a stack of papers from a nearby shelf and returned to his desk to begin his desperate search.

He had never gotten around to properly organizing the massive collection of records, and as a result, the pile of papers in front of him covered a wide array of topics written over several years. Ori recognized one document written in Óin's rough hand. The pain of that loss seized Ori's heart anew. He thought about their youth together as carefree adventurers. How invincible they had felt in those days; as if no danger could harm them. Dragons, goblins, and wolves couldn't do them in, but it was the evil realm of Khazad-dûm that eventually spelled their doom.

Ori bitterly regretted ever leaving Erebor as he wondered what the other company members were up to at that very moment. He thought about them laughing and feasting together in Dáin's beautiful court. In his mind, they all had smiles on their joyful faces. Ori wondered if Khazad-dûm would ever see joy again, or would the black pit of Moria consume every happy memory that fell into its snares.

He forced himself back to the present and read on. The small sheet in his hands was an inventory dated some years prior detailing a shipment to Fyrga's village. Ori clenched his teeth when he saw the last entry:

Toy, silver (1)

Bregowald's ghostly frozen face flashed in his mind and Ori quickly moved the paper to the bottom of the stack, as if to bury the unsettling memory as deep as he could.

The next paper was a hastily written transcript detailing Onar's trial. Although most of it was written by a different chronicler whose hand Ori did not recognize, he could identify many cross-outs and corrections written in Balin's bold hand. The final account read very differently from how Ori remembered the event. With Balin's annotations, it seemed as though Onar had admitted to all manner of treacherous acts, sounding more like a villain than the caring friend that Ori had known.

He moved on to another document where the words at the top of the page caught his eye: "The Discovery of Durin's Tomb." This one was written in his own hand, and he remembered the narrative well. He scanned the page and read a note he had added toward the bottom.

"The Rhûnnic Dwarves are concerned that the tomb is cursed. This of course is pure superstition"

Ori looked around the chamber and counted only thirty Dwarves including himself. A pitifully small part of the once booming colony. Even to Ori's analytical mind, the idea of a curse was seeming less far-fetched than ever.

"Did you find it, Master Ori?" came a whisper.

Ori jumped in his seat, surprised to hear a voice among the silent sleepers. He looked down and saw a young Dwarf of about forty years propped up on an elbow and looking at him from his resting place upon the floor.

"Find what?" asked Ori.

"A way out," replied the young Dwarf, as if there was nothing else Ori could be looking for.

"Oh, right," said Ori, drawing the papers together. "Not yet. I just started looking,"

"I can help," offered the Dwarf. He rose and fetched another stack of dusty papers and brought them back to Ori's desk.

"Thank you," said Ori. "Let me know if you find anything."

"Oh, I can't read," the youth stated flatly.

"I see. Not to worry. I can look through them myself," said Ori, accepting the papers with a nod. "I don't think we've met before. What's your name?"

"Dáni, at your service," announced the Dwarf, reaching for his hood but realizing it was missing only after his hand had reached his head.

"I lost mine, too," said Ori with a smile. "Where are you from, Dáni?" he asked, eager to avoid uncovering any more unpleasant memories buried in the stack of papers that lay in front of him

"Born in the Iron Hills but raised in Erebor, sir," responded Dáni.

"One of Dáin's people?" Ori guessed.

"Just the son of a simple soldier," Dáni replied.

"Well, your father raised a fierce fighter," said Ori, trying to lighten the youth's spirits.

"I never knew him," said Dáni. "He died fighting at the Battle of Five Armies before I was born."

Ori frowned and looked away.

"I'm sorry," he said "I…."

Ori was at a loss for words knowing his life's crowning achievement had cost this Dwarf a father he would never know.

"It's alright. I am proud to be his son," Dáni said.

"What brought you here?" Ori asked, trying to change the subject.

Dáni blushed and looked confused, as if the answer was as clear as day.

"I grew up hearing about you and Master Balin and all the others," he said. "My mother didn't want me to come, but I ran away to join the others as they marched out. I suppose I won't have the chance to hear her say 'I told you so.'"

Ori said nothing and diverted his eyes downward to his papers. They came to rest on one word toward the bottom of the page:

Cursed

Dáni dragged a stool over to the desk and took a seat at Ori's side. In a low voice, he whispered to the old Dwarf.

"Be honest," he said. "Are we ever getting out of here?"

In his heart, Ori already knew the answer, and he had always been a bad liar. His throat felt tight with grief, but he felt as though he had to keep up this facade of false hope, if only to put this stranger's mind at ease for the present moment.

"Sure," he whispered in a hoarse, cracking voice. "There must be something in here."

He flipped to a new page and held it up close to his face, pretending to read it, but he couldn't make out the words through the tears in his eyes.

"I'll leave you to it, then," said Dáni. "We're all counting on you."

He turned and rejoined the other survivors, who were beginning to mill about the small square chamber, searching the shelves for food and drink, as many of them had been on the run for days on end with little of either. They found very little and were soon seated again, some on the floor, some leaning against Balin's tomb, a couple propped against the logs on the western wall, and yet no one made a move to sit upon the throne.

Ori continued to flip through the papers again but found nothing relevant to their escape.

Later in the day, he unfolded a document and was surprised to see the original contract they had all signed five years earlier. Ori thought back to that fateful night deep below the Lonely Mountain when the original members of the new company had pledged themselves to Balin's cause. He read through the list of names written in different hands and scripts. Balin, Óin, Flói, Frár, Lóni, Náli, Gamil, Onar, all dead. Lofar, Anar, Hannar, and Nar had been fortunate enough to escape, but Ori was unsure what had happened to them or if they were even still alive.

He looked at his own signature, just below Óin's. How he regretted ever committing to such an ill-fated endeavor. He hated himself for letting others drag him down this dead end road. He crumpled the contract into a ball and threw it away from his desk. The paper bounced harmlessly off Balin's tomb and came to a rest on the floor.

Ori caught glimpses of many eager eyes darting his way throughout that day. None of the other Dwarves spoke to him as he remained at his station searching for something he knew not to exist. Late in the day when the shaft of light was growing weak, Ori heard the drum beats begin again, if they had ever stopped. Faint at first, but growing stronger with each passing hour.

By the time the sun set in the outer world, the chamber was pulsing like a drum. DOOM. DOOM. DOOM. The beat rolled on all through the night so none of the battered Dwarves could find rest with the maddening metronome boring into their brains.

The first rays of morning light illuminated the chamber, and the survivors started moving about to distract themselves from the thundering booms. Ori stood up from his desk and decided to have a few words with Dáni to try and take his mind off their fatal predicament and the ceaseless pounding that shook their stone surroundings. He walked over to where he could see Dáni's feet poking out from behind the empty throne. He rounded the massive stone seat and saw Dáni curled up by himself on the floor.

Before he could put a hand on the young Dwarf's shoulder, Ori noticed the dark stain surrounding Dáni's huddled form. Wet blood had pooled on the stone floor and right up to the edge of the throne's base. An old hood with a tarnished silver tassel had been discarded and forgotten behind the throne. Dáni's blood soaked into the sky blue fabric, turning it a sickening shade of brown. Ori spotted a small blade in Dáni's lifeless hand and knew at once that he was too late to save the young Dwarf. The decision had been made sometime in the maddening darkness of the night. The deed was already done.

Ori felt numb. Numb to the deafening blasts that rattled his rock prison. Numb to being friendless and beset with enemies on all sides. Numb to knowing he would never see the outer world again. He flopped back into his chair and sat in silence while the other survivors crowded around Dáni's body. For a moment, Ori despaired and saw some reason in the youth's terrible decision.

"No," he thought. "Not while there is still time to right some of the many wrongs that destroyed this colony."

He pushed a tower of loose papers off his desk, causing them to flutter to the floor in a heap. The only thing that remained on his desk was a thick book and a few quills.

"At least I can do this," Ori said to himself.

He opened the massive tome and began to write. Lost in his work, Ori barely noticed the howls of Orcs coming from beyond the barricaded door that began around midday. He scribbled frantically, pouring what little life he had left into each page. Ink flowed from his quill like all blood that he had seen soak into the stones of Moria. In the afternoon, the Orcs began hacking at the doors with their crooked blades, but the Dwarves' defenses remained strong. The cruel voices cackled terrible whispers through the old doors and many of the Dwarves began to weep with despair but still Ori wrote, intent on at least his words surviving the oncoming onslaught.

Hours passed, and the light in the chamber grew dimmer and dimmer. Great bangs began to rock the doors rattling the thick timbers that strained to hold them shut as if a great ram was pounding away outside. DOOM. DOOM. DOOM. The last survivors of the failed colony armed themselves and stood before the door, watching cracks spreading throughout the buckling timbers. In the last sliver of light, Ori completed the final line in his last greatest work.

They are coming.

The sun then set in the outside world, and darkness fell upon the Chamber of Mazarbul. Ori set down his quill and leaned back in his chair just as a last thunderous DOOM burst open the door.

Epilogue

Years later, deep below the Lonely Mountain, Bilbo Baggins stood in the Chamber of Thrór surrounded by a crowd of attentive Dwarves. Always happy to entertain an interested audience, he was retelling an episode from a long ago adventure that had won him so much acclaim in the Kingdom of Erebor.

"It was almost dark down there so that its vastness could only be dimly guessed, but rising from the near side of the rocky floor there was a great glow," he told his friends and other distinguished members of the king's court.

"And then I saw him," he continued. "Snoring like a great tom cat was the great dragon Smaug!"

Even those that had heard this same tale a hundred times before stood mesmerized by the old hobbit's narration of his harrowing tale.

"So I crept forward, as silently as I could, and grasped a cup much like this one but with two handles," he told them, holding aloft his now empty goblet.

"And then what did you do?" asked one young Dwarf, leaning closer with unfettered interest.

"I did what any sensible hobbit would do," said Bilbo, pausing briefly for dramatic effect before delivering the punchline. "I fled as fast as I could!"

The Dwarves all burst into laughter and Bilbo continued his tale.

"I toiled back up the long tunnel all the way back to where Balin was waiting. You should have seen the surprise on his face!" Bilbo said.

He chuckled to himself, not noticing that the listeners' mood had darkened at the mention of Balin's name. Unphased, Bilbo went on with the story. "He was so overjoyed that he picked me up and carried me out of the tunnel," he reminisced fondly with a smile.

Bilbo now looked around at the encircling Dwarves, many of whom he had known for years. "What's the matter?" he asked them. "That was the bravest thing I ever did."

Dwalin tugged on his blue beard and was about to speak when a herald came into the chamber.

"Dain, son of Nain, King under the Mountain!" the herald announced loudly.

Bilbo and the Dwarves stopped what they were doing and turned to greet the old king. Bilbo had been looking forward to meeting Dáin again as it had been many long years since they had last seen each other. Bilbo remembered Dáin as the victorious lord who, after offering Bilbo a thirteenth share of Smaug's treasure hoard, ascended the throne of Erebor after the Battle of Five Armies.

To Bilbo's shock, the shuffling Dwarf that now entered the Chamber of Thrór looked nothing like the fierce warrior he remembered. King Dáin now looked old beyond his years. His back was bent as if compressed under a tremendous weight. His hair was completely white, making his crown look as though it was resting on a bed of snow. Although he did not use a cane, he leaned heavily on Prince Thorin's arm as he hobbled along on his shaky legs. When he spotted Bilbo however, his tired eyes lit up, and a broad smile flashed from beneath his white beard.

"Welcome, Master Baggins!" he called out in a weak voice.

"Hail King Dain!" said Bilbo, bowing in proper Dwarf fashion.

Dáin released his son's arm and stepped forward to embrace his distinguished guest.

Bilbo returned the embrace warmly but was startled at how thin Dáin had become. Beneath his many layers of fine robes, the old king's body was a mere shadow of what it had once been in his prime; weak and tormented by all manner of past wounds, now returning to torment him in the twilight of his life. He stank of stale wine and sweat.

"I hope you brought an appetite, my friend," said Dáin, gesturing to busy Dwarves putting some last dishes in place before the feast began.

"I never leave home without one," answered Bilbo jovially. But in all seriousness, he was indeed very ready to tuck in to a good meal after so long on the road.

Dáin gave the word, and everyone set off to their assigned seats. Bilbo was shown up onto the dais, where he was seated in the place of honor on Dain's right side. Dáin was helped up the steps and into his seat by his son, who took his place to the king's left. Other famous members of the fabled company took their places at Dain's high table, except for Bombur, of course, who had grown so large in the last few years that he had to be carried around on a litter by several sweating Dwarves.

Like all feats of this sort, there were speeches and toasts and even a song or two. Bilbo chatted with Dáin about his plans for peaceful retirement, but after several large goblets of drink, the king soon grew very weary and had trouble staying focused on Bilbo's speech as if he were drifting in and out of a waking dream. For Bilbo's part, he had only met Dáin once, and that had been many years ago. He felt as though they had little to talk about and instead sought more engaging conversation elsewhere.

On Bilbo's right sat his old friend Glóin and soon, the two were deep in conversation about their past adventures together as well as all that had passed in the many years since.

"How was your journey?" Glóin asked. "Hopefully less exciting than the last time you came this way,"

"Thankfully so," Bilbo laughed.

"Such a long way to travel on your own," said Gloin. "Even for someone of such experience" he added quickly.

"Oh, I wasn't alone," said Bilbo. "Luckily, I had some dwarven companions with me."

"Oh?" said Gloin.

"Perhaps you know them," said Bilbo. "Four fine fellows named Nar, Hannar, Anar, and Lofar,"

Glóin tugged on his white beard, trying to put faces to the names.

"I don't think I know them," he said, shaking his head.

"Where are they sitting?" he asked. He looked across the Chamber of Thrór and scanned the tables packed with feasting Dwarves.

"They're not here," said Bilbo. "They turned aside just before we arrived."

"How strange," said Gloin, perplexed.

"They did seem like a troubled bunch," Bilbo admitted. "They never spoke to me about it, but I got the sense that something was weighing heavily upon their minds."

Bilbo then noticed that Gloin's eyes were looking past him and were focused on King Dáin, who was leaning against the high back of his chair, with his eyes open but unfocused. The food on his plate had barely been touched despite Prince Thorin's attempts at getting his aged father to eat. Dain's head was gently nodding to the slow beat of a drum, rhythmically pounded by one of the musicians. DOOM, DOOM, DOOM. The deep beats rang on.

"I have a gift for you," said Gloin, pulling Bilbo's attention away from Dain.

"Your many letters over the years were gifts enough," said Bilbo.

"Oh, it's just a little thing I had made for you," said Gloin, producing a small golden object from under his seat and handing it to Bilbo.

Bilbo turned the treasure in his hands and saw that it was a golden ink bottle with small figures portrayed around the sides. Bilbo held the bottle close to his face and squinted.

"Is this…?" he began.

"Yes!" laughed Gloin. "You and me and all the others."

Bilbo looked upon the gift with awe, holding close to his face again. He could make out twelve Dwarves marching in a line behind a wizard in a pointed hat and, at the end of the column, one small hobbit.

"Incredible! Dwarven work never ceases to amaze me," he said admiring the intricate detail in each of the figures.

Glóin chuckled and leaned close to the hobbit.

"Believe it or not," he whispered, "that was made by one of our finest apprentices; a young man from Dale."

"Well, I am thankful all the same, my dear Gloin" said Bilbo, looking back at the small characters etched into the golden inkwell.

He looked at the lead Dwarf, just behind the tiny Gandalf. The miniature Thorin looked proud and stern. Bilbo felt a pang of grief in his heart as he remembered the late King Under the Mountain. Bilbo rotated the inkwell slightly and covered his old friend with his thumb. Just behind Thorin, another Dwarf was exquisitely depicted, as if the craftsman had known the individual himself. Even in such a minute space, the smith had captured the keenness of the Dwarf's eyes as he marched along. Bilbo then sat upright in his chair and looked down both sides of the high table. With a confused look on his face, he turned to Gloin, still smiling beside him.

"Where is Balin?" Bilbo asked. "And Óin and Ori as well. I have not seen them since I arrived."

Gloin's mood then turned somber, and his smile faded. He lowered his eyes and his head sank down until his bearded chin rested on his chest. He began toying with his necklace, a magnificent work of silver and diamonds. After a long pause, he let out a sigh and looked up at Bilbo.

"They left some years ago," Glóin said, his voice catching slightly at the end.

"You never mentioned this in any of your letters," Bilbo said incredulously.

"I didn't know what to say," said Glóin in an exasperated voice.

"Well, where did they go?" asked Bilbo.

Glóin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He leaned closer to Bilbo and whispered a single word. "Moria."

Bilbo's eyes widened. Even in the quiet corner of the Shire, the name of Moria harbored fear and awe, even if one had no idea what or where the place was. Glóin nodded at his old friend's astonishment and then went on.

"Many Dwarves left Erebor to found a colony there," he explained. "And it seemed to thrive…for a time."

His words hung in the air for a time while the musician continued pounding on the deep drum. DOOM, DOOM, DOOM thundered the slow beat.

"And then what happened?" asked Bilbo, now very concerned for his old friends who had run off on another adventure.

"That's just it," said Gloin, releasing his necklace and throwing up his hands. "We don't know!"

Bilbo placed a hand on Gloin's shoulder who, by this point, was looking very shaken.

"We haven't heard from them in years," Glóin said, shaking his head and looking out at the crowd of Dwarves at the lower tables including his own son Gimli, surrounded by friends.

"Everyone here has a brother or a son who ran off to follow Balin. Many have begun to fear the worst," explained Gloin.

Bilbo turned aside to glance at Dain, who was still quietly staring off into nothingness.

"The king is very concerned about this matter as well," added Gloin, "but I don't know what to do," he admitted.

Bilbo picked up the golden inkwell and thought for a moment, looking at each of the tiny characters in turn.

"This is the perfect gift, you know," he told Gloin. "I plan on finally finishing my book once I return to Rivendell."

Glóin looked at his old friend, unsure of what he was getting at.

"Elrond Halfelven is very wise," Bilbo explained. "Many come to him seeking answers. Perhaps you should call upon him for counsel."

Glóin pondered on Bilbo's suggestion carefully while watching his son merrily chatting and feasting. The rhythmic music pounded on with the same slow beat, echoing off the lifeless stones. DOOM, DOOM, DOOM.

So the world passed by, day following day, but far away, deep beneath the Misty Mountains, a small square chamber lay as quiet as a crypt. A single tomb, surrounded by skeletons, sat in silence, its grave goods long since plundered by greedy hands. All that remained were a few pieces of splintered wood, some crumbling stones and one mangled book. The dust gathered, and time gnawed in the dark.

Acknowledgements

Firstly, I would like to again express my deepest gratitude to J.R.R. Tolkien for creating such an incredible and immersive world that never ceases to inspire and amaze me. Additionally, his son Christopher's lifetime of dedicated work helped me immeasurably in learning more about this fascinating world. I would also like to thank Karen Wynn Fonstad, whose Atlas of Middle Earth allowed me to better understand the setting of this story, especially Moria itself. Tolkien Gateway was another enormously helpful resource in creating this novel and I deeply appreciate all of the work done by their administrators and contributors in creating such an extensive database. And of course, thank you to Katy Mauerman for editing this novel and helping make this dream a reality.