This chapter is especially for fredbassett as she loves Gimli so much. Second part of this all Gimli pov.
Rîgakha-gunudmesh: Lords of the secret Fire. A secret level of the Guild of Fire Smiths. They alone can work with mithril.
The Songs are Tolkien's: The Song of Durin and the Song from The Hobbits, Far Over the Misty Mountains of course. The tune used in the films work just as well for both and I imagined that deep voiced singing when writing this. Listen to Geoff Castellucci if you haven't before. Fabulous version. He has an extraordinary voice.
Chapter 7: the Aglâb-Shteyn
The perfect billet of steel and fáinn and mithril was placed carefully upon the workbench like an offering. Hallvarðr gazed at it proudly; this would be a famous blade, he thought. A legendary axe.
'Are the bellows working well?' he asked Gûthrim amiably and before the lad had time to stammer an answer, Hallvarðr had turned to Runí. 'Is the furnace at the right heat? Good. We'll begin the Aglâb-Shteyn and then we'll forge the blade. At last!' He rubbed his hands together gleefully.
Hallvarðr always observed the ritual of the Aglâb-Shteyn, though some of the younger Smiths said it was archaic and unnecessary. To Hallvarðr though, Mahal was not some remote deity, but a real presence and the Aglâb-shteyn was an undemanding practical ritual that ensured the anvil was clean and prepared for the forging. It was little enough for the Maker, who understood his children were not given to lengthy rituals and sacrifice, but to Hallvarðr, it brought him into the space where he was at his best for Making and Crafting. When he was deep in the Aglâb-Shteyn he found it easier to elicit the spirit of the iron, and to commune with the Rîgakha- Gunud, the Secret Fire
Well-schooled in the ritual, Sigrúnda gave a little bow and Hallvarðr himself fetched the oil needed and began to prepare the anvil, wiping it down.
'Come, Runí, Forvi. Up here for the Aglâb-Shteyn.' He glanced at Gûthrim, noticing the young apprentice's head was down. He sighed; Sigrúnda had told Hallvarðr endlessly that Gûthrim was always worried that he would do something wrong, and that it made him clumsy.
And I have just excluded the boy from the Aglâb-shteyn, he realised with a grimace.
'Gûthrim,' he called over and to his shame, Hallvarðr saw the boy flinch. 'I am trusting you to keep that furnace hot through the ritual,' he said as if it were an honour, and then he said cheerfully, 'Work those bellows, Khazad!'
Gûthrim flushed with pleasure then, and Hallvarðr just caught Sigrúnda's quick, surreptitious smile.
Runí and Forvi were busily lighting the huge lanterns about the great anvil upon which the axe's double blade would be forged. Of course there were other anvils in the forge, smaller for more delicate work and the huge anvils for the bigger projects, but this was the one that Hallvarðr had made himself when they first returned to Erebor.
Hallvarðr placed a bowl of carefully prepared oil beside the anvil ready for the Bazûl ceremony, the pouring of oil and ceremonial cleaning of the anvil that would begin the Aglâb-Shteyn. Glancing up at Sigrúnda, he nodded at him, inviting him to make the libation. At first, Sigrúnda stared at him and did not move so Hallvarðr gestured again that he was allowing Sigrúnda the honour. Meanwhile, Rumi and Forvi stared round eyed for Hallvarðr himself always performed the Bazûl, the libation of oil over the anvil, and then grinned at Sigrúnda for he was kind and well loved.
Sigrúnda bowed to Hallvarðr, looking slightly overwhelmed and that made Hallvarðr smile.
In the golden light of the firebowls, Hallvarðr stood between the furnace and the anvil and opened his arms as if in an embrace. He took a deep breath, feeling the heat of the forge against his skin, and listening to the rhythmic swoosh and whump of the bellows. Then he began humming the first note of Durin's Song, that began in his chest and grew into a thrum in his belly and vibration in his blood and bones.
When he felt everything slip away but the Craft, he began to sing. As he sang, he opened the iron door of the furnace, its fiery breath was hot on his face and it roared as he placed the precious mithril, steel and fáinn billet into its glowing yellow belly. Behind him, he heard Sigrúnda's deep voice join his.
The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone.
At a nod from Hallvarðr, Sigrúnda lifted the bowl of oil and poured it so that it slipped over the anvil like gold silk. When the apprentices' low voices joined theirs, the sound filled the chamber, and Runí and Forvi began to rub the oil into the anvil with soft cloths, polishing it clean, to smooth away any old grit or flakes of rust. There wasn't any of course.
When Durin woke and walked alone,
He named the nameless hills and dales;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
While Hallvarðr watched the oil disappear into the iron, he thought of the mithril and steel billet heating and growing molten in the hot yellow belly of the furnace. It gave him immense pleasure to imagine how the mithril was melting, and the steel was gripping it, changing, becoming malleable.
He deepened his voice…
…..In many-pillared halls of stone.
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door….
Runí and Forvi stood back from the anvil now and the firelight gleamed softly on the clean, oiled iron. The anvil itself seemed to ring with the Song, as if the iron it was made of remembered its own making in the great forge of Mahal, thought Hallvarðr, as if it remembered the glory of the Khazad, remembered Khazad-dûm.
As he sang, Hallvarðr listened carefully to the steel in the furnace as it stretched and melted in the heat. There was the smell of molten metal, the hiss of oxygen burning from it, the swoop of the bellows.
….And then quite suddenly, there it was; that strange singing of steel at the optimum temperature for forging, like the steel and mithril too had joined their song. The moment it happened always brought a burning excitement in Hallvarðr's belly. He glanced towards the furnace and saw, to his surprise, that Gûthrim had his eyes closed as he worked the bellows and he was smiling as if he too heard the Song. Around him, the Song grew deeper, louder. Even more resonant.
... There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt…
Now he sent Runí and Forvi back to help Gûthrim keep the furnace at the right temperature and prepare the quenching fluid for when they were ready.
Hallvarðr nodded to Sigrúnda who, without dropping his own part in the Aglâb-shteyn, returned to the forge and picked up the tongs. He opened the heavy iron door of the furnace and reached into its roaring, fiery belly to draw out the glowing molten billet.
Carefully, he placed it on the anvil and passed the handle of the tongs to Hallvarðr, who took them and then shifted the billet around a couple of times. Then he swung his left arm and struck the billet with his Rigâ hammer, once, twice, and then let the hammer tap the anvil so that it bounced lightly on the iron.
In time with the rhythm of the Aglâb-shteyn, with the deep voices of his smiths, with the whump and swoosh of the bellows, he swung again; one, two striking the molten metal, then tap-tap on the anvil. One, two, tap-tap. One, two, tap-tap. Then he nodded to Sigrúnda who lifted his heavy Azaghâl hammer and as Hallvarðr struck twice and drew his arm back, Sigrúnda sang a deeper note and his heavy Azaghâl clanged heavily, repeatedly upon the molten billet, pounding the metal, thinning and lengthening it.
One, two, tap-tap. Clang! Clang! Hallvarðr shifted the molten metal and nudged and tapped the billet. One, two tap-tap. Clang! Clang! Now flakes of scale flew off, red hot and cooling rapidly, floating to the floor.
Hallvarðr pulled back for a moment and before any of the apprentices could do so, he plunged his hand into the barrel of borax flux powder, sprinkling it onto the molten ingot. Sigrúnda scrubbed it briskly with a wire brush to rid it of any scale.
Surprised, Runí glanced at them for usually an apprentice would perform this removal of scale, but he said nothing and he gave Forvi a warning look. They did not yet know there was mithril in the ingot and Gûthrim was too absorbed in working the bellows to notice, his strong, muscled torso gleaming with sweat in the infernal firelight of the forge, and the furnace roared against the pounding ring of the hammers.
…Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard…
The rhythm of the work set into their bones and muscles. Hours of forging, heating, hammering, heating, forging again. Hallvarðr listened to the deep throated voices rumble around the forge as the metal lengthened and thinned at last into what they could begin to see would be the blade.
He shifted the molten steel and mithril and drove a chisel through the soft, perfect metal and knocked out the eye of the axe. This would be where the haft would lodge in the blade. He shifted the billet about and they began hammering again.
…Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountain music woke:
Now in the third cycle of the Aglâb-Shteyn, and it was just the moment to remind them how unwearied were their ancestors for this work was gruelling. If there was no mithril, he would have rotated Forvi with Sigrúnda and Runí with himself to maintain the momentum but he could not. But he could see the shape of the blade itself emerging. He led them into the next phase, the Song of Thorin Oakenshield, and of Erebor itself.
Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
To dungeons deep and caverns old….
This song always brought a shiver to Hallvarðr. It resonated for him like someone had struck a carillon of bronze bells that rang and echoed endlessly in the deep places of the Mountain. As they sang, Hallvarðr began to shape the double blade from the billet, cutting the beard, hammering it to a fine thinness.
…The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,
While hammers fell like ringing bells
In places deep, where dark things sleep,
In hollow halls beneath the fells.
Hallvarðr listened to Erebor returning their song to them in the echoes from the stone walls of the forge, from its deep caverns more ancient than Durin. Hallvarðr thought it was like Mahal himself had joined their secret prayer. He listened as he struck the steel and shifted it so that it would not shatter and it would not bend. Hallvarðr led his smiths now, no words, a deep humming that vibrated through their strong bodies, their muscles and bones and hearts. For the words he sang now had never been written down; they came to him alone. It was what made him Rîgakha-gunudmesh. Fire-master. Lord of the Secret Fire.
Hallvarðr found himself singing of Gimli now that the Sight was upon him. He saw Gimli as if from afar, standing in the caverns of strange mountains…Then he knew that Gimli might indeed return, but he would not stay. Distant lands beckoned. Great adventures. Strange mountains called to him, and his hands would overflow with gold but over him, gold would have no dominion.
Words flowed from him then….
The lord will come unto his hall
Under strange Mountains dark and tall…
His hands are rich with gems and gold
Rûk-Shtôl, he murmured as he hammered and tapped and shifted the blade. He seized a chisel and cut away the surplus metal, letting mithril and steel fall away to cool on the workshop's stone floor. He sang and cajoled, and called to it, grinding and heating and hammering, forging the blade.
At last, like a whisper, he heard the Axe reply:
Through muscle and bone I cut. Through steel and plate and iron. I guard fore and aft. I am the silent slide of steel. I am the fierce watch. The fierce gaze. I am the Braigtîr-Hend.
Rûk-Shtôl is my name.
0o0o
Hallvarðr did not know how he came to be standing in front of Gilthrûn's shop in the Sindri Quarter, way past midnight when the huge lanterns were dimmed and the Mountain was quiet enough to hear its own great heartbeat. He stood staring into her window like some lovesick youth, not seeing the beautiful things artfully displayed, but only aware dimly of the exhaustion of his limbs, of his muscles, the feeling of satiation, of being replete and he wanted to share the joy of Rûk-Shtôl with her, the satiation. The wonder of it. He wanted her hands on him, firm and sure, smoothing down his skin, he wanted to sink into her pillowy softness and hard muscle.
Dimly he knew that he had left Sigrúnda in charge of cleaning up the forge and workshop while Hallvarðr had carefully locked away the beautiful, virginal perfection of the double-bitted blade in his stockroom and hung the key about his neck. Remembering that Sigrúnda had called out to him as he left, he recognised now that he had been numb with exhaustion and stumbled blindly out of the forge. Instead of seeking his own bed as Sigrúnda surely expected, he had walked steadily through the Levels and Deeps and found himself in the wide King's Street that led from the King's Halls to the Jewellers Quarter.
Few folk were about at this late hour and those that were glanced briefly at him and took him for what he was; a craftsman who had worked too late and should be hurrying home instead of standing stupidly, like stone in front of the great double doors of Gilthrûn Sindri's discrete halls,
Carefully designed and expensive glass panels ranged on either side of the great doors, windows into the shop within and displaying a few of the beautiful things her workshop produced. Gilthrûn's own artistry was on show and that of her apprentices too for she was in all things, the most generous. Looking at the fabulous gems, the delicate chains of gold and silver, Hallvarðr recalled the lines of Thorin's Song from the Aglâb-shteyn that he had been singing all day.
On silver necklaces they strung
The flowering stars, on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire, on twisted wire
They meshed the light of moon and sun.
He stared entranced. Yes- she should be elevated beyond Master. She was so far above anyone else in skill, and wondered at his temerity that he, a mere ironsmith and fire-master, dared attempt to make her such a gift as he had begun; the twisting dragon armband seemed pathetic to him now, a travesty and mockery of her great skill.
He hung his head in misery and noticed that not only his boots were dusty this time, but his hands were black from the forging and he still wore his craft apron. What was he doing here?
Smaug's balls, he was a bloody fool.
He was about to turn and leave when the bolts were hurriedly pulled back and the door thrown open. Vili, her journeyman stood there blinking like he had just awoken and before Hallvarðr could speak or understand that Vili must have been asleep, he was being ushered in and this time, he was almost chivvied straight into the workshop without question.
'Uzbad.' Vili smiled sleepily. 'Come, step inside out of this cold and dark. My Master is deep in her work but she will skin me slowly if I let you leave.' With a quick glance at Hallvarðr's dishevelled state, the journeyman ushered him deeper through the shop and through the heavy doors to Gilthrûn's own private workshop.
Huge bowls of bronze and copper lit the space with burning oil for Gilthrûn liked the warmth of the light they gave. Whereas before there had been many lampstones about the workshop, now there were only five gathered together on one worktable at which Gilthrûn herself sat on a tall stool bending over her workbench peering through a tumbukheled. Beside her were different size loupes and she had one screwed into her eye and was peering down at the gem in front of her. All sorts of tools were scattered over the workbench, tiny chisels and tweezers and pliers. Nearby a welding set and beyond, in the shadows of the workshop was a door that he knew led to her forge.
She did no more than glance up at him and gesture him to silence.
Vili quickly ushered him to a low table and pulled out an exceptionally well crafted and therefore comfortable chair. When he had settled Hallvarðr, Vili hurried away and Hallvarðr was able to stare at Gilthrûn as she worked; he let his gaze travel in luxurious slowness from the lustrous thick hair, the gold rings through her beautifully shaped ears, nose and sensuous lips, the gleam of her dark skin, her biceps with the Aglâb-gunud, the decorative and intricate marks of her clan and guild.
Suddenly Vili reappeared with a bowl of rich stew and a tankard of ale that foamed just right over the top. The smell of roasted meat, thick gravy reminded Hallvarðr that he had not eaten that day since dawn for he would not interrupt the Aglâb-Shteyn for such a thing as Rûk-Shtôl in case it broke the Song. Usually with such forging, he and his smiths would eat together but he remembered that he had stumbled out of the halls and here. Vili set the bowl down before Hallvarðr and gestured that he should be silent also and then with a quick, happy bow, he left.
Still Gilthrûn did not look up and as he ate, Hallvarðr watched. He saw that she had the amber he had given her for Rûk-Shtôl spread before her and was polishing and carving each one. Tiny shavings of amber were scattered about her and as she held the one she was working on up to the oil lamp, Hallvarðr thought that there were lights glowing within the amber itself. But Hallvarðr could not help but think that her hair shone more deeply, was more lustrous, more beautiful and, breaking the silence because he could not help it, said so.
It was the first time in ten years that he had seen Gilthrûn blush.
0o0o
Gimli stumped along on his own two feet, grumbling about horses and Elves and the air that filled the spaces in their heads. They had crossed the Gladden Marshes and the River Ninglor and were making their way along the Anduin, which flowed sinuously alongside them towards the Sea and he had had to pull Legolas from the Sea-Longing several times until in the end Gimli had insisted they walk so at least Legolas had to actually concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.
That was a mistake of course because there were trees here and the silly Elf had simply disappeared into the canopy and left Gimli in charge of the beast. He meant Arod. And patted the horse absent-mindedly, grumbling. He found some blackberries and picked them carefully, because Arod liked blackberries.
Gimli knew Legolas was somewhere about because every now and again an acorn or similar would hit him on the nose, or the ear.
They were on the 'path' that was not really a path at all and not really even a trail but clearly some one, or some thing travelled this way regularly enough that it was not just an overgrown densely wooded riverbank. Indeed, there had been horse turds, desiccated in the warmth and by flies and in which, Arod had shown much interest. So had Legolas
It was only when some time had elapsed between the acorns that he became aware of how still everything had become and that Arod's head was up and his ears were swivelling as if listening intently. Gimli reached behind him for his great war axe, unslung it and carried it over his shoulder instead, and kept walking. Arod walked closely behind Gimli and peered over his head as if Gimli was his protector.
There was an island some way ahead in the middle of the river now and on one side the water rushed and roared, white with foam. On the side nearest to the bank however, there were tree trunks that seem to have become stuck between the bank of the island and the riverbank.
Almost as if someone had made a rudimentary bridge, thought Gimli. He became very alert.
'Well met, master.'
A voice came suddenly from ahead and a Man stepped out onto the trail before Gimli.
Gimli stopped suddenly, as if surprised. But he was intensely aware. Only one Man then? That in itself was strange.
A rough fellow, Sam would have said. Unkempt, scrawny beard and little hair. His tunic was worn and not well made, and a wide, woven leather belt was about his waist that looked too good for him, as though it did not belong to him. A short stabbing blade was stuck into the belt and a bow slung over his shoulder.
A couple of dead rabbits swung from his hand. Blood dripped from their slit bellies.
'Good day to you, master,' Gimli replied courteously. 'I had not expected to meet company on so a road so little used.'
The Man's scanty beard was dark and his hair too. His eyes were small and Gimli suddenly mistrusted them. He had always had good instincts.
'It is indeed. And strange to meet fellow travellers. Do you come from Moria?' the Man asked, gesturing back towards the Mountains.' I heard there were dwarves settled there again.' One shoulder was dropped lower than the other and Gimli felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
He felt Arod's breath whuff over his hair as if the horse were warning him and Gimli reached back and touched the horse's shoulder. 'I have been visiting my kin,' he said vaguely. 'And yourself, sir? Do you come from the Wood?' Gimli was quite sure now that this was not one of the Woodmen. Dol Guldûr was not far away and there had been plenty of bad Men in Sauron's employ. And half Orcs.
'I heard that the settlement had been destroyed,' the Man said.
So, he knew that much, thought Gimli. He said nothing but merely shrugged.
'You look like you are from Erebor,' said the Man with a thin smile. 'Do you intend to travel through Mirkwood?'
Gimli narrowed his eyes; he was right. No Woodman called it Mirkwood. Like the Elves, they called it The Wood- like it was an entity. He wondered if Legolas had heard the slur on his home and was even now fitting arrow to bow.
'You have not yet answered my question, sir,' Gimli said softly. 'From whence do you hail?'
The Man laughed and showed his teeth. They seemed pointed even from this distance. 'Now I live on the island there,' he replied and pointed to the island in the middle of the river. 'Though you have not been so honest with me, master. It is called Dôlgulbalak.'
'Hm.' Gimli grunted and shifted his stance. He swung his axe slightly as if thoughtfully but it ended up in a two handed grip ready for fighting for he was certain now that this Man was from Dol Guldûr. He had heard that the Lady Galadriel had cast it down and had not wondered until now what had happened to those who inhabited that dreadful place. 'I have not heard the name before.'
'Then I invite you to join me,' said the Man but his voice was not entirely cordial. 'Come and see.'
'That is a most kind offer but I will be on my way. I am not alone and my companions will come and search for me if I do not meet them.' Gimli showed his own teeth. But his eyes were like slits and he held his axe. He hoped that Legolas was near.
Suddenly the Man seemed very close and yet Gimli had not seen him move. Now he saw that he had been right; the Man was no Man and that his teeth were pointed indeed, and the eyes were yellow. 'I will look forward to greeting them too,' he said.
Suddenly Arod pivoted and his head was very high. A breath rushed into Gimli's lungs that he did not know he was holding. It was relief, he realised. Legolas must have come.
'What have you found, Balkazîr?' A harsh, rough voice came from behind and Gimli's heart sank. He turned his head very slightly to see two more ruffians emerge from the woods, equally rough, one almost stooped and limping.
There was no question that this was an Orc.
'It looks like Dwarf tonight.' A harsh laugh followed, grating.
Gimli thought he could take the three of them but it would be really helpful for Legolas to appear now, he thought grimly and held his axe in front of him, noting their inferior arms. A chopping axe. Stabbing swords.
Arod swung his hind quarters about and faced the two Men and Gimli half turned to keep an eye on Balkazîr.
Suddenly there was a whoosh, whoosh, whoosh and first one, then the other toppled to the ground, each with an arrow in his chest and a surprised expression in his face.
Balkazîr looked panicked and turned his head about, sword drawn and began to run. Legolas appeared from nowhere with his bow in one hand and one of his long white knives, the Ale gezên-aozh, in the other. He took three long strides and was upon the Man. A swift flash of steel and Gimli saw the tell-tale flicker of blue fire along the blade and then an arc of red blood sprayed in the air. The Man stopped and then slowly curled over, falling to his knees. Legolas half hauled the Man upwards and shook him, muttering something.
Gimli hurried towards them. It would be information Legolas wanted, he knew, but he could only hear the mumble of the Man's words, indistinct and then a hard laugh.
Legolas lifted his blade again and before Gimli could reach him, he had sliced through the Man's neck. Bright red beads of blood scattered into the sunlight air and hung suspended for a moment like a thin ruby necklace.
Red, thought Gimli. Like a Man and he shivered at the horror that must have birthed such a thing.
Legolas pushed the Man-Orc away. He fell like a stone. Dead.
'Half Orcs from Dol Guldûr,' Legolas said briefly and turned to look over his shoulder at Gimli. Gimli knew that Legolas was checking him for injury, hurt but even so, blood had spattered over Legolas' face but he seemed not to notice. There was an unfamiliar wildness in his eyes that Gimli not seen before, even in the midst of battle.
'He said that there are more of them.' Legolas wiped the blade on the grass. 'Although I don't know if I believe him or not.' He sheathed his knife but still did not wipe the blood from his face.
Gimli did not speak but he watched Legolas carefully. Something was not right but he wasn't sure.
Arod trotted over to Legolas and dipped his head to snuff at the Elf's head as if checking him over.
Legolas stroked Arod comfortingly and only then did he blink and look down as if coming back to himself. Then he walked to the river and washed his hands and face quickly in the shallows. 'I found their camp and went to investigate,' he explained, rising to his feet. 'But the Ale gezên-aozh turned blue and I knew to come back.' He scrutinised Gimli anxiously as if looking for any harm.
Gimli looked up at him seriously. 'And right glad was I that you did, Legolas. We have been ambling along like we are on a hobbits' walking holiday in the Shire.' For Dwarves did not amble, nor did they go for 'walks' as Frodo had described to him. 'We have learned a lesson today I think and must be wary and swifter.'
Legolas looked away for a moment and then took a breath. 'We are not the first travellers they have waylaid,' he said. 'There were bones.'
Gimli let out a breath. 'If there are more, they will be like them.' He nodded towards the bodies of those half Orcs half Men.
'I think you are right,' Legolas said seriously. 'Let us go quickly from this place. That island has an unwholesome feel and I think perhaps it is a refuge for those who escaped Dol Guldûr. When we reach Rhosgobel, we can leave messages with Radagast if he is there and tell him. I am sure that Beorn's people will want to know they have an Orc nest close by.'
They rode quickly then, taking a route that avoided passing by the island. They took it in turns from then on to keep watch, even when travelling, and at night they did not light a fire unless they were well hidden.
It was three days and nights before at last they emerged from the scrubby woods and the river and sky opened up. To their left rose the Hithaeglir, and to the right, the dark treeline of the Wood marched seemingly endlessly onwards. But here the river too flattened out and narrowed and the Old Ford was glittered ahead of them in the thin afternoon sun.
0o0o0o0