The War in the North (LotR)

[Balrog]

Usual disclaimer, all names, events, locations, etc. belong to their owners.


Prologue

It was a cold grey day towards the end of December, the overcast sky adding to the somber mood below. The normally cheerful valley was subdued today, and even at what many described as the Last Homely House west of the mountains there was little cheer or fanfare. Everyone knew the seriousness of what was to come.

In the great hall the Company had collected, a motley group representing all the Free Peoples: Men, Elves, Dwarves and even Hobbits. They were waiting for their final member, the old wizard, to join them and saying their farewells. Two stood off to the side from the rest, both of them Dwarves and talking in low voices. One was elderly looking with great white hair and long white beard braided in two, and wore a faded white cloak. The other looked to be a younger vision of the old Dwarf, his hair brown and face grim, and wore a short corslet of steel rings of Dwarven make; in his belt hung a broad-head axe.

“I only regret I can’t come with you, this could become quite the adventure,” said Glóin, giving his long beard a stroke.

“You already had an adventure of your own, remember?” replied Gimli.

“Aye, and I was about your age too when I set out with Thorin and the others on the Quest.” A smile formed across Glóin’s face at the mention of his previous escapade, and his eyes wandered as if looking back on the past unfolding, until they came to rest on an elderly Hobbit over with the group. “But yours will be fraught with far more peril and danger then even descending into the lair of Smaug. Do you still wish to go ahead with it?”

Gimli’s reply was that of determined stare at his father, who could only chuckle and smack his son on the shoulder. “Very well, you have your task to complete, and I have mine. Keep an eye out for young Frodo, if I know my Bagginses they have a knack for getting into trouble…and getting others out of it!” In a more hushed tone he added, “Mind the elf too.”

Their warm parting over, the two Dwarves moved back towards the group, and Glóin made straight for his old friend. “Bilbo old friend, it was an honor, but I must be departing as well.”

“Oh?” replied the elder Hobbit, who looked as old as Glóin now. “That is a shame, a real shame indeed. I had a new song for you to listen to–”

“Perhaps another time. And you, young Frodo, I wish you best of luck.” The old Dwarf gave the Hobbit a pat on the shoulder, only for his hand to feel the smack of cold steel underneath Frodo’s clothes. Glóin’s eyes went wide with surprise, but the look of apprehension on both Baggins’ faces held his tongue on the matter.

“Hehe, you Hobbits are always full of surprises. Take care you two.” Readjusting his cloak, the old Dwarf left with the rest of the well-wishers to make ready for his journey, just as Elrond and Gandalf entered the great hall to address the Fellowship of the Ring on theirs.

[Sidewinder]

Nice start, but I hope you're not simply going to retell the trilogy, i.e., go over the battles Aragorn fights and Frodo's efforts to destroy the One Ring. Will any original characters make their appearance? If so, will these original characters be Mary Sues, or background characters?

[Balrog]

Nope, as per the title the focus will be on the northern theater of the WotR, which sadly received little attention; there will be very little, if any, mention of the Fellowship and its activities.

And I certainly hope to not create any Mary Sues

[pieman3141]

Always did wonder what Mirkwood and Laketown (was that the name?) were up to. And the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain.

[Balrog]

Chapter One

The wind howled across the sides of the Misty Mountains and pushed down on the doughty old dwarf, trying to drive him deeper into the banks of snow he trudged through. Glóin had suffered through snowstorms before, but what had been a light flurry of flakes was now a raging blizzard the likes of which his old bones hadn’t felt in years. And felt it they did, as the cold pierced through every layer of fur and wool like an Orc arrow to chill his body numb. The snow was up to his waist now, and he used his axe, which doubled as a walking stick, to break through the packed layers of powder. Durin’s beard, why did I have to wait so long before crossing back?

He knew why, but all the same it helped to let his frustration out with a disgruntled yell. As if in response the storm increased in intensity, and Glóin could barely see his own hands in the blinding whiteness. More then once he had dodged out of the way of falling rocks and avoid hidden crevices, and soon night would set in. If he wanted to see another day, Glóin had to find shelter.

The elderly dwarf found himself musing on a similar situation many years before: instead of snow it was rain, the rocks were thrown by stone giants, and there were others with him. His brother Óin, Thorin, the old wizard Gandalf, and the rest of the companions, including a peculiar hobbit named Bilbo. They had found a cave to spend the night in…and a whole nest of rotten goblins that were using it. The memory of his time spent in the goblin city still gave him shivers, more then any other memory he had of the Quest. It was with that thought in mind that he found himself walking towards a cave entrance that had seemingly materialize out of the wall of blinding snow, and why he instantly felt dread rather then relief.

Bah, you old dog, you’re letting your imagination run wild. You’ve made this trip before and haven’t run into a goblin since…since that night. True, what few goblins had survived the Battle of the Five Armies were left to scurry back into their dens, their numbers depleted along with their courage. And the Beornings maintained the High Pass now against any such threats, though their toll was quite high. But rumors of evil creatures on the move had been made all the more real after the Council of Elrond, and to have happened upon a cave seemingly on time was more then coincidence.

As he approached Glóin began to make out the entrance more clearly. It was taller then it was wide, though still small enough that he would have to bend slightly to fit in; almost perfect for a goblin hole. He stood in front of the opening in indecision, wishing very much he had a light with which to look into the gaping maw of blackness that lay before him. But the wind blew too hard and too wet to strike a flame, even for one as proficient as he was at making fire. Well, you can either sit out here and turn to ice, or jump on in. Another fierce gust of wind decided the matter, and poking the butt of his axe through first he stepped inside.

What he had thought was a cave turned out to be little more then a cranny in the mountainside. The dwarf could touch both walls without effort and reach the ceiling standing on the balls of his feet. There was barely enough room for Glóin to lie down, and if he stretched he could have probably stuck his toes out the entrance. But it was protection against the wind and cold outside, and that was good enough for him. Even so, Glóin took the time to run his hands along every surface of the fissure, feeling the jagged surface even through his heavy mittens. Good, no cracks. He brushed the snow off himself before setting his pack down and, digging through tools and foodstuff, pulled out a heavy woolen blanket. He wrapped it around tightly and laid down, setting the pack on top of his booted feet. With the wind still howling outside, his last thoughts were on how smooth the floor felt as he quickly fell asleep.

It was a squeaky voice that woke him up. “They’re taking the ponies!” Glóin sprang up at once to see the great crack in the wall through which the poor beasts were being dragged into, kicking and crying futilely. Then creatures of the worst kind came pouring out of the darkness and descended upon them. Six came after Glóin, their grasping claws restraining him before he could reach his weapon or put up a fight. Off to the side there was a great flash like lightning, followed by a smell of sulfur and the cries of the dying, but what was happening he could not see. All he could see was a tide of sickly green skin as it carried him and his fellow dwarves deeper into the black hole…

Glóin woke with a start. He was back in the present, laying in a little cranny in the side of the Misty Mountains, the entrance of which had been walled up with snow from the storm. The light of a new day could be seen on the other side, and by the looks of things the weather was clear. Haven’t had that dream in awhile now. This trip has stirred up some old memories he thought as he munched on a piece of hard biscuit from his pack. The dwarf was just glad to woken in the relative warmth of his blanket rather then before some goblin hall fire, especially with those stoney voices of theirs…

Glóin’s eyes went wide as he realized he was hearing those voices now. Instantly his head scanned around his little hole, but he found no crack through which the goblins would come out in ambush. Instead the sound seemed to be coming from outside. Standing up slowly he leaned against the snow wall, his head near the top where it was thinnest. Aye, it’s goblins alright, and by the sound of it they’re close.

He couldn’t tell how many there were, but from their voices they couldn’t have been too many, and by the sounds of it they were in a hurry. Though they spoke in their own devilish speech, at times they switched to a broken form of Common, which made even that tongue seem unlovely:

“…somewhere around here…”

“…best find it quick-like before…come…”

“…me want some food now…”

“…find it shortly, you see…”

At first Glóin feared the worst, that they had tracked him to his resting spot, but brushed it off as foolishness. Not even goblins could track his scent through this cold, not when the snow had erased all sign of the dwarf’s tracks almost as quickly as he made them. Even so, this group was obviously looking for something important to risk daylight, and if they went poking around they might find him anyways. Steadily Glóin shifted position to let the blanket fall off and pushed his pack towards the back of the fissure, grabbing hold of his axe which he’d left at his side. With surprise on my side, I can kill a few and hopefully drive the rest off before they realize they outnumber me.

Every muscle in his stocky frame tensed up, ready to jump like a loaded spring, as the sound of the goblins came closer and louder. He could hear now the crunch of their iron-shot boots through the snow, the rattling of various bits of metal and bone that hung from their clothing, and fancied he could smell their foul stench now. The trap was set, and with a yell the dwarf burst through the snow like an explosion.

Except there were no goblins. The sight that greeted Glóin was a bed of pure white snow and clear blue sky, and where there was the prattle of goblins now was silence. Had I imagined it all? A slight noise grabbed his attention, and looking back behind him Glóin could see eight or so goblins standing on the ledge above his cranny, utter astonishment on their faces. For a moment both sides were too shocked at this most perplexing surprise to even move.

Then the leader of the group, a goblin larger then the others, pointed a clawed finger at Glóin and yelled with all the hate and fury of its voice, “Dwarf!” Curved scimitars and other wicked-looking weapons were drawn, and Glóin could see two of the beasts notch arrows in their makeshift bows. The dwarf turned to face his opponents, staring what was most assuredly his death in the eye, ready to go down fighting as any warrior would.

But it was not to be. Before they could fire the two archers fell dead, short throwing spears pierced through their hides, and the rest of the group was set upon by what looked like snow-trolls as they bounded over a ridge from above, four of them landing into the goblins’ midst. The wretched things attempted flight, but were cut down before they could escape their hunters’ reach. It was all over in a matter of seconds.

The dwarf worried he’d simply traded the frying pan for the fire, but these ‘snow-trolls’ were shorter then the real thing, and what looked like white skin turned out to be heavy winter clothing. And he couldn’t recall the last time Trolls made use of throwing spears nor, as the debris from the fight settled and his vision of them cleared, light axes to slay their foes.

The four hunters inspected the dead bodies and retrieved their spears before turning their attention towards Glóin. “Dwarf,” said one who stepped forward from the party. It was a statement of fact and a greeting, gruff though it was.

“Beornings,” Glóin replied, returning the favor. “The High Pass seems less secure of late if goblins wander around in the light of day.”

The leader, his face wrapped up in a scarf, hoped down from the ledge and took a few steps towards the dwarf. “They’ve grown in numbers,” he replied, ignoring the slight comment. “And have begun to resettle their old burrows. This group had been heading for their den a few hundred paces from here, but got lost in the storm.” A shiver ran down Glóin’s spine; to think how close he was to death if he’d chosen a different hole to sleep in! “We’re going to try and close it up, but if you need help…”

The dwarf’s beard bristled, and briskly he replied, “No, thank you for your assistance; I will be on my way.”

Behind his scarf Glóin imagined the man grinning smugly. “Very well. Our camp is up ahead, you should find it easily.” And with that the four were off, running through the snow as easily as a deer through woods.

Grumbling something fierce beneath his breath, Glóin trudged back into his cranny to gather his things and make the ascent.

[Balrog]

Chapter Two

It did not take Glóin long to find the Beorning camp located some ways above where he had spent the night, a large fissure in the side of the mountain leading to a cave entrance. Glóin could not see any sentries standing guard around mouth of the cave, but he did not doubt that his every movement was being watched by trained eyes and weapons. He was careful not to make any threatening gestures.

Unchallenged, Glóin entered the cave to find it surprisingly warm and homely. A dozen or so Beornings were spread across the spacious cavern, most sitting cross-legged around small wood fires. Woolen rugs had been spread across the cold stone floor, spears and axes arranged neatly in standing piles alongside stores of food and clothing. The Beornings for the most part were eating, though some were sharpening tools and repairing torn clothing. Among them were scattered a few animals, random birds and dogs, and even a mountain goat chewing some feed in the corner. The scene presented a stark contrast to the cold wasteland outside.

“Come, master Dwarf, join us.” A particularly large Beorning seated at the far end of the cave spotted Glóin and motioned him to come. As he approached the Beorning and his fellows at the fire rose to greet him, and Glóin saw just how large the man was. He was nearly twice the old Dwarf’s height, with thick muscular limbs and a great black beard a head above Glóin’s pate. Glóin immediately recognized the speaker.

“Glóin, at your service,” the dwarf replied, removing his hood and bowing low.

“I have no need of your service, master Dwarf, though I thank you for the offer,” replied Grimbeorn, welcoming Glóin with a sign of friendship and offered him a seat at the fire. A Beorning handed him a platter of bread and clotted cream and a crock of honey to drink, which Glóin took with thanks. Like their forbearer, the Beornings had adopted a lifestyle of abstaining from the meats and skins of animals. “It has been some time since you last crossed the High Pass, and there had been two of you if I recall correctly.”

“Yes,” replied Glóin, pausing in thought. “My son is on an errand and took a different road.” He wondered briefly where Gimli could be, and wished he could be there with him.

“Aye, something to do with the trouble to the south I bet.” Glóin shot him a surprised gaze, to which Grimbeorn laughed. “I may be old, but I’m not deaf and dumb yet. The goblins are multiplying again and have sought out new burrows in which to infest. I understand you came across such a group this morning,” adding with some humor, “it’s a brave or foolish warrior who seeks to take on so many foes by himself.”

Glóin took an extended gulp of honey to avoid comment as the Beorning leader chuckled.

“But word has reached us of dark movements in the world, old evils stirring and readying for…something.” The swift change in the Beorning’s mood was startling, as if a veil had been cast over a bright lantern. “I’m not sure. I do know that Mirkwood is once again becoming an evil place.”

“But Dol Guldur-”

“Has been inhabited, and spreads terror and fear throughout the forest. The Elves have been pushed back from the Old Dwarf Road, and the glens of Mirkwood are home now to spiders, Orcs, and other fell beasts. You will have to take the northern road again if you expect to make it back to the Lonely Mountain.” Grimbeorn took a bite out of a piece of dried fruit and chewed thoughtfully. “Very soon we will have to abandon the High Pass altogether.”

Glóin reflected on that information in silence, taking another sip of honey. A noise from the cave entrance startled him from his thoughtfulness, and turning back to see another mountain goat. It was white like the snow, with great big horns that curved around its skull to point forward. The goat trotted across the cave towards Grimbeorn, its hooves making clacking sounds where it stepped on the cold stone, and sat besides the old man. Grimbeorn patted the goat's head and lowered his own so it could whisper something into his ear.

“It seems there’s another storm coming,” Grimbeorn said, watching the goat trot over to join its fellow by the feed. “And by all indications it will be worst then the one earlier. Very strange.”

“What?”

“The storm seems to be coming from the south, and moving quite fast.”

A look of concern spread across Grimbeorn’s face, mirroring Glóin’s own feeling. Turning to his men he said, “Send word to the patrols, return to camp if they can or find safe lodging where available.” Beasts and men stirred, Beornings donning their heavy winter gear and birds taking flight to relay Grimbeorn’s orders. “There is one thing I wish to check on before the storm hits, but you are welcome to ride it out with us Glóin. I recommend it.”

Grimbeorn left, and soon the cave was empty except for the Dwarf and two mountain goats. Glóin munched on his bread in silence.

[CaptainChewbacca]

I will be turning to this when I have more time. As I understand it, Erebror and Dale were under siege by an army almost as large as the one that was set against Minas Tirith, though with more easterlings and fewer Southrons.

Are you using the history of Middle Earth for source material?

[Battlehymn Republic]

One interesting idea I once read from a fanfic (a LoTR/Forgotten Realms one, incidentally) is that Radagast was active during the War of the Ring protecting Mirkwood and the elves who lived there. Beats the canon that he was too much of a nature-freak (druid?) to do anything of use. In any case, will ol' brown-robes play a part?

[Balrog]

Yes, and perhaps

[Balrog]

Chapter Three

Such was the ferocity of the storm that it lasted all through the night and late into the morning. Even from his bed at the back of the cave Glóin could hear the wind howl fiercely outside. Once or twice he swore he heard cold words carried by the fierce gales, but thought nothing of it. It was midday before it finally abated and the Beornings were able to dig a hole out from their shelter. Glóin joined Grimbeorn outside the cave, starring up at the sky above.

“This storm is not natural,” the great Beorning spoke, his gaze still held by the broiling clouds above. They obscured the entire sky, and though appeared in constant motion did not actually move. “It lingers as though waiting for some command. There is an unseen will directing it, giving it purpose. Perhaps the mountains have been angered by something.”

“Or something more insidious directs its wrath.” Around him Glóin noticed the Beornings were bringing out their supplies from the cave and loading themselves with hefty packs. “You are leaving already?”

“Yes,” replied Grimbeorn, but said no more. He joined his men in packing their gear, though refused Glóin’s offer to help, and soon the whole group was packed and ready to go. The dogs were laid with provisions to carry in light sacks that were draped over them and secured around their bellies; Glóin never found out when or where the mountain goats had left beforehand. The troop started off east with little fanfare.

Hours passed as they trudged single-file through the snow, Grimbeorn out in front and Glóin towards the rear. No one was in any mood to talk or sing, so the Dwarf was left to his thoughts. This journey has become quite perilous already, and I’m still stuck on these mountains. At least I won’t have to worry about a Dragon when I reach Erebor. Pausing briefly he turned his sight to the south. His destination will not be as welcoming I fear.

With no sun Glóin could only guess it was around mid-afternoon when the troop reached the summit of the High Pass. Above him the mountain continued upward to disappear into a low bank of clouds, while the Pass skirted around its northern face and continued down eastward. The Dwarf stopped briefly to take in the sight of the Misty Mountains as the winds whipped around him: snow-capped peaks jutting up like stone daggers, deep valleys descending into obscured darkness, rocky faces concealing untold amounts of mineral wealth. Even in such dreary weather, nearly frozen to his old bones from the cold, the Dwarf could appreciate the range’s magnificent beauty. Were visibility better, he might have tried to see the Anduin river valley and Mirkwood to the east, or back towards Riverndell and Eriador.

“Come, Dwarf, unless you plan on digging a hole to live here.” The Beorning behind Glóin stood impatiently waiting for him to continue, which the Dwarf grudgingly did, ignoring the Man’s insult. The eastward descent was steeper and stopped abruptly at the large flat shelf, where the Beornings had stopped briefly. Grimbeorn appeared to be discussing something with a couple of his men by the edge of the shelf while the others rested against the side of the mountain.

Rather then rest Glóin walked towards the edge and stood looking over its side. By the look of it their descent was going to be steep for much of the way, and the discussion then was over whether they could make it with their present load. Glóin turned back to face the group in time to see the face of the mountain explode in a burst of snow. “Troll!”

Men and beast were scattered as the snow-troll emerged from the hole and let off a guttural yell that multiplied with each echo. The ugly brute was easily twice as tall as any Man, with a white hide that looked as tough as the mountain-side and a blunt face not even a mother could love. With quickness that belied its size the monster seized a hapless Beorning sprawled in the snow and flung him through the air and over the side. The man’s death-scream faded with distance until suddenly stopped.

The Beornings regrouped quickly, and set about the beast with spear and axe, but to no avail. The troll's hide deflected their blows easily, and his reach so great that none could get close without great risk. The snow was colored with blood as more Beornings crumpled beneath the blows of those great paws.

Glóin wasted no time and, seizing his axe two-handed, sprinted forward toward the snow-troll. The beast spied the Dwarf coming towards it, and made to swat him like a bothersome gnat. Instead Glóin bound forward and, rolling under its blow, came up inside the beast’s reach and slashed at its midsection. But even Glóin’s Dwarven axe barely bit into the troll-hide, and startled it shoved him back to land ignobly a few yards away.

A new bestial roar sounded, and Glóin looked up to see Grimbeorn…changed. His clothes cast aside, the Beorning had shifted shape, his enlarged body covered in coarse fur and his face elongated to a snout. The descendant of Beorn had called on the power of his bloodline to transform into a great black bear, nearly as large as the troll itself. He let out another challenging roar and charged forward.

The ground shook with the crash of Grimbeorn’s charge as he slammed the troll back against the mountain-side. Dazed by the impact, the brute put up a feeble defense as the great bear swiped at its face. His attacks had little effect on the tough troll-skin, but a fortunate claw found the beast’s right eye and ripped it from its hole. The snow-troll cried in pain and smacked out with a clenched hand. Grimbeorn was sent sprawling, but in a fury stood back up and charged again. This time he tackled the troll to the ground, and the two grappled ferociously.

Glóin and the Beornings could do little but watch as the two titans traded blows that echoed across the mountain. Finally Grimbeorn saw an opening and clamped his jaws tight around the troll’s throat. Here the beast’s hide was less thick, and finding purchase the bear’s fangs pierced skin and spilled black blood. The troll’s struggles intensified briefly until, losing his strength as it flowed out to stain the snow, its movements lessened to a stop. Its eyes remained open, still full of malice yet bereft of the fell light that once drove it.

The Beornings rushed forward to assist their leader, who was rapidly shedding fur and shrinking in size. Soon his transformation was complete, and Glóin was soon kneeling by a very human Grimbeorn lying naked in the snow, his mouth covered in black Troll blood. His men quickly dressed him back in his clothes and inspected his wounds, finding many bruises and gashes but nothing life-threatening.

Sitting up as though nothing had happened, Grimbeorn spat out a glob of black blood with disgust and wiped his mouth. “We can ill afford any more delays. Prepare to move out.”

[Balrog]

Chapter Four

There had been a storm again last night, the howling winds driving down hills of snow. Such were the boughs of Mirkwood though that none could pass through to the forest floor below, so that the great white blanket covering the green woods merely increased in size. Under the leaves the air was cold but still and dark silence pervaded through twig and bush.

Belegrod sat perched on the branch of a great beech, his elven eyes scanning the ground below. He wrapped his cloak tighter around him to keep out the cold, its finely-woven cloth blending in seamlessly with the elderly tree. His oaken spear and slender bow lay within hand’s reach, an arrow already notched.

In truth, Belegrod enjoyed this part of the hunt very much, even if the weather was less then kind on this occasion. The captain had learned the value of patience many times through the ages; whether it was lying in wait for deer or Orcs, it did no good scarring them off early. He had been part of the first campaign to cleanse Mirkwood after the Dark Lord was driven from Dol Guldur, where such hunting skills helped drive out the foul creatures and allowed for some restoration of the realm. It was an accomplishment for which he often felt proud.

A twig snapping, the lightest of sounds, rang clear as a warning trumpet to his elven ears, and the captain in a flurry of hand signals ordered the other sentinels to be ready. Concealed from sight though they were, he knew they were ready with shot and shaft to descend war upon their enemies. Minuets passed as the sound of the approaching foe increased, Belegrod’s senses heightening in anticipation.

The first spider came into view leaping among the lower branches, swaying its repulsive body back and forth to scan the forest. Others followed, either among the trees or scuttling across the forest floor, until there seemed to be a great host of them. In the center of this band of disgust shambled a hideous bloated thing, a great queen heavy with sacs of eggs. She would be their prize.

The captain gave the signal by sending his arrow through the eyes of the first spider, the filth tumbling down to the ground dead. Dozens more sped in from all directions around, followed by fierce warriors brandishing spear and sword. A full third of the spider-host was destroyed in that initial onslaught, the rest thrown into panic as the elves descended in fury upon them.

Belegrod was chief among the slayers that day and ever quick and skillful was he in the slashing and stabbing of foes. His spearhead ran black with the blood of the spiders, killing many as they sought to pounce on him only to be impaled. Soon the spiders became frightful especially of him, and the survivors attempted flight, abandoning their queen as all evil creatures are wont to do to save themselves over others.

Surrounded on all sides, the cornered beast grew fierce, and her anger was directed towards the hated captain. Bearing fangs and letting off an enraged shriek she charged towards him, meaning to crush him with the force of her great body. Deftly Belegrod sprang to the side and with a forceful thrust pierced her bulbous head with his shaft. The queen crashed to the forest floor, blood and pus spilling from her wound, and breathed her last breaths.

Already his warriors were giving chase to the fleeing spiders as Belegrod stood over the foul corpse. “That was the third one this week,” speaking as his lieutenant approached, firebrand already lit.

“Yes,” he replied, “they came like the others from the Emyn Fuin, though there were more then the previous bands. We were lucky to suffer no losses.”

“It was the skill and bravery of our men that won the day, though perhaps Fate played some part. But it’s obvious that the Enemy plans to move soon, if his attempts to infest these woods again have increased so.” Belegrod stared at the great sacs bound by cobwebs, and by the torch-light could see forms and shapes moving inside each sickly egg.

The captain took the proffered firebrand from his lieutenant, and laid it upon the queen’s corpse. “These at least shall not trouble our people and taint the forest with their infection.” The body caught fire quickly and spread to consume her eggs. Hundreds of spider-spawn died in the flames, and Belegrod was glad, for though the elves were not malicious and cruel, there was no mercy within them for the spiders. “Come, the hunt continues.”

[CaptainChewbacca]

Alright, its back! I somehow missed chapter 3 when it was posted, but they're both outstanding. I especially liked the battle with the snow troll, and the way they're getting rid of the spiders.

If you could jump perspectives a bit, maybe give us a view of what's going on in Thanduril's palace in Mirkwood, or at Erebror and the Iron Hills, I imagine those places are also starting to notice an increase in tension.

Keep writing!

[Stuart Mackey]

This chapter was very well written; clear, precise in intent, and economical of word.

[Balrog]

Chapter Five

Glóin grudgingly woke to the sound of a bird chirping. Rubbing the blurriness out of his eyes he saw it was a thrush, perched on the lower branch of the elm he slept under. The small plump bird was starring at him, and chirped twice more before taking flight. Glóin just shrugged and sat up.

It had been many days since Grimbeorn’s fight with the snow-troll atop the mountain, but despite that there had been very little fighting in the following days. Their group was still large enough to scare off the bands of Goblins that roamed the eastern approach, especially as they picked up those Beornings left to guard the Pass on this side, and so their chief enemy had been the terrain. The snow had made an already dangerous route more treacherous, and several Men were lost to hidden crevices and sudden avalanches.

“Awaken master Dwarf, we’ve nearly reached the Carrock.” Grimbeorn stood above Glóin, his pack thrown over his shoulder. He had done much to keep the company moving through the worst of their journey, but their leader was not without his own hurts. Glóin noticed he was favoring his left side less noticeably then after his epic clash, though the proud Man said nothing of his injuries. The Dwarf just grumbled and stood up, shaking off his blanket.

“Blast this damn weather, would that it was warmer and less unkind to my old bones.”

Grimbeorn had already moved on to organize the warriors, leaving Glóin to grumble to himself as he packed up his bedding. Suddenly the thrush returned, landing back on the same branch and chirping again.

“You too? I’m awake already, go bother–” But it had already taken off, and as Glóin watched it flew off due west towards Mirkwood. I wonder what that was about.

The first hours of their march were pleasant, a clear sky allowing the sun to shine brightly. The trees had progressively thinned out, and soon the Anduin river valley was bare for miles around. Still using his axe as a walking stick, Glóin let the rays of light warm his face, recalling the old stories of how Aulë had fashioned the Sun to bring light to the world. He gave his Creator silent thanks.

It was closing on midday when the Carrock could be seen over the horizon, but if Glóin expected the Beornings to become less dour at seeing a bit of home he was sorely mistaken. The closer they came the more details the old Dwarf could make out, the flat-topped rock sticking prominently up from the Anduin, forming an eyot around which the waters rushed. He could also see there had been much activity recently, the snow already beaten into muddy ground as if by a great mass.

His suspicions were confirmed when they came upon their first stain of blood on the ground.

The Beornings picked up their pace at a silent command from their leader, and Glóin struggled to keep pace. Around him the scenes of battle intensified, the ground violently torn up and bits of gore strewn about, frozen solid by the cold. But where are the bodies? What does it all mean?

His questions were soon answered as they came upon the Carrock and found Beornings still held the rock. There couldn’t have been more then a dozen of them and all looked weary, even grimmer then normally if such a thing was possible. Grimbeorn and his men slowed to a walk as they came to the near bank of the river, and were greeted by one of the isle guardians who crossed over. Glóin caught up and came to a stop by the large Beorning leader, panting heavily.

“What happened here, Beras?” Grimbeorn’s voice was stern and unwavering, the command of a great lord to his captain. Beras gave Glóin a look, but answered nonetheless.

“We were attacked by a great force during the night,” the Beorning replied, wiping grime off his brow. “They were twice our number, of a kind of wolf I’d never seen before, larger even then Wargs. They came at us from the south, on either side of the bank, and yet attacked as if driven by a single will. We took refuge on the Carrock, and though they tried thrice to overwhelm us we drove back their attacks. They took to prowling at the edge of our light, and quick as lighting leap upon the unwary and drag them into the darkness.” Beras shuddered at some unnamed thought, and for the first time in his life Glóin saw a Beorning show fear. “Our efforts to save them proved costly and for naught. The handful you see here survived taking shelter atop the rock or in the storage cave like women.”

Grimbeorn reached out and grasped Beras on the shoulder. “You fought well and bravely. Where did you bury the bodies?”

The Beorning looked back up at his leader, and Glóin finally noticed Beras wasn’t so much look at Grimbeorn but through him, as if staring at something distant but still too near. “We went looking at daybreak, the beasts leaving shortly before the Sun’s rising. We found…what was left of our men but…chieftain, I know I killed five of the fiends myself, and better men then I racked scores higher but live no more to boast of it.”

“But we found no other bodies than our own.”

A great murmur went up from among the troops, silenced at a glance from their chieftain. “Variag, get the men across the ford, we continue marching while we still have light.” Grimbeorn turned back to face Beras, and somehow had the shaken Man focus back on him. “You have done your duty and more Beras, gather your men and prepare to come with us.” A look of relief spread across the Beorning’s face, and quickly he joined the troops crossing over.

Glóin and Grimbeorn remained standing next to each other, watching the warriors ford across the Carrock. Their thoughts were the same, though it was the Dwarf who broke the silence. “I must get back to Erebor quickly. Events are only going to become worse, and this is just the beginning.”

[CaptainChewbacca]

WRITE MORE!

[General Trelane (Retired)]

Yes, write more!

One helpful hint: "then" makes a poor substitute for "than".

[Balrog]

Chapter Six

The night air was cool and crisp to breath in, the wind but a few wisps across Long Lake. The smooth icy surface glowed silvery, reflecting the Moon’s light like a great mirror. Bathed in that light, standing out from the western bank of the lake, the city of Esgaroth laid still. Mighty halls and tall lodgings supported by great wooden pillars sunk into the bed of Long Lake itself, she was as busy as any major city in the West. In the dead of winter's night, though, the city shut down to slip beneath warm sheets and sleep. Her markets and guildhalls stood empty, houses and inns remained quiet, the grand warehouses and dockyard were but for a solitary figure bereft of life.

Hamar stood amongst the silence and soaked in it. Robed in fine furs, the stocky man leaned against the edge of a pier, staring onto the lake. Looks like no sleep again tonight he thought, his mind in turmoil going over what he had learned that day. He had had many sleepless nights before, though they had become more frequent lately, but what had been reported today unsettled him like never before.

Throughout the history of Esgaroth, the city had always been a center of trading and commerce. Even during the Dark Years, when the Lonely Mountain was a den of evil and the inhabitants of Lake-Town lived in fear of the Dragon, even then trade continued and the people made due. Though the town was destroyed, Esgaroth was rebuilt, grander and richer not only from the spoils of Smaug but the renewed trade with Dale and Erebor. And all that might soon be undone again.

“The Master of Esgaroth standing alone on the docks in the middle of the night? Whatever would the people say?”

Hamar turned at the sound of Asta’s voice and was met with beauty personified. The light of the Moon and all the Stars could not compare to her gentle face and eyes clear as diamonds. The hood of her fur cloak was pulled down and hair raven black spilled out like a waterfall. She closed the distance between them as deftly and graceful as any Queen and kissed her husband gently.

“They would cluck and squawk and make a general fuss, perhaps make new notes to their many plots to take away my title, but at the end of the day go back to counting their money and getting drunk on spiced wine. The real question is what are you doing out here?”

“Is it not a wife’s duty to give comfort to her husband?” she replied with a knowing smile. “Come, you are more distressed then usual. What troubles you?”

“Am I that easy to read?” Hamar drew a gloved hand across his chin, the leather smooth on his skin. “There has been troubling news.”

“When isn’t there?” Asta slipped an arm through Hamar’s, moving to stand at his side and share his stare across the lake. “But you didn’t marry me for my beauty only. What is it now?”

She was right, he admit, on both counts. Asta had a keen intelligence as sharp as any, and news had gotten worse lately. Merchants openly attacked on once-safe routes, rumblings of discontent in the East, and rumors of something dark to the south stirring again. I had assumed it was just business as usual, but now…

Hamar sighed, and looked back down at his wife. “The envoys returned today. Dorwinion is cutting off its trade agreements. All of them.”

Asta gasped, her eyes widening, and understood instantly.

Dorwinion was their chief trading partner out of all the nations of the East. They were widely famous for their wines that could make even an Elf drunk, and Mirkwood paid heftily for the heady liquid. Not even the Golden Dragon had caused the Dorwinions to stop their profitable trade with them and the Elves. How long did I ignore the signs? he thought despairingly. The trade roads becoming more dangerous, tales of darkness on our border, trade with other Easterlings falling below normal, but still I thought nothing of it. Did I ignore them willingly?

His face grew darker, and seeing her husband’s mood Asta hugged him tightly. “Hamar…”

“I’m sorry, Asta,” he replied, looking back out across Long Lake to the eastern sky. “The East is rising up. War is coming.”

[Balrog]

Chapter Seven

Glóin had slept little that night, and woke early that morning before the rising of the Sun. He stood outside Beorn, named in honor of the Beorning’s founder, with his white cloak pulled tight against the chilly morning air. What had started out as a simple wooden hall had grown over the years into a sizeable settlement and the seat of power for the Beornings. The village was still asleep as Glóin watched, adjusting his axe strapped across his back into a more comfortable position.

“You’re all set,” Grimbeorn replied, coming up from behind the Dwarf. “Fleetfoot has agreed to take you as far as the Elvenking’s hall. The path has been made safer since the last time you took it, though that may change soon.”

“Fleetfoot?”

“Yes, you may recall his father bore you on a similar journey, though it was but for a few days.” The grim Man looked back, and Glóin followed his gaze, to the pony standing amidst the snow. He shook his mane and let out a snort, his breath visible in the cold, and the twin packs strapped to him jangled with his movement. “He recognizes the speed you will require and volunteered to help you.”

“It is an honor,” the Dwarf replied as the two walked over to the pony. He opened the packs to inspect them himself, noting the loaves of bread, dried fish, and clotted cream, enough for many weeks. “How may I repa-”

“Unnecessary, along with the normal High Pass tolls for obvious reasons.” Grimbeorn have the Dwarf a hearty smack on the shoulder and said “May your Quest be an exciting tale to tell around the campfire, master Dwarf.” With that Glóin watched the great chieftain turn and begin trudging back to his hall before any more could be said. And may you have a long and prosperous life he thought, not sure if he’d ever see the grim chieftain again.



The pace was quick as the Dwarf rode across the bare snowy landscape of the Anduin river valley. It was nearing the middle of February and already the weather had started to warm early, which the elderly Glóin took for a good sign. Their nights were untroubled; though Glóin often woke thinking something was watching them. Fleetfoot at least didn’t seem to notice.

It was no trouble following the same path he’d taken before, and after several days they found the entrance to the Elven Road. Twin trees overstretching each other formed the entrance, and ahead the path seemed to disappear into the gloomy distance. The path seemed wider then he last remembered, not as menacing either, though whether it was the work of civilized hands or simply the snowy landscape he couldn’t tell. He motioned for the pony to continue, but Fleetfoot hesitated.

“Don't worry,” Glóin said, patting the pony’s mane. “I too was afraid to journey through these woods when I first arrived, but I survived, did I not? So shall you.” Fleetfoot neighed nervously, but nevertheless overcame his fear and trotted beneath the arching branches.



Their pace had slowed now as they journeyed for days through Mirkwood, but still they were making excellent time. Grimbeorn had been right when he said spoke about the path, as the woods felt more wholesome and its inhabitants less dreadful then the last time. Squirrels scampered across the snow-covered ground in search of their hidden nuts, and once a white-furred rabbit hopped out into the middle of the path ahead. Its long ears twitched to and fro as it raised its head to sniff the air. Would that I had a bow to shoot it, perhaps cook up a nice stew he thought, contemplating some others means to capture it.

The shape flew quickly by Glóin’s head, startling him and the pony. Fleetfoot reared in surprise, nearly knocking the Dwarf off his back. It took all of Glóin’s skill to stay on and calm the jittery in time to see the owl swoop down and grab the rabbit in its talons. So much for that as he watched his stew be carried off to some far away branch.

It was a few days before the two came to a wooden bridge spanning a swift-running river. The Dwarf recognized the river instantly and his thoughts turned back to poor fat Bombur. Those were sore days for all our backs. Now it takes six young Dwarfs to carry his couch from one room to another. He shook his head at that thought and motioned Fleetfoot to cross.

The clacking of hooves seemed unnaturally loud across the wood beams. Glóin couldn’t help but glance from side to side, worried he might fall over or get splashed by the enchanted water. It seemed to take an eternity, but they crossed the bridge without incident. “Well, that was not so bad.”

Spear points materialized out of the trees to either side. Gloved hands grabbed Fleetfoot’s reigns to stay the beast, and the sound of bent bows signaled Glóin was covered on all sides. One of the figures stepped out clearly into the middle of the path, yet he remained hard to see under a cloak that shifted in color. Pulling back his hood revealed an Elf with long dark hair and a sharp face, regarding the Dwarf with hard-set eyes. “I am Captain Belegrod, and you are trespassing on the King’s Road. State your name and business now.”

[Balrog]

Chapter Eight

“Woah now, let’s not do anything hasty,” replied Glóin, his hands raised in the air.

“Name and business, dwarf,” Captain Belegrod again demanded. “Do not try my patience.”

At this Glóin furrowed his brow and allowed his arms to drop. “Do not talk to one of the Khazâd of patience, Captain Belegrod. My name of Glóin son of Gróin, and my business in these woods are my own.”

Belegrod’s eyes seemed to lighten with recollection as he stepped closer to the mounted Dwarf. “You are Glóin, of Oakenshield’s Companions? My apologies, master Dwarf, I did not recognize you.” With some unspoken command bowstrings eased and spears were lowered as the Elven captain approached Glóin’s side. Even from such a short distance the cloak he wore distorted the captain’s body with shifting colors and patterns, giving Glóin the disconcerting image of a head seemingly floating in mid-air.

“Yes well, quite alright, this isn’t the first time, though I am sorry to say I don’t recall meeting you before,” the old dwarf replied, taking back the rein from the Elf who held it brusquely, Fleetfoot snorting in approval.

“I was not in the King’s Halls when you were first brought in, but arrived in time to fight in the Battle of the Five Armies, though we did not have the honor of fighting side by side that day.”

“That can be arraigned now that dark days have returned. Tell me, do the Elves of Mirkwood reply with such showing to every honest traveler on their road?” he said, indicating the surrounding Elven warriors, only to see most of them already disappearing back into the snowy woods.

“We have not had any traveler, honest or not, in many months now. The forces of the Dark Lord have begun to penetrate the borders of our realm, probing our defenses for weak points. None of his foul creations have penetrated this far north hitherto, where the influence of our people is strong; such things are anathema to them. Yet the eyes and ears of the Dark Lord are many and come even in friendly guise, so my company was sent to watch the road for his spies. I apologize again for mistaking you as one of his servants, but I should like to know what your purpose is on the King’s Road?”

Concern spread across the old dwarf’s face, and he lowered his head to whisper to Belegrod. “Such is my business that it should not be discussed in the open, even here. Suffice to say I require swift passage through Mirkwood to reach Erebor.”

“Your words are honest, master Dwarf, this I can tell, but orders I have from the King himself. You will be brought to his halls, which will be secure enough to tell us your mission. Luckily it is along the way and will bring you closer to your home, as you well know.” Without so much as another word Belegrod turned and began walking. Glóin could only shrug and looked down at Fleetfoot. Despite the apparent security, the pony was visibly anxious.



The rest of the day was spent with Glóin trotting alongside the Elven captain, though few words were exchanged. Belegrod had taken a small detachment with him and left the rest of the company with his lieutenant Culnaur, and these half-dozen guards were even less talkative as they marched behind the pair. Only the skittish nature of Fleetfoot kept his mind from aimlessly wandering. It became a slow, dull ride for Glóin as the sun began to set. How much longer must this dawdling continue?

“We are coming upon one of our way-stations shortly. There you can rest and we can obtain horses to speed our journey along.” Glóin shot Belegrod a look, wondering if the Elf had somehow read his mind. The Captain returned his stare with an unassuming smile. Damn pointy-ears.

A flutter of a bird’s wings in the background went almost unnoticed by the old Dwarf, but not the Elves’ reaction to it. Belegrod tensed up, his ears twitching for some unheard sound. Glóin looked back to see the warriors in similar moods, their spears ready and bows notched. “What is it?”

“Káno, it is much closer now,” one of the Elves answered, though it was not directed to Glóin.

“I know,” replied Belegrod, his face still looking forward. He fell back from Glóin slightly, his own spear in ready position. “Be ready for when it strikes.”

Glóin turned back to face Belegrod. “Captain, what is going on-”

“We have been followed, master Dwarf, by a terrible creature of Sauron for some time now. I suggest you prepare yourself for a fight.”

“And why did you not tell-”

“Quiet!”

It was only then that the old Dwarf finally noticed: it had become quiet. No birds, no animals, not even the rustling of trees. The only sound he heard was the clopping of Fleetfoot’s hooves along the snow-covered road. Slowly he reached around to unfasten his axe hanging from his back.

The beast moved too fast for Glóin to do more then cry out as it slammed with an unholy roar into him and Fleetfoot. The old Dwarf fell hard on his side, releasing his grip of his axe. With a painful grunt he lifted himself up to come face to face with a horrible creature straight out of legend. It was in wolf-form but terribly large, as large as Fleetfoot even, upon whom it pinned to the ground with its great weight and bit deep into his neck with its teeth-filled maw. A red light burned in its dreadful eyes, red as the fires of Mount Doom, as they looked up to gaze into Glóin’s.

The elderly Dwarf’s grasping hand found purchase on his axe’s handle, and rising up he charged at the werewolf with the fires of anger in his own eyes. A blow meant to chop its head clean off sliced only through air as the beast leaped back to stand off against the enraged Glóin. Over the sound of his heavy breathing Glóin could hear the sounds of battle continuing, and knew that there was a second werewolf engaging the Elves; already he could see a dead body out of the corner of his eye.

“You shall pay, monster.”

The werewolf began growling in what eerily seemed like laughter, and powerful muscles coiled in preparation for its spring. It leaped, but as it arched in mid-air Belegrod was there, quick as lighting as he struck hard with his spear into the creature’s flank. Such was the force of the blow that the shaft broke and the beast sent sprawling off to the side. Glóin moved with ferocity as he came upon the stricken hell-wolf and brought his axe down with all his strength upon its neck.

Dwarven steel sliced clean through skin and muscle but stuck in the creature’s bone. Yelping the werewolf began thrashing about, dragging Glóin with it as he kept hold of the axe. The force of its throes finally dislodged the axe and the werewolf tried to stand up to flee. Abruptly it stopped, and Glóin saw: a single arrow, lodged in its left eye, puncturing deep into its skull. It dropped, letting out a final gurgled breath, and died.

Glóin turned to face where the shot had come from, seeing the Elven warrior who had delivered the death blow was himself badly wounded as blood ran down its face. Another was just as injured, and two others lay dead, but where the second werewolf had gone he did not see. His rage gone, concern filled his heart as he dropped his axe and ran to kneel where Fleetfoot lay.

“Oh, no.”

Where the beast had ripped out flesh decay had set it, healthy red meat turning brown and green. Bulging veins lead out from the wound, similarly discolored as the venom passed through to infect the heart and other major organs. The pony’s face was an image of pain and fear, eyes with no more life in them staring out at nothing.

Glóin slammed his fist into the cold ground. He did not hear the sound of swift riders approaching or the blaring of loud horns; finally he stirred when Belegrod placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Come, Master Glóin, we must go.”

The Dwarf stood, his gaze passing from the fallen pony to the werewolf. He watched with amazement as, like smoke rising from a dying fire, the werewolf deteriorated until all that was left was a patch of dead, black earth.

[LadyTevar]

Will the wounded Elf also decay like that?!?!?

[Balrog]

I was going to answer this in a later chapter, but the poison is only in their jaws. Have no fear

[Balrog]

Chapter Nine

For all that Esgaroth had improved since the death of the Dragon, it paled in comparison to the royal city of Dale. Stone waterways from the River Celduin, which flowed from the Gates of Erebor and wound wide of the city to the east, now fed marvelous pools and sculpted fountains of beauty. High towers shot out from behind the thick walls of grey stone that surrounded the city, and all along the valley between the arms of the Mountain grew greenery not seen since before Smaug.

Hamar and his small escort marched down the bustling paved street towards the King’s Keep, both Man and Dwarf making way for the Master of Esgaroth. His heavy cloak kept him warm against the wind, fastened about his neck with a golden broach shaped like a fish. Behind him Branter held aloft the blue standard of Esgaroth, followed by a half-dozen strong men in studded leather wielding long spears.

Hamar couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Even in the best of times he was weary of the King of Dale, good friend he may be. Esgaroth enjoyed a high degree of autonomy, a practice dating back to before the Dragon even, but all of that could be easily threatened by its closest friend and protector. Whether it came in one fell swoop or slowly nibbled away, the Master of Esgaroth always kept an eye trained north towards the Mountain.

But this is different. He noticed the unusual amount of activity in the city during a winter month, marking the midpoint of February yesterday. Though he had to admit the temperature had begun to rise uncommonly early, much of what he saw was a city preparing for battle. Troops marched down city streets as stores of weapons were opened to be distributed and engines mounted atop the walls.

As he approached the final gate a horn rang out and the great steel doors opened out, allowing their group to keep a steady pace going in. Passing through the inner walls Hamar came out into view of the King’s Keep, a massive structure of stone and metal shaped like Erebor towering in the background. Flickering lights glowed out from glass windows, as if showing the inside of a mountain ready to explode.

As they approached the main gate opened before them as well, and just as smoothly closed behind to keep out the draft. Hanging torches gave the hall a warm glimmering as men shook off the cold, and a page not even half Hamar’s age greeted them from the opposite end. “Lord Hamar son of Goldwyn, King Brand gives you welcome. He awaits you in his study at your leisure, if your men would follow me I will show them their quarters” the page squeaked as fast as he could, despite efforts to deepen his voice.

Branter chuckled as he furled the standard and motioned for the others to follow. “My Lord,” he said, the large man bowing slightly as he and the others were led into a side chamber. The Master of Esgaroth walked instead towards where the boy had come from, a flight of stairs that wound upwards like a snake coiled along a tree branch. Ascending slowly he exited upon the third of many floors in the keep, walking down the drafty hallway much as he’d down countless times before.

Inside the King’s study he was not surprised to find a Dwarf alongside Brand looking over a map mounted on the far wall; the relationship between Dale and Erebor was a close one indeed. The sound of the closing door behind him drew both their attentions from the wall to look as Hamar walked between old bookcases and a long oaken table to join them. “King Brand,” he addressed the king first, bowing low to show his suzerain respect.

The king replied with his own bow, the thick golden chain that drooped from his neck his only noticeable ornament atop simple cloth tunic and leggings. His hair was dark but his eyes bright with a vigor that belied his age. “Lord Hamar, it is good to see you. May I introduce Lord Bifur of Erebor.” At this the Dwarf, who Hamar realized was quite old with his long white beard, bowed towards him. He wore a long yellow cloak with its hood pulled back, and a great chain of gold about his stout waist. The king continued, “I believe you have information of importance to share?”

“Yes, my lord,” he replied. “As you know, we had several contracts to renew over the winter months, primarily with our partners in Dorwinion. I had sent a party south to treat with them as per out usual dealings. However, I have learned a few days ago…that negotiations have been ceased and Dorwinion has refused all trade agreements with us.” Both Brand and Bifur looked at each other, well aware of what this news meant.

The Dwarf spoke up first. “Did your men give any specifics about the reason they broke off trade?”

“There was direct pressure from their king, laying down the ban without any forewarning. As they left, my envoy became aware of black-robed men wandering the streets, leading groups of peasants in chants denouncing ‘the mongrels of the West’ and of their ‘True God’ who will cast us all out.”

“It is as I feared then,” Brand replied, taking a seat at the oaken table and indicating the others to do the same. “Though I did not expect them to move so quickly.

“You knew of this?” Hamar became confused, and deep down a feeling of foreboding emerged.

The King nodded his consent to Bifur, who continued. “Some time ago we received an… emissary from the South. Who it was and what they offered is not important, what matters is that it was a messenger from the Dark Lord.” Hamar’s eyes suddenly became very wide. “The Enemy has returned, and he is seeking to dominate Middle-Earth once more. We dismissed his empty poisonous promises as they were, and it warned us it would return two more times before rescinding the offer, and a few nights ago was his third visit. Our answer remained the same.”

Suddenly anger began to fill Hamar like a new-sprung well and he stood back up. “Why was I not informed of this? The safety of my people is at stake! And what was it this messenger offered you?”

“Sit down, Hamar!” The King’s voice was commanding as a heavy gust of wind. It took all of the Master’s will power to remain standing in defiance before finally relenting. “I am sorry, friend, but this situation is far more dangerous then you realize. Our one and only weapon in this matter is utmost secrecy lest the Dark Lord become supreme. It was for this reason that you were not told of this before, and why we cannot say more except this: war is coming and we must prepare for the storm as best we can. The safety of my people is of great concern to me.”

Hamar took a calming breath, and looked back up at Brand. “I apologize for my outburst, King Brand. Rest assure, the people of Esgaroth are as always friend and ally to you and the Dwarves.” Bifur nodded his content at this answer, though Brand returned the stare with his own. “Perhaps then we can discuss the best way to see to our defenses?”

“Soon, now though it is nearly time for supper, and I do hope you will stay and join us, Lord Hamar.”

“Of course, my liege,” the Master of Esgaroth replied, as all three stood to leave.

[CaptainChewbacca]

So Brand (the second, I should think) is King of Dale and the whole of the men of Esgaroth, while Bifur is Lord of the Mountain. Who is Hamar, exactly?

[Balrog]

Chapter Ten

Glóin sat and stared, the now-lukewarm bowl of soup he held quickly becoming colder. He was seated on a hard bench inside the way-station, a small fire-lit house and stable ringed by a fence of thorns. Around him Elves were busying themselves about the place, some tending to those wounded in the fight while most readied horses and rode off, or came in to rest their tired steeds and deliver urgent messages.

“How fare you, master Dwarf?” Belegrod sat down beside him, a cup of hot broth in his hands. His cloak and hood was thrown back, revealing long dark hair tied back and worn leather armor.

The old dwarf stretched out his right arm, upon which he’d landed on and bruised. It still pained him to lift it too high. “Feeling just fine, Captain. Old campaigners like me are a tough bunch.” The captain just smiled. “How are your men?”

Belegrod took a sip, and looked down into his cup. “They will heal. Luckily those who lived were not bitten during the fight.” The elf’s ears drooped slightly and he sat in thought for a moment. “If you can bear it then we should continue on horse. We are not far now from our destination.”

Glóin looked up around him. “Assuming you can procure us some steeds; this is as busy a place as I have seen in a long time.” The captain joined his gaze around the way-station.

“Yes, the Enemy attacks more often and more fiercely with every passing day, and so the evacuation proceeds all the quicker.”

“Evacuation?”

“Those who cannot fight have been ordered to take refuge in the King’s halls, where they will be safe from the coming storm. It will become more apparent the closer we get, as the outlying communities were emptied prior to your entrance into the woods.” The Elven captain stood up, and through gaps in the canopy above Glóin saw the light of the stars glint off his eyes. He seemed as hearty as when the dwarf first met him. “But do not worry; our horses are ready for us. I apologize if we do not have a mount more suitable for your…stature, I will assist as best I can.”

With a grunt Glóin stood up, feeling several bones creak along his spine. “Let’s be off then.”



The two rode on through the night and into the morning, walking every now and then to rest the horses. They came upon the first of many small bands of Elves at first light: families and friends traveling together towards safety, though rather then weep for being forced to leave their homes most sang to lift their hearts, their melodies like clear running water. As the morning increase the bands became larger and extended back further down the muddy road, until finally it became one long mass that extended as far as the eye could see. They held off to one side of the road, while riders and companies of spearmen marched down the other, the pair holding to the middle.

Glóin finally recognized where they were, as the forest to either side of him became more ordered with long rows of beeches. He knew what was ahead, hearing it before he could see: a strong, swift river, flowing from the heights of the forest all the way out into the marshlands and Long Lake. Across it was built a sturdy oaken bridge, and finally Glóin could see the tall green mound and great stone doors marking the palace of King Thranduil of the Silvan Elves. The elderly dwarf made sure to brush off the dirt off his white cloak.

Those doors were wide open now as throngs of Elves entered, directed by guards to their designated area in the cave system. Glóin and Beregond’s horses were taken from them at the entrance, and the two were escorted down winding paths into the earth. The air felt clean and wholesome, a quality Glóin had noted the last time he was here, though it had been as a prisoner. Finally they were led into a great hall, supported by many pillars hewn from the rock itself, and at the other end sat Thranduil and his council. The king sat upon his throne of carven wood, and in his hand he held his staff of oak, while before him a map was laid upon a table around which he and his advisors discussed. Upon his head was a crown of holly and mistletoe, since it was still winter in Mirkwood, but his face was furled in deep thought.

When they approached Beregond bent down to one knee before his lord, though Glóin merely bowed his head. Thranduil motioned for them to rise, and greeted the dwarf with a smile. “Welcome, Glóin son of Gróin, to my halls. May you find your stay here warm and restful.”

Glóin had a few choice words to say about staying in the King’s halls, but instead replied, “I thank you, gracious king, but the urgency of my business requires that I should leave soon.”

“Yes, and I wish to discuss this business with you.” Thranduil stood, and as one his council bowed and left the hall, Captain Beregond the last to leave. When all were gone the king stepped down and stood before the dwarf, the map-table in between. “It is true then, about the One Ring?”

“It is true. The Ring had been found, by Bilbo Baggins no less, and now his nephew Frodo journeys with brave companions to destroy it.”

“Bilbo found the Ring? That is news to me indeed, and now a member of his family takes part in this quest…” Thranduil shook his head as he walked around the table to join the dwarf. “A strange thing it is that the Fate of all Middle-earth rests in the hands of its smallest creature.”

“Hobbits have proven themselves to be full of surprises, with an inner strength that is hard to see,” Glóin replied.

The king now leaned heavily on his staff. “I fear it might come too late, as slim a hope as it may be.” He looked down at the map, which showed all of Mirkwood and the surrounding lands. “The Dark Lord it seems needs not the Ring to conquer all the lands in a second darkness. His forces at Dol Guldur have rebuilt the fortress there and it is once more a breeding ground for foul things; already they outnumber my own by many score, and it is but a vanguard that pushes now at our borders. And trouble brews in the East according to my reports, threatening the lands of your people and Brand’s.”

Glóin furtively clenched his fist, wishing he could be back home now preparing. “We must trust to the plan that Master Elrond has devised, for as you say it is our only hope, and trust to what strength we have left to hold on for as long as we can.”

“Agreed,” the king replied, standing tall again. “We must do what we can in the time that is given to us. You shall be provided with fresh supplies and sped along towards Esgaroth by the fastest path as soon as you are ready.” He turned and walked back to his high seat, his staff firm in grip. “I wish you well in the trials that are to come, Glóin son of Gróin, and may the Valar watch over you.”

The dwarf bowed to the king and turned to leave. Thranduil almost stopped him before he left, almost asked him one final question about the Quest of the Ring. Pride prevented him, pride and the knowledge that Glóin could tell him no more about it than he already knew himself. His mind should be on how to protect his people here, not wandering far afield. Alone in the hall, the King of Mirkwood slouched slightly as he sat down and thought about his son…