(Previous chapter: Sun and Stars)
"Open the gate!
Open it!"
The sturdy dwarf with the red beard growled. He stared down at the elf standing in front of the fort.
"Would you mind to shut up? Do you want to guide every single orc west of these mountains to us?"
But the elf wouldn't listen.
"Open the gate! Now!"
"Damn it! Who are you anyway?"
The dwarf crossed his arms.
"A friend. But if you do not open soon enough, I might become your doom, watcher!"
The elf made a fist and looked up at the dwarf on the wall.
He meant business. That was obvious.
Still, he did not look particularly dangerous.
He carried no weapons, and no fine clothes but rags.
His leg looked injured, and he gave rather the impression of a beaten up raven than a noble elf lord.
"By my beard, don't you dare to threaten me, you miserable pointy-ear!"
"I will put your head into a fiery chasm and burn your damn beard, if you don't open!"
Roared the elf.
"Don't make me shoot you! Shut your mouth!"
The dwarf grabbed his crossbow and loaded, hollering furiously.
"One arrow won't be enough to make me leave, watcher! Make sure you empty your whole quiver, for I shall not leave this place until I have spoken with your superior!"
The dwarf aimed and bellowed:
"Turn around and get lost, elf-scum! I give you my word, if you do not leave, I shall pierce your stubborn head!"
"For MAHAL's sake - open!"
The elf punched the wooden gate.
"Hold!"
A deep voice made the dwarf turn around instantly. Another dwarf, clad in black chain mail, wearing a great axe, approached.
"Uzbad."
The dwarf with the crossbow gave a short salute and lowered the weapon.
"What is going on here, Kelchar? What is all this shouting about?"
"We have an elf, Uzbad. He demands permission to enter."
The dwarf with the great axe frowned.
"An elf? Is he from the Fenced Land?"
"I do not think so, Uzbad. He looks rather like one of Copper-top's people."
"I see. Why did he mention Mahal?"
"I do not know, Uzbad."
The dwarf with the black chain mail moved forward, and looked down at the elf, who was still desperately punching the gate.
"Elf! Hold this madness. Who are you?"
The different voice made the elf look up. He stopped, and answered:
"I am Ráolor the Stone-shaper, servant of Macalaurë son of Fëanáro. Are you the commander of this fort?"
"Aye, I am!"
"I have to speak with you. Let me in!"
"You mentioned Mahal, the great creator..."
"I lived in Gabilgathol for three years. The valiant folk of the Broadbeams knows of the service I have done there. I am a friend of Gabilgathol, and a former disciple of Gróm the sculptor!"
The commander frowned.
The dwarf with the crossbow whispered:
"I do not believe him. He's lying. Gróm would never take a rotten potato as student."
But the commander lifted up his fist with a dismissive gesture.
"Gabilgathol? Hmm. I know Gróm, and he is famous indeed. But the realm of Gabilgathol has it's rules, and those who enter it have to obey them" he said.
"What about the Orcs and the Easterlings raiding the mountains and vales, commander? Are they obeying the laws?"
"Nay, they aren't!"
"Still, you allow them to do as they like!"
"We cannot fight them all."
Growled the dwarf with the great axe.
"Lord Azaghâl fought them all !!!" cried the elf, and his fiery gaze suddenly made the commander feel ashamed. The dwarf frowned. He did not like this conversation at all.
"He stood against the north, and he stood against the drakes, and he did not flinch. I saw it with my own eyes. He gave his life for Beleriand's freedom!"
"Alright, alright. No need for further explanations."
The commander turned and hollered downwards:
"Open the gate!"
The tent was dark and contained a mess of weapons, maps, supplies and armour.
But it was small and tight, and the tall elf had to crouch in order to pass the entrance.
The dwarves looked up and down at their guest, and it was clear to them: this elf must have fought many battles already. He was tall and of very strong build, and his hands were big and massive as rocks.
But now, seeing him from near, they realized that the elf was seriously battered and wounded. He barely managed to walk.
His rags were all over soaked with blood.
"Here. Take this."
The commander took a warm cloak and tossed it towards the elf. The cloak was caught, and the tired wanderer wrapped himself up swiftly.
"I respect your alliance with Gabilgathol, elf. You know a few names in our language, and you honour Mahal the great creator by spelling his name.
And if it is true what you say, and you indeed were a disciple of Gróm the Stone-Master, we shall meet you with courtesy and friendship.
But these are dark times.
Never challenge us again like before, otherwise you will not leave this fort alive. I swear it by my beard."
The commander's gaze was dark and stern.
The dwarf with the crossbow nodded and muttered something.
The elf did not reply.
"Now tell me, and speak swiftly. What business has a warrior of the Copper-Top to do with Gabilgathol?"
The commander poured fire whiskey into a big keg and offered it to the guest.
"I was a prisoner of the dog-clan - an Easterling tribe - for more than a year.
I managed to escape, together with a little girl.
I was wounded, so I could not run too long. I let the girl go in the end, and backed up her retreat.
I had almost given up my life, as orcs attacked us suddenly. They must have had some dealings with the Easterlings in the past, but I do not know much about it.
While the battle raged on, I pretended to be dead, and the orcs did not touch me.
After they had slain all the Easterlings, they went north...
I ran as fast as I could. I fear I have sent the girl to her certain death. I sent her over the mountains, and her path may lead through the realm of Gabilgathol."
The elf glanced at the dwarves.
"Commander... watcher of the Broadbeams. Hear my words, both of you.
This girl has suffered years of prison, needless punishment, malice and cruelty. She is still very young. She does not deserve this.
By the spirit of Azaghâl, whom I call a hero of Beleriand, I beg you, help me to find her.
She won't make it alone in the wilderness."
The elf clenched his fists, and inclined his head.
The dwarves remained silent, for Azaghâl's memory was still present in their minds, and the commander still remembered him well.
"You demand much, disciple of Gróm."
The commander's voice was calm and he spoke slowly, as if he was pondering his next words.
"We know what happened between Tumunzahar and the Fenced Land. We heard about the war, and we heard about... the moving trees."
"Moving trees?"
"Aye. The whole damn forest stood up against the Firebeards. Apparently, the trees were moving, and wielding their branches like weapons. Only few managed to escape. They say, the trees have grown wild and evil, and they know no mercy for those carrying axes."
"The Onodhrim... I was told about them." said the elf, and he lowered his head. But he said nothing about the Fenced Land and the war between elves and dwarves.
A great grief had taken him.
"We have grown suspicious of the blue mountains. We do not want to suffer the same fate as Tumunzahar. As you certainly know, we lost many kinsmen in the war against the north. We will probably never recover. Furthermore, after said events with the trees, we are avoiding forests, whenever we can.
That girl...where might she be at the moment?"
The elf replied, with a low voice:
"She might be north of here... in the forests around the blue mountains."
The commander raised an eyebrow.
The dwarf with the crossbow argued:
"We can't go there. The trees might crush us. It's way too dangerous!"
All remained silent for a while.
The dwarf with the crossbow turned around and glanced at the commander.
"Uzbad?"
The dwarf with the black chain mail didn't reply. He lifted up his gaze and looked at the elf.
He sighed.
"Over here!"
The dwarf warrior lifted up his axe.
The commander growled.
"That was a damn deer."
He turned back.
"Spare me with your nonsense."
Another warrior lifted up a dagger, and sniffed.
"Rakhâs." (Khûzd.for "Orks")
The ten dwarves instantly raised their axes, looking around, alarmed.
But the forest was silent. They could only hear the birds, singing above them.
The commander glanced at the elf, who was looking around, his eyes narrowed.
He turned around and said: "Follow me. This way."
The commander grumbled:
"You had only one day to recover. I hope your senses are not betraying you."
The elf replied:
"Do not worry about me, commander. We cannot lose more time. The girl might be in danger."
As they were moving through the trees, they all perceived a slight change in the surroundings. Branches were broken, the ground was messed up, and they could smell the scent of a distant fire.
After a while, they saw smoke ascending, and soon they found themselves at the edge of the forest, overlooking a large place full of burned trees. Smoke filled the air.
Cold morning air was filling the forest.
They could see it, the campfire at the edge of woods. They approached silently, until they could hear their voices. Ugly, chattering voices, full of terror, hate and fear.
The commander lifted up his fist, and as soon as he opened his hand, his mighty battle-cry has filled the air:
"Baruk Gabilgathol! Ai-oi!"
And all ten dwarves charged as one:
"Ai-oi! Baruk Gabilgathol!"
The elf joined them:
"An Fëanáro! An Túrosto! An Azaghâl!"
The orcs were neither ready nor battle-hardened enough to stand such an attack.
The Commander decapitated three of them.
The elf smote down two of them, cleaving their armour with an axe.
The warriors of Gabilgathol killed dozens.
Soon, it was over.
The last orc, a big chieftain with an enormous belly, fell down at the ground.
The elf grabbed his jaw and raised his axe.
"Where is she?!"
The orc drooled. His eyes filled with fear and panic.
"WHERE IS SHE?!"
roared the elf, a dark fury raging in his mind.
Suddenly he let go of his enemy. His eyes had perceived something... something small, fair.
A little belt... it was halfway stuck in the chieftain's pocket. He pulled it out, lifting it up.
His hand trembled. He knew this belt.
The world began to crumble.
Darkness took him.
He threw away his axe, and with a great cry he grabbed the head of the orc, pounding it against a nearby heavy stone.
Then everything was silent. The dwarves were standing next to him, their axes shouldered. They lowered their heads. Nobody said a word.
The elf closed his eyes.
The heavy stone in front of him was covered with dark blood and brain.
---
Translations:
(Khuzdul is the language spoken by the dwarves of middle-earth)
Mahal - A great spirit / Ainu, master of skill and craftsmanship (Khuzdul); also known as Aulë
Uzbad - Lord (Khuzdul)
Gabilgathol - one of the two great cities of the dwarves in Beleriand, Belegost (Khuzdul)
Azaghâl - one of the greatest dwarven warriors of all time and Lord of Belegost. He died in the battle Nirnaeth Arnoediad, fighting the drakes of Morgoth (Khuzdul)
Tumunzahar - one of the two great cities of the dwarves in Beleriand, Nogrod (Khuzdul)
Rakhâs - Orcs (Khuzdul)
Baruk Gabilgathol - Axes of Belegost (Khuzdul)
Ai-oi - let them have it! (Khuzdul)
Onodhrim - Ents (Sindarin)
Macalaurë - Maglor, second son of Fëanor (Quenya)
Fëanáro - Fëanor (Quenya)
Túrosto - another name for the dwarven city Belegost (Quenya)
Further notes:
Copper-Top - referring to Maedhros, eldest son of Fëanor
Fenced Land - another name for Doriath
Broadbeams - dwarf folk of Belegost
Firebeards - dwarf folk of Nogrod
