The mercenaries rode their horses relentlessly and by the time they arrived in Hobbiton they had reduced the lead by another twelve hours. That old, picturesque rural village was full of hobbits. There were a lot of typical hobbit-holes there, but also buildings made of wood, brick and stone. An old corn mill stood across the bridge by the river, it’s large water wheel lazily rotating round and round as the stream of water moved it. An old granary lied next to the mill, just down the hill west of the Hobbiton Road.
The Dawners talked to the hobbits as usual as their horses were getting a bit of rest: the Post Office, the stables and finally the Ivy Bush, the local tavern. A handful of hobbits remembered the dwarf, mainly because of his size. He had not stopped in Hobbiton or talked to anyone, but walked straight through the village towards south.
The sellswords didn’t waste a lot of time in Hobbiton before they saddled up again. They followed the wide, sludgy road west until they arrived in a small hobbit settlement called Waymeet in a crossing of roads. A chicken farmer remembered the dwarf in question – going north, towards Rushock Bog.
That evening the Dawners camped at Waymeet, roasting the food they had bought from local hobbits. After they had dined, Hellrien sat awake for the rest of the night, keeping the campfire alive with a small flame. She wasn’t sleepy. The thrill of the chase began to have an effect on her. She knew the symptoms. The dwarf would grow bigger and bigger in her imagination with each passing day, he would acquire more and more dangerous qualities. Eventually the feeling that they were chasing not a mortal dwarf, but an immortal and invincible primordial spirit, perhaps an avatar of the Dark Lord himself, would become painful. And when it was all over, the climax would turn to it’s opposite.
She thought about Percy Alroyd of Evendim, the leader of a gang of tomb-robbers, a man who had grandiously called himself Ernil – ”The Prince”. She remembered her captivity with Ernil’s tomb-robbers, the torture and horrors she had endured in their hands. Hellrien had feared Ernil, his men, death. But in the end it was Ernil who had died when the mausoleum of the ancient king of Arnor had collapsed – and Hellrien had escaped with her life.
Would it end differently with the dwarf?
Hellrien wasn’t sure. She had never seen a dwarf that big, never heard of one, not before Ebold had summoned her to his office. And the hobbits who had seen the dwarf – what had they said? Everything… and nothing. The fear she had seen in their eyes spoke of the dwarf’s terrifying presence more than any words could.
Hellrien let the fire die out. For a little while longer she lied awake watching the moon as it slid pale and cold above the serrated silhouette of Emyn Beraid – the Tower Hills.
She woke up at dawn and the mercenaries were saddled up as the sun rose. They rode north at full speed. As they were approaching Rushock Bog Hellrien spotted peculiar tracks on the ground, where the soil was moist. Somebody had walked through there only a few days earlier. The footprints could have been left by dwarven boots, but – she noticed – the tracks were a lot bigger and sunk deeper than a typical dwarf’s footprints. They followed the tracks to Needlehole, a small, elusive hobbit village in the northeast corner of The Shire, where a narrow pass led on through the Rushock Gate into the region of Ered Luin. The Water rushed through the pass, tawny in color. The mercenaries rode past some hobbit-holes until they arrived in a market square of sorts. A hobbit lounged by a paddock by the road on the west side of the square. He threw a sideways glance in the direction of the sellswords. There were maybe a couple of ponies grazing in the paddock. A dwarf with a red beard was standing near the eastern side of the square, watching the ponies. Further back there were some market stalls, tables and a few more dwarves. Most of them had red beards, but Hellrien immediately noticed one that stood a head taller than the others. He wasn’t quite five foot tall – more like four and a half – but his hair and beard were dark as night. Hellrien stopped her horse and looked at the others.
”See what I see?” Hellrien said. ”That dwarf sitting over there, facing us. What do you think?”
”I… eh”, Cutwil smiled at the dwarves, looking somewhat excited yet wary at the same time. ”Doesn't seem like the guy. But we could ask.”
”Dwarves…” said Askelin. ”You don't have to do the talking, dear.”
”Wasn't planning to”, Arindiis responded wearily.
”Pretty tall for a dwarf”, said Hellrien. ”Let's approach, but be careful, aight?”
Hellrien spurred her horse into motion and approached the table carefully. Half-Pint’s hoofs squelched the mud in all directions. The others followed her, but stayed a short distance behind. The black-bearded dwarf’s gaze touched Hellrien, circled through the others and returned. He was tall and strong and dark, but he wasn’t dressed in black and appeared unarmed.
”Yes?” the dwarf asked warily. ”What can I do for you?”
Hellrien nodded at him. ”The name’s Hellrien”, she said bluntly. ”I have a couple of questions for you.”
”Yes? Spit it out.” The dwarf sounded a little nervous.
”What is your name? Have you only just recently come to this town?”
The dwarf swallowed. Then a pallid, nasty-looking tip of a tongue stuck out from the middle of the black beard.
”Little Gig they call me, and no, I've been here for weeks now. I work for Ulfar, over there.” Little Gig pointed at a dwarf standing a little farther, investigating some catalogue. ”You can ask him if you don't believe me.”
The bald, red-bearded dwarf called Ulfar raised his head and walked over to the table. His beard was shorn quite short for a dwarf.
”What’s the problem here?”
”Greetings, sir”, Hellrien said. ”We are looking for a dwarf - a very big, black-bearded dwarf, who we believe has come through this town. Do you know of any who fits the description?”
”Ah, I did see the one you are looking for. Came straight through town, as if in a hurry. Didn't stop talking to anyone. I think he might have been a Dourhand, albeit he had allowed his beard to grow long and untidy.”
”How so? What makes you think a Dourhand?”
”Well his size, for one. I've never heard of a dwarf that big, not in Thorin's Hall or anywhere. He was taller than Little Gig here! Besides, he was acting fishy, like trying to avoid us. That smells Dourhand to me.”
”You're not the first person to confuse him with me, though”, Little Gig cut in.
”Oh?”
”Yeah. A few days ago I was resting near the Rushock Bog and woke up as a Dourhand dwarf was standing over me. Thought he was going to kill me, for sure! But nay, he asked me if I was 'The Giant'. Had no idea what he was on about, so I just nodded. He said he had a message for The Giant, from Glúmir. 'Sárnur', was all he said. And then he was off.”
”Sárnur? What is that?”
”No idea”, Ulfar muttered. ”But I've heard about Glúmir. He's rumored to be a ruthless Dourhand brigand captain out west. I've heard that he operates from a hideout somewhere in the Vale of Thrain.”
”Well, do you know anyone who might know where he is?”
”The Dourhands, I suppose. I know there are Dourhands hiding in the bog. Perhaps you should ask them?”
Hellrien looked at him. Then she nodded and turned her horse. She sat still for a moment, wind to her back, shoulders up. She glanced to her sides and said to the others quietly: ”What do you think? Would it be worth the trouble to go hunting for Dourhands in the bog, hoping they might know where this dwarf is going?”
Cutwil finished talking to a little hobbit and turned to Hellrien.
”I don't know, I feel like that would be a waste of time. For all we know, the Dourhands might already know of us, and have left or hid.”
”Have any of you heard the word ’Sárnur’ before?”
”Urh… no…” Askelin shook his head cluelessly.
”Nay”, said Cutwil.
Arindiis just shook her head, looking slightly intrigued.
”Fraid not”, Ealstan admitted. ”Know about a place with dwarves to the west though. Somesuch place called Thorin's Hall, I think.”
”I know Thorin’s Hall”, Hellrien said sharply. ”I don't know if I'm welcome over there anymore. I know the Vale of Thrain too. But it's a large area for going hunting for a dwarf if we don't know where he's going at. I have an old friend in Gondamon. Perhaps he would know something?”
”Why not?” Askelin wondered. ”Why would the dwarves not like you?”
”I lived there for a while, years ago. I was... uh... driven out of the city.” Hellrien rubbed a scar between her eyes.
”Hm, mayhaps that is a tale for another time, no?”
Hellrien nodded.
”Worth a try, I suppose”, Ealstan shrugged.
”Aye, worth a try...” Askelin agreed. ”At any rate we need to make a move on though, the Tower Hills lie between us and the lands of the Blue Mountains.”
”Aye!” said Cutwil.
”So we should leave the Dourhands of the bog alone and head out west fast as we can, aye?” Hellrien checked.
”Aye”, Ealstan confirmed. ”They're not any business of ours.”
”Aye”, said Cutwil.
”Aye!” Askelin agreed. ”We're here to get our task done, and that is tracking this dwarf down.”
Arindiis crossed her arms, keeping her balance despite her mount’s impatient stirring.
”Alright”, said Hellrien. ”Let’s get going then!”
