Flogi had thought about dozens of different things during his long, lonely voyage from Zigil-jâbal to Amon Hen. It had taken him weeks to get there on foot, and at some point Flogi had lost track of time. Two weeks, maybe three. He had steered clear of roads, settlements and people as he had followed the Snowbourne to Eastemnet and then crossed the grassy plains of East Rohan towards the hills in the eastern horizon.
Flogi did not want to kill Deli. He did not want to kill Kimrin. A big part of him hoped against hope that neither dwarf had come to Amon Hen at all; that they had for whatever reason decided to abandon their quest and Zigil-jâbal and go to Erebor or somewhere. It was a fool’s hope, and Flogi knew it very well. Neither Kimrin nor Deli had any reason to abandon their kin in Zigil-jâbal; nor was it in either dwarf’s nature to abandon their duties for any reason.
Another thing that bothered Flogi was Thráin; or, as his father Glunri claimed, an impostor impersonating as the long dead king of the Longbeards. Why had father been so adamant that Flogi executed this impostor when and if he found him? What was so important about a common charlatan? What was his father so afraid of that he had sent his own son to this grim mission of murder and mayhem to cover up for… what? Did Glunri know who the impostor was? Surely he had to!
Flogi was a tough and strong dwarf, and he knew it. The best fighter in Zigil-jâbal alive, barring perhaps Deli in his younger days. But Deli was now old, and old age had made him slower, less agile, less powerful. Flogi was now as Deli had been at his age. Flogi had grown up listening to stories about great dwarven heroes like Deli and a strong desire to one day become a hero like that himself. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that his father would one day order Flogi to kill one of his childhood heroes.
Flogi had arrived to the hilly region of East Rohan. Now and then he could see glimpses of a huge lake between the trees and what appeared to be ruins on top of high hills as he scaled the wooded slopes. He had to be approaching his destination; Amon Hen.
Flogi did not understand why, but he understood his duty. If he could not persuade Deli to abandon his mission and never set foot to Zigil-jâbal again, Flogi had to challenge him to a duel and kill him. Same with Kimrin. Flogi did not want to, but he had to do as his father had bid him. Blood was stronger than anything else for Flogi.
Suddenly Flogi spotted some movement from the corner of his eye. He stiffened and unfastened his axe from his back, turning to face the threat.
Flogi startled when he saw the apparition. It was an orc standing behind the trees. The orc was dressed in black, its face was dark and cadaverous and its black eyes glowed hideously. A black leather coif was pasted against its scalp. It was holding a long, ugly, spiked bow aimed at Flogi. The orc released the bowstring before Flogi could throw his axe at it.
When the arrow hit Flogi’s midriff it was like a thousand suns suddenly exploding inside his stomach. The pain was unbearable, indescribable. Flogi dropped his axe instantly and fell backwards on the mossy ground. He did not even notice it. All that existed in Flogi’s world now was pain, burning, scalding, searing pain in his stomach. All he could do was scream, and soon he could not even scream anymore as his lungs slowly filled with thick fluids.
It took a long time for the poison to kill him. For Flogi it seemed like an eternity.
And that’s where Deli found Flogi’s remains only half an hour after his death.
