Part III: Across the North

 

Scene 1: Revelation and Recrimination

 

Nurin’s revelation that there may be a drake of some sort dwelling in the North Gate, the only other possible route around Mount Gundabad, is met at first with stunned silence.  "What, a dragon?!” Elboron responds at last, shocked.  He furls his brow and demands, "What more do you know, Nurin?"

 

“Nothing,” the dwarf-lord replies.  “We saw it only briefly atop the North Gate.  The drake was too big to fit in the hidden trench, and there we hid.  Our ponies panicked at the sight, or smell, of it and bolted into hall.  I should think the worm made a nice snack of them.”  He ignores Elboron’s expression and says, “It is much as I told you earlier.”

 

"I dare say that men are not alone in using veiled words for friendship!” Éogar exclaims, his anger nearly threatening to bring him to blows with the dwarf.  "You lied about your claim to this mansion, you refuse to relinquish that ruling scepter that is not rightfully yours, you retract your promise to allow us to pass under the mountain on our quest, and you lure me into promising a defense of your home against such a fearsome beast knowing that one already inhabits it!"

 

“I have nothing for which to apologize,” the stubborn dwarf answers coldly, looking up into Éogar’s face defiantly.  “My claim to this mansion and its ruling scepter is the strongest of those who yet live in the world, and cannot be gainsaid by you or any other Man, not even the King of the Arnor and Gondor!” he says.  “Never did I promise that you would be able to pass under the mountain, only that a path under it may lie within this lost mansion.  How could I have known that the way would be sealed and that opening it anew would surely provoke the orcs?”  The dwarf’s gaze then rests on the mithril-headed spear Drake-Slayer as he says in a darker voice, “And you, Éogar Garbald’s son, were ready enough to claim my friendship and gift when you thought your pledge amounted to empty words.  Your promised service is bought at more than a fair price, for the weapon you have received is worth a great mansion in its own right.”  Nurin looks back up into Éogar’s eyes and asks, “Will you now break your word offered so blithely when you thought there little chance of having to fulfill it?”

 

"I cannot deny you my aid.  My will is shaken by the Stiffbeard shadow and my trust in you is all but gone, Nurin, but I must protect what honor I have left,” Éogar responds.  He then adds in a sharp tone, “I will help you drive the dragon in your home, but not until we have completed our quest for my King, a true and noble ruler from whom you could learn much."  [Intimidate test, failure] The knight hopes his intimidating posture will cow Nurin, but the willful dwarf shows no sign of relenting.

 

Elboron puts a hand on Éogar’s shoulder and shakes his head.  "If Nurin does not wish us to open a path for the orcs to enter this hall, we must respect that wish,” he says.  “I would not like to see this mansion fall into the orcs' hands."

 

“And it surely would,” Nurin responds.  “Until this hall can be properly defended, it would be foolish to reopen the sealed passage.  Would you have your enemies hold this mansion as a defensible point from which they could launch sorties upon your army’s flank with impunity?”

 

Elboron now address the dwarf-lord personally, appealing to his shame: "Nurin, you have not proven yourself a good friend to us.  You ambushed us and withheld secrets, despite the fact that our goal is the same as yours: to drive the orcs from this mountain.”

 

Nurin returns, “You will aid my cause only so far as it assists your own, yet you berate me for not placing my full and immediate trust in you?  You would have done no other, had you been in my state.  I have not withheld any secrets, but have revealed all to you when necessary.  I do not know for certain whether the fearsome worm still inhabits the North Gate, and I have told my suspicion to you before requiring you to face any danger.”  He adds after a moment, “We may yet share the same goal, and must not part in bad company.”

 

Elboron nods slowly and demands, “Then I ask you to prove your good will to the Free Peoples of the West.  When you present yourself to the Lord Elessar, tell him of your mansion and its collapsed tunnel.  Offer the use of the tunnel to the King's soldiers to assail the orcs when the time comes for our final attack.  Will you do this?"  [Persuade (Oratory) test, +1 Deference, double 1’s rolled with a 1 on the penalty die, failure]  Unfortunately, the young noble’s words come off as haughty rather than persuasive, imperious rather than just.

 

“I will consider it,” Nurin replies, “but I will not permit any to reopen the collapsed passage unless there is a great force here to defend the hall from the orcs.”  He then looks to the rest of the fellowship and says, “Rest here in my hall until your wounds are healed, and then you may try the North Gate.  Once you have taken it from the drake, should it still occupy the place, you will be able to continue on your king’s quest.  Then I and Mim will go to your army’s encampment and treat with him.”

 

The Fellowship of Forlorn Hope discusses a grim proposition: Is the only possible route around Mount Gundabad through the hidden trench into the North Gate, where a foul worm may reside?  No one feels more trepidation than Rariadoc Brandybuck.  After Éogar and Elboron finish trading recriminations with Nurin, Rard at last offers a bleak observation: "I thought that old Bilbo Baggins had driven out the last of the drakes." 

 

Old Mim shakes his head and says in a quiet voice, “Smaug the Golden was one of the greatest fire-drakes, I have heard, but not the last of his kind.  These Grey Mountains have long suffered the worms ever after the end of the Elder Days.”  He points to Éogar’s spear and adds, “That is why our ancestors forged weapons like Drake-Slayer, to drive out worms that dared venture into their tunnels from the Northern Wastes.  Since we returned to the West from our long exile East of East, we have heard that the drakes have become more numerous in recent centuries.  Our cousins in the Blue Mountains told us that five hundred years ago a drake slew the King of Durin’s Folk in these mountains east of the Great River—and that drake was not even a particularly great specimen.”

 

Rard listens to Mim’s tale with increasing desperation.  His eyes dart toward the collapsed passage that, until Nurin forbad it, represented the only other possible way through the mountain.  He sighs and says to Elboron, "I would not want us to try and move rock, for a length of time we do not know.  And we cannot leave the trench and head out across the mountain for fear we would die of exposure.  It seems we must continue on towards the North Gate."  He shoots a look of intense dislike toward Nurin and adds, "A few moments ago, I would have welcomed that path.  Now I am dreading it.”

 

"The presence of the dragon does not alter the aim of our quest," Elboron says to Rard, putting his hand comfortingly on the hobbit’s arm.  "If anything, it is now more critical that we find success.  We must reach the other side of the mountain, and this path is closed to us.  Dragon or no, we must test the North gate."

 

Rard looks up into the face of his young captain and smiles.  "And a hobbit is needed to help slay such a beast, if legend is true," he says.  Nonetheless, Rard wonders, is not it possible to avoid battling the dragon?  He looks to his friend Éogar and seems resigned that the knight’s nobility will demand that he fulfill his pledge to Nurin and fight the beast.

 

"I have my honor to serve, Rard, but also that of King Elessar,” Éogar says to him.  “If we can sneak past the dragon and get word to the forces on the East slope then that is what we must do.  I can face the dragon later," he states, looking harshly at Nurin.  "I serve only one lord and should request his leave to face such a dangerous beast unless it directly serves our quest."

 

"Well stated, my friend," says Elboron in support.

 

“And now who minces the meaning of his words?” Nurin asks wryly. 

 

"He has given you his word that he would help, and he will!” Rard snaps at the dwarf-lord in defense of his friend.  “But he has also given his word and bond to his liege-lord, and he has that oath to serve as well.”  The hobbit even goes on to consider whether Éogar is truly obligated to fight the drake on Nurin’s behalf.  What was the exact wording of his promise?  Does it extend beyond the hall in which the words were offered?  Rard rattles on quickly, caught up in the word-games that so intrigue his folk.

 

“Base riddling!” Nurin retorts, scoffing at Rard’s logic.  “I wonder if the Men of the West fear what may befall them should they pledge obligation and then use cunning speech to avoid it,” he muses.  Before the others can counter, he raises his hand in a gesture of peace.  “I make no further claim on any of you than that which your own conscience demands.  You are guests in my hall, and I will not break hospitality by quarreling further.”  The stress on his latter words makes it clear that he expects his guests will reward his hospitality by not quarreling with him in turn.  The dwarf-lord then plops back down onto his cloak on the floor, stretching to make himself comfortable.  “So will you put down your loads and rest here awhile, at least some days until your injuries are recovered?” he asks.

 

Elboron and Éogar exchange uncertain looks.  "What is there to eat underground?  How do the dwarves survive down here?” Éogar asks the dwarves in wonder.  “If we rest, our stocks will dwindle even more and our supplies of wood quicker still."

 

Nurin laughs and answers, “Dwarves eat as well or better in their halls than any other folk in Middle-earth.  We mine great treasures, and trade with the Men who farm and herd in the open lands beyond the mountains.  Long have Men desired our metal-crafts, and give us great stores of foodstuffs in trade for them.”  He twists his mouth and adds, “Of course, the mines of this mansion are idle, and we may not trade with the Men beyond the mountain while the orcs occupy most of it.”  The dwarf shrugs and concludes, “I cannot offer you food or wood beyond what you see here or what you have brought yourselves.”  He waves a hand at the packs of the Fellowship and asks, “Are there not any extra stores in some of those overstuffed bags?”

 

Biárki’s pack is easily the most overstuffed of all, full near to bursting the entire journey.  The one-eyed dwarf grunts and opens his pack, revealing over two-dozen pounds of milled meal, nuts, and dried meats and fruits.  “I took a greater load before we left the army camp,” he says.  “The little provender requisitioned by the rest of you seemed too light to me.”  Were Biárki’s store divided equally among the Fellowship and the dwarves, everyone would have enough sustenance for 9 days.  Alas, water and fuel are still scarce.  Everyone has already drained one of their waterskins, leaving them just enough water to last 3 days comfortably—6 days in discomfort and 9 days at extreme need.  As for fuel, nothing can change the fact that the Fellowship has enough wood to make only four more campfires.

 

“If only we could reach the frozen heath beyond the mountain,” Éogar says.  “There we could find clean snow that we could boil and melt, more than enough to fill our skins.  And surely there would be no shortage of scrub brush that we could cut into faggots.”  He looks to Gilavas for further lore on the land of Forodwaith, but the High-elf seems to know nothing further and responds only with silence.

 

At last, Éogar looks to Elboron to decide whether the company should remains in the mansion to rest.  "Elboron, your injuries still linger," he notes.  "If you wish to rest and recover from them, this may now be a safe location."

 

"Perhaps when I am as aged as you, Éogar, I might be slowed by such hurts,” the young lord answers with a smile.  “But for now, I am young and will not slow our progress.  We should leave as soon as may be."

 

Nurin and Mim both look astounded by the decision.  Before they can say anything, though, Rard turns on them and says, "We must gather what knowledge of the drake as we can. Tell us, Lord Nurin, what do you remember of this beast?”  The hobbit’s voice drips with distaste as he pronounces the dwarf’s title, and Nurin merely spreads his hands in a bemused gesture and looks to his sagely advisor.  Rard quickly gives up on Nurin and looks to the elderly sage.  “And you, Master Mim, recall all that you can as well. Your knowledge of the North Gate Mansion, however scant, will be of great use.  A map of the place would be useful as well, or at least the trenches you have seen," he says.

 

“The ancient map shows no details of the mansion itself, and I know nothing of its interior,” Mim answers helplessly, despite an obvious desire to be of assistance.  “No Ironfirst has set foot in the North Gate in more than 4,000 years.  We have only old legends to go on, and they are not very specific.”  He looks briefly at his master and then says to the hobbit, “We did not see the drake for very long—just his great winged bulk rising in the great hall of the mansion.  We fled back through the postern into the hidden trench and huddled under its rocky eaves.  The worm launched itself into the air through an opening somewhere in the hall, and circled about for some minutes.  It could not fit its bulk into the trench, and that alone must have saved us.  Either that or it smelled our poor ponies first and returned into the hall to feast on them.  Poor beasts…”  The old dwarf’s voice trails off, and it becomes clear that he has nothing more to add.  A great burden is off his chest now, and it becomes clear to any in the Fellowship with insight that this is a report old Mim has longed to make since he first befriended the companions.

 

“Let us prepare for the journey to the North Gate,” Elboron instructs.  The companions set about readying their packs, and Rard goes off to pick up some desired supplies.  First he drags over the barrel containing a great quantity of oil flasks.  Each flask is a small clay pottery-jar holding a quantity of pitch, enough to burn for perhaps an hour.  Rard reminds Éogar that he is down to only one flask in his pack and urges his friends to carry with them some of the oil flasks.

 

Next, the hobbit asks Nurin if he might return to the armory and select an ax to take with him.  Nurin nods once and tells Rard to take whatever he wishes.  "Thank your, Lord Nurin, your kindness is noted," Rard returns in a neutral tone of voice.  He scurries off to the armory, with the light of one of his candles to guide him.  There he picks up a couple of the best-preserved ax heads and carries them back to the central chamber.  “At the least these should fetch a good price in trade,” he comments.

 

Nurin grunts and says, “Fix those heads upon a stout haft, apply some oil and a whetstone to the edges, and you would have weapons the like of which has not been seen in the West since the close of the Second Age.”

 

Elboron smiles at the hobbit and says, "I have more than enough coin to purchase whatever supplies we may need further along our journey, Master Brandybuck.  There is no need to overburden yourself unless you wish a memento of your visit to this mansion."

 

"Thank you, Master Elboron, but it is always good to have a backup plan,” Rard replies.  "And this isn't quite as heavy as it looks."  He hefts his backpack onto his shoulders and, despite his recently gained strength, finds the weight of the two steel heads too much for comfort.  He takes out the smaller ax head, and his pack is now bearable.  If he wishes to keep the little ax-head, he knows he will be slightly encumbered.

 

At last the companions are ready to depart, but they see that Nurin and Mim have not budged.  When all eyes fall upon them, Nurin shakes his head.  “I will not go with you to your deaths,” he says.  “Gilavas, Éogar, and Rard still bear little scrapes on their bodies, and Elboron is visibly injured despite his hardiness.  You are not at full strength to face a drake, and I do not think you will be able to get through the North Gate without confronting the beast.  If you insist on leaving now in such a sorry state, I cannot join you.  Mim and I shall set off for your king’s encampment after you depart, and we will speak well of you to him.  It will grieve me to report to him that you undoubtedly perished in battle against a fierce worm.”

 

Mim quickly adds, as if to ameliorate his master’s doubting words, “You are great heroes, I will confess it to all.  But a drake is a fearsome foe, even a lesser worm than Smaug.  Please rest for some days here, do!”

 

 

Scene 2: The North Gate

 

Nurin’s threat not to go with the Fellowship to the North Gate, followed by Mim’s kinder plea, seems to sway the minds of some of the companions.  Rard is the first to give in and suggest that the company may do well to rest in the Stiffbeard Mansion for a couple of days and tend to their wounds.  "Just in case we cannot sneak by dragon," he says with caution.

 

"Nurin speaks with wisdom,” says Elboron, nodding in agreement.  “Though we may wish to evade the dragon, we may be forced into a confrontation.  And we are in no condition for a fight.  Let us rest here for a while before we journey onward."  He drops his pack and lays out his bedroll, indicating that his comrades should do the same.

 

The hobbit presses the young captain about how long the company will recuperate in the dwarf-hall, and he is stunned when Elboron implies the group should gives their injuries a good four days of interrupted rest.  Rard holds up his lightened waterskins and protests, “We can’t wait around here until we die of thirst.”

 

"With but a few days of water, Rard may be right," Éogar cautions.  "Still, Elboron is in no shape to face a drake if that is our destiny in this task.”  He holds up his own waterskin, looking in deep though down the dark tunnel leading through the mines and back out of the mountain.  "Perhaps fresh snow, before it touches the mountain could be boiled if there is a snowstorm tonight; we could collect it on blankets or cloaks,” he says.  “In the end we may need to slay the drake if only to recover Nurin's supplies."

 

Rard shudders at the thought of having to hike hither-and-yon around the Grey Mountains and trusting the dark peaks to provide potable hydration.  "I'm hoping we find some other way to get water,” he says.  Already in his mind he begins planning how he will need to ration his water supply if the company stays here more than 3 days.

 

Éogar faces Nurin and asks him directly, "If we rest here until we have better recovered, will you come with us to your home and face the dragon if necessary?"

 

The dwarf-lord, sitting on the ground upon his spread cloak with the glorious scepter in hand, looks like some vagabond-king.  “I will come with you, and aid you as I may,” he says.

 

*   *   *

 

The next four days pass slowly, for there is little for the companions to do besides rest in quietude.  Gilavas is utterly silent, and the sagely High-elf’s mind is drawn to foreboding matters.  What evil could be guiding the hordes of Gundabad?  Has he betrayed himself and all of his comrades to the mind of the enemy by using his magic so readily?  By what stratagem might the Fellowship complete its task which seems all the more difficult with each revelation?

 

Biárki, too, is quiet and somber throughout.  When his friends inquire what troubles him, the taciturn dwarf avoids prolonged conversation.  "I am cursed,” he says in a convinced tone.  “In this sacred place, where any member of Durin's folk should be at home, I can find no rest."  Nurin harkens to his words and, for a moment, seems to tremble, but soon the dwarf-lord regains his composure and shows no further interest in Biárki’s gloom.

 

Mim, however, seems more interested and concerned.  Once Mim even tries to converse with Biárki.  “You say you are of Durin’s Folk, but not of the ancient line of Gundabad,” he says.  “Yet you are brave and have a lordly bearing.  Who are your people?”

 

Biárki takes a long time to answer.  “I am of Balin’s people, Durin’s Folk of the line of Khazad-dum,” he says.

 

“In my years among the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, I learned all that I could of the history of our race in the ages after the fall of Gundabad,” Mim says.  “I was told that Khazad-dum was abandoned more than a thousand years ago, that its royal line fled to these northern mountains where they were eventually expelled by orcs and drakes, most famously Smaug the Golden.  All efforts to retake Moria failed, I heard, and those brave dwarves who tried perished in great numbers.”  When Biárki proves loath to respond he asks, “Did not Balin perish too, and all his people?”

 

“There was a great war against the orcs three hundred years ago.  A mighty battle was fought for Moria, and though the dwarves slew many orcs we were unable to reclaim it,” Biárki says in a rueful voice.  “Twenty-seven years ago my kinsman Balin led all that remained of his line back to Moria, for he believed that most of the orcs had left its halls.  I, the son of one of his cousins, went with him, but after a few years King Balin sent me to Esgaroth-upon-Long-Lake on embassy.”  Biárki’s voice wavers and he continues his tale only with great effort: “I stayed overlong in Lake-town, and when I went back to Moria I found the eastern gate swarming with orcs.  Balin and the rest of my people in Moria were never heard from again, and their fate remained unknown until the Fellowship of the Ring discovered what befell them.”

 

“The Balrog,” Rard says, awed.  “Balin’s people awakened the demon that drove out the dwarves so long ago.  And all the orcs that hid in the tunnels of Moria attacked the dwarves, and the monstrous Watcher in the Water took over the western gate and prevented any escape.”  When everyone gazes at the hobbit’s knowledge in amazement, Rard smiles and responds, “What?  Cousin Merry told me all about the Fellowship of the Ring!”

 

Mim nods slowly and asks Biárki, “Then you are the last heir to Khazad-dum?”

 

“Yes,” Biárki says, “but there is little hope ever to claim it.  After I escaped from Moria, I dwelled among the Dwarves of Erebor, who for many years refused to believe me.  They called me a drunkard and a lair, and said that I never even made it to Moria with Balin.  My word was absolved after the War of the Ring, when the truth of Balin’s fate was learned, but it mattered little.  Few dwarves yet lived with any connection of family or service to Balin’s line.  I led my handful of followers back to Moria last year, but far too many orcs remain there.  No other dwarves are willing to help us retake it, and we are too few in number to do it ourselves.  That is why I led my little company to the camp of King Elessar, so that we might do some good fighting orcs in Gundabad since we cannot do it in Khazad-dum.”

 

Nurin regards Biárki with careful consideration and after a moment says to him, “Do not despair altogether, brother.  I will rebuild a great domain in these halls for the Ironfists, and when we are strong again I pledge to help you regain Moria.  Have patience.”  Biárki looks at Nurin but can only manage a weak nod before falling back into silence.

 

Thanks to the barrel of oil flasks, the company enjoys the light of Éogar’s lantern throughout their stay in the dwarf-hall.  However, given that the party’s fuel is in such short supply, Elboron orders that only one more fire can be spared.  Biárki silently makes the campfire, reserving three faggots in his backpack.  Rard is compelled to make hard use of it, cooking up many days’ worth of flour-meal into tack-bread while the fire lasts.  Now the hobbit’s cooking tools are caked with dried breading, and he vainly longs for a tub of hot water to clean them.

 

Only Éogar proves unable to remain still for so many days.  First, he insists on searching the mansion for any supplies that might remain.  He expresses hope that some food or wine might be left, but the lore-wise among the Fellowship explain to him that after so many thousands of years such hope is impossible.  Nonetheless, the knight spends some hours exploring the other passages of the mansion, leaving the company to rest only by the light of one of Rard’s candles.  Nurin goes with Éogar.  “Four eyes are better than two,” he says, but many think that the dwarf-lord still harbors the fear the Fellowship seeks to rob him.  [Search test, +2 bonus for time, complete success] Most of the hallways and chambers were looted long ago by the orcs, and there seems little more that might be found through coincidence.  A thorough mapping of the large mansion will be required, a tasks for the dwarves to do in the future.  Éogar and Nurin return with only a handful of ancient implements: rusty old picks and a shovel left over from the mining days, the surviving steel weapon-heads and dwarf-coats from the armory, and a noble dwarf-helm of burnished steel that had been left upon a table long ago by its unfortunate owner.

 

Nurin approaches Biárki and holds the helmet out to him.  “I think this must have belonged to one of the lords of this place, in ancient days,” he says.  “I see that you have no dwarf-helm to guard your head as your dwarf-coat guards your body.  Take it, as a gift.  I think its owner of old would be glad to know that it still can protect one who seeks to battle the orcs anywhere he can.”  Biárki takes the stout basinet, and it looks well upon him, but it is of little comfort to his troubled heart.

 

One day Éogar is even more restless, and he insists on trying to do something to alleviate the company’s shortage of water.  Leaving his friends to once again sit in the darkness of the dwarf-hall, he puts all of the empty waterskins in his backpack and hikes back out through the idle mines to the hidden trench running west of Mount Gundabad.  He finds the riddle-sealed stone door still ajar and is able to slip through, careful not to close it behind him.  He wanders back out into the trench, several miles from his comrades, and looks for a spot to scale up one of the peaks, up to its snowy cap.  [Climb test, TN 10, complete success] Thanks to the rope and grappling hook that Fellowship brought along, he is able to heave himself up onto the trench’s ridge and then make his way up a cliff to one of the low peaks west of Gundabad.  There he holds out his blanket and lets the wind blow around him, hoping to collect a quantity of white snow.  [Survival test, TN 10, complete success] Bundling up the blanket, he carries it down the mountainside and back into the dwarf-hall.  He carefully packs a share of the snow into each empty skin and, one by one, holds the near to a little open flame made by breaking an oil flask on the ground.  Within a few minutes each skin is refilled to perhaps a third of its volume, enough to provide subsistence hydration for one day.  He takes a hesitant swig and decides that the water is refreshingly potable if not pure.  A few hours later, wet and cold, he returns to his comrades in the Stiffbeard Mansion.  They are glad to have the extra water—enough so that they can drink a healthy amount while they rest, though they will still face a restrictive shortage when they leave the dwarf-hall.

 

The main purpose of spending so many days in rest is to recover lingering hurts, and though Gilavas is silent and eschews comraderie he does not neglect his duty as a healer.  The warrior-hearted Éogar gradually heals his scrapes when he is resting, though not on the day he ventures into the mountains seeking water; yet thanks to Gilavas’s ministrations and his own great vitality, his health is virtually entirely restored [1 damage remaining].  Rard still suffers from only a few minor bruises, and under Gilavas’s he recovers in full [0 damage remaining].  Elboron, the most gravely hurt, needs Gilavas’s care the most, but his own natural vitality is not as potent as the mighty Éogar; even after four days several bruises on his ribs linger, and he remains dazed but shows no outward signs of it to his friends [15 damage remaining].  The swift-healing Elf himself needs no-one to tend to him, and within a few days his remaining scrapes are wholly healed [0 damage remaining].

 

Finally, on the morning of April the 27^th, Elboron decides the Fellowship must leave; they can not afford any more time waiting in this dark hall of stone.  Before leaving, Éogar refills his backpack with flasks of oil from the Stiffbeard barrel, bringing his count back up to the six with which he set out on the quest.  The others take count of the other scavenged supplies—old mining picks, an ancient iron shovel, plenty of flasks of oil, ancient coats of dwarf-mail and steel heads for axes and hammers—and take what they wish.  Nurin and Mim, too, gather their meager belongings and follow the companions back into the mountain trench.

 

*   *   *

 

After so many days underground, most of the companions find it refreshing to be back in the open air.  Though the weather around Mount Gundabad never looks pleasant, late April appears to be more bearable than early April.  As the Fellowship winds along the western shadow of Gundabad through the hidden trench, there are no more snow squalls or thunderstorms to smite them.  Elboron orders a careful march in file much as before, at a manageable pace with Éogar in the lead.  The company covers about six miles every day by Éogar’s uncanny reckoning, and it becomes obviously that the path has crossed its highest elevation and is gradually leading back down to the lower spurs on the northern side of the mountain range.  The nights in the trench are hardly any more pleasant than before, especially since Elboron orders no more campfires.  The trek, however, is uninterrupted and not excessively grueling.  After three more days everyone except Elboron has completely recovered their wounds, and even Elboron is making further progress [12 damage remaining].

 

Provisions are increasingly dire as the days pass.  The travelers make due on the nuts, dried foodstuffs, and way-bread baked by Rard days earlier.  Soon everyone but Biárki empties their packs of their share of rations, and then must turn to the supply borne by the burly dwarf.  By the time the end of the hidden trench is in sight, Biárki alone carries the company’s food supply—enough to last the group only two more days, four days if nourishment is woefully conserved.  Furthermore, everyone has emptied one of their waterskins, and their second skin began shrinking in volume upon leaving the Stiffbeard Mansion.  The water collected by Éogar helped for a day, and Biárki makes up for the shortfall by passing around his two extra skins and dividing the contents equally among the Fellowship, Nurin, and Mim.  Even so, by the time the travelers reach the end of the hidden trench they are compelled to ration their remaining water supply—each person has one day left in comfort, two days at need, and four days at extreme need.  If there is any good to this shortage, it is that Elboron finds his pack lighter and is no longer at all encumbered.

 

At last, late on the morning of April the 30^th, the travelers set their eyes upon a great stone fortress extending as high as a tall cliff.  It is obviously of ancient dwarven construction, resting firmly on the northwestern spur of Mount Gundabad.  The hidden trench leads right up to the side of the fortress, with an open postern perhaps ten feet wide leading inside.

 

“Behold the North Gate, Lost Realm of the Ironfists of the West,” Nurin says with obvious pride.  Mim huddles behind him, silent and fearful.  “Follow the trench to the postern.  The door is long gone and the way is open.  The inside is dark, so you will need to bear some light—though I fear this may alert the dragon if it is not slumbering.”

 

“You speak as if you will not come, Nurin?” Éogar asks sharply.

 

The dwarf-lord replies in an imperious tone, “It would not do.  You would not ask old Mim to go in, would you?  If I join your reconnaissance, who would watch over my poor old servant?  And if your reconnaissance is set upon and destroyed by the drake, who would be left to treat with King Elessar and inform him of our discoveries?  It is best that Mim and I remain here until you have reconnoitered the North Gate.  Do not provoke the dragon, and come back to us when you learn precisely what we face.  Then we may plan a strategy together.”

 

When Éogar frowns, Nurin says in a low growl before anyone else can speak: “You accepted Drake-Slayer with the boast that you could battle a dragon in return.  Your weapon is a great treasure, one whose spells are crafted specially to harm the foul worms.  Do not hesitate to perform a small reconnaissance.”  He adds wryly, “You have been well-compensated for the service.”  With that, Nurin plops himself down upon the earth, and Mim silently huddles behind him.

 

 

Scene 3: Sleep with One Eye Open

 

The lost mansion of the Stiffbeards is now but a memory—and at that a painful one for Éogar and Biárki.  Nurin was content to leave his hoard behind in the sealed and forgotten dwarf-hall, and most of the implements unearthed by the fellowship were left by the cave-in, in case they had need to return.  Rard, though, insisted on taking along both of the masterful ax-heads that he salvaged, putting the big one in his own pack and begging Biárki to carry the small one for him.

 

Now the matter at hand is how to pass through the North Gate, given that a dragon may have made its lair inside!  Nurin has sat down on the ground and declined to re-enter the hall until it has been scouted out.  When the dwarf-lord reminds Éogar of his promise to slay a dragon for him in return for accepting the gift spear Drake-Slayer, the knight corrects him in a cool tone: "I accepted it and said I would aid you to clear such a beast from your home.  I will face this drake today if it prevents us from our mission from King Elessar.  I will face it another day if it does not.”  Nurin smirks in response but says nothing.  Éogar adds by way of justification, "Drake or no, you cannot live here in safety until the orcs have been chased from the mountain.  A delay in my service to you will do no harm, Lord of the Ironfists."

 

“As long as it is done anon and not forgotten,” Nurin replies.  He jerks his thumb at the North Gate and says, “Your duty lies therein, and that fact is not changed by whatever cunning words you employ.  So will you reconnoiter the hall and report what you learn to me?”

 

Rard, listening to Nurin’s haughty speech to his friend, boils over in anger.  "We do not report to you!” he says.  “If we find a path out the other side, and can avoid the dragon to find it, I'm of the mind to exit and continue on our mission to find aid for the Army of the North.  I see no reason to return past the dragon again, just to tell you that we made it out!”

 

"Mind your tone, Rard," Elboron snaps.  "Still," the young man adds, turning to Nurin, "he has a point.  Our duty is to reach the other side of the mountain, not fight dragons.  If we can avoid a confrontation, we will.  Dragon-slaying will have to wait."

 

“And I have never insisted that you endanger your king’s quest on my behalf,” Nurin says.  “Yet I do not think you can accomplish your task without driving the dragon from its lair, and I say you must needs reconnoiter the hall first and foremost.”

 

"Should the drake be sleeping, that might be our best opportunity to strike—before it fully awakens," Éogar observes.  "If we wish to use the North Gate as a third front, we must chase off the dragon before an army arrives.”  He breathes low in exhaustion and adds, “Nurin speaks wisely.  Some stealth should be used to access the situation, but it must be done with caution.  I will go if there are no others."

 

Rard lets out a little sigh.  "We should scout out the place,” he admits.  After a pause he adds, “As Master Tracker of the Army of the North, I feel that I should go and see what I can find.  Don't worry, I won't take on a dragon by myself!"  He smiles weakly.

 

Elboron seems lost in thought but after a moment mumbles, "Oh, yes.  Please do.”  He then adds, “But be careful not to disturb the dragon, and, whatever you do, do not take any of its treasure!" 

 

"You can borrow my lantern, Rard, but be wary to listen for the beast,” Éogar  says, holding out his lantern and a flask of oil to the hobbit.  “If the dragon is awake, it will see your light before you see it."

 

Rard swallows hard and nods.  Deep down in his heart he had hoped his friends might forbid him to undertake such a dangerous task alone—but with his bravado now in question, he must press on.  "Oh, I have no intention of facing the dragon alone,” he says with a brave face.  “In fact, I am not entirely sure I want to face such a beast even with an army at my side."  The hobbit then addresses the dwarves Biárki, Mim, and even Lord Nurin: "Is there any pattern to the way a dwarven hall is laid out?  Is there reason to believe this hall may be similar to the last one?   Or is each a unique maze of tunnels and rooms?  How big is the inside compared to this trench?"

 

Biárki, his heart still low from the curse of the Stiffbeard lord, merely shakes his head.  Nurin looks to Mim, who peaks out from behind his master and says, “Every dwarf-hall is a unique work of craftsmanship.  No-one has set foot in the North Gate in more than four thousand years.  Well, we did step in it, but only briefly and not very far before we had to run back out the postern door.”  When Nurin glowers at him, the elderly sage hunches down and quickly concludes, “I should think the North Gate is simpler than the lost mansion.  The North Gate, according to the ancient tales, was a gatehouse, watch tower, and barracks for dwarven warriors, not a deep mine.  As long as you stay off any stairs, you probably will not get lost in the privy chambers of the high towers.”

 

Rard looks around, worried.  Mim’s lore is not much help.  "We know that the goblin-riders used this passage to encircle King Elessar's army,” the hobbit says.  “Where did they come from?  Did they traverse the whole length of it?  Are they perhaps waiting inside as well?”

 

“Surely the North Gate leads under the mountain,” Nurin answers.  “The orcs might have come through the hall and entered the trench through this postern door.  It is wide enough for a pair of wolf-riders to pass through abreast, and a host could wind through the trench in a snaky column.  But how they convinced the dragon to let them pass, I cannot say.  Maybe the Orcs of the North have allied themselves with the beast?  Or worse—perhaps a great power in Gundabad commands the dragon’s service.”

 

"Should I go now, or wait before entering?” Rard asks.  “Since we are short on food and water, I do not know how long we should tarry."

 

"I am too weary from the gear I carry to face a beast of such power without rest," Éogar says to his little friend.  "If you go in and wake the beast, who then will fight it?  A tired warrior whose cowardice forces him to flee from ghosts?"  He sighs, "Rest here, Rard, before going in.  Not days, just an hour or two..."  Éogar closes his eyes, eager to catch a little sleep.

 

Éogar is still asleep when, after waiting two hours, Rard grows too anxious to wait any longer. "Well, let's get this over with,” he says as he gets onto his feet.  “We have no food, no water, and no friends here," he adds, glaring at Nurin.  The hobbit takes with him only his bow and quiver, both strapped around his shoulders, and Éogar’s lantern in his hand.  His friends wish him well, and plead for him to be safe and come back to them quickly.  Nurin ignores him, but old Mim squeaks in a little voice, “Good luck, Rard!”  Rard smiles and offers a little nod, then scurries down the trench and disappears inside the postern door…

 

*   *   *

 

The North Gate is black and bitingly cold.  The little hobbit slowly makes his way into the dark hallway, holding aloft the big lantern to push back the shadows.  Summoning up his courage, Rard shakes off what weariness remains in his body [2 Courage left].  Blood courses through his veins and his heart beats wildly with excitement.  [Track test, marginal success] He notices the stone floor is covered with grime and scratches; bending low to study the ground for a moment, he guesses that the dirt and marks could be signs of the wolf-horde that may have passed through here so many months ago.

 

The air is stale in his lungs, and dry in his throat, and he swallows roughly.  Rard crouches low, hoping to keep a reduced profile as he slowly walks down the long passage, uniformly ten feet wide and twenty feet high.  The passage seems to stretch at least two hundred feet, with only a few long-empty guard-posts branching off periodically.  Finally, at the end the hallway opens up into a chamber.  Rard presses hard against the wall as he slips into the circular room, perhaps a hundred feet in diameter.  It must be the base of the nearer tower-spire of the North Gate that he saw looming overhead in the trench outside.  Several broad stairs wind upward to the heights above—probably to the private rooms and barracks that Mim mentioned.  The trail of grime and scratches passes between the stairwells in a broad swath, and Rard continues to pursue it through an gigantic archway in the opposite wall.

 

The archway leads into a vast central hall in the heart of the North Gate, even bigger than the main chamber in the Stiffbeard mansion.  In its glory days, it could have served as the assembly point of a vast dwarven host of at least a thousand warriors.  Unlike the Stiffbeard chamber, this central hall does not have a myriad passageways branching off of it.  Instead it has only three.  Rard can dimly make out another archway along the eastern side of the hall opposite the archway under which he currently stands; he guesses that it must lead to the base of the other tower-spire of the North Gate, probably with more stairs leading to more privy rooms and barracks.  Far to his right along the southern side of hall, a great tunnel twenty feet wide and twenty feet high descends downward toward the bowels of Mount Gundabad; a massive wooden door stands in place, closing off the rest of the mountain from the North Gate, and Rard knows it would take a feat of tremendous strength to force the huge door open.  Far to his left along the northern side of the hall, another great tunnel leads toward a swath of daylight; it is the concourse leading onto the northern plain beyond Mount Gundabad, and no gate or portcullis remains.

 

Rard is glad to see that the exposed exit lets in some daylight.  He further notices that the vast hall is illuminated by a gaping chasm torn in the ceiling a hundred feet overhead.  This lets him set down Éogar’s lantern in the room behind him, so that he will be less easy to see.  It is a good thing, too—for lying in the middle of the chamber is an enormous mound of dark scales, the Dragon of the North Gate!  Rard stiffens in fear, for he has never seen such a creature before and the stories he has heard are terrible enough.  But unlike Bilbo’s stories of Smaug, who stank of burning fumes and choked the air about him with heat and smoke, this drake stinks only of rotting flesh and fills the air with stale coldness.  The dragon lies wholly still, his oversized bulk rising and falling as it soughs in a deep slumber.  [Observe (Spot) test, superior success] The hobbit carefully studies the beast and the area around it.  The drake’s scaly body is thick like a lizard, not sinuous like a snake, and its huge, folded wings are covered with old scars.  The monster rests on a great mound of debris—many, many bones; broken spears and axes; and piles of gold and silver, some in coin and some in craftworks.  Part of the stench, Rard guesses, comes from a pile of fresh carcasses lying on the far side of the dragon’s nest, toward the northern concourse tunnel—he shudders to think that they must be the poor ponies that the dwarves lost so many days ago.

 

Only one object in the hall seems to stand apart from the dragon’s nest.  It is an enormous stone at least ten feet across and ten feet high; a little set of stairs are carved in the side to allow a person to climb atop.  Curiously, the only thing on top is the glistening hilt of a sword, its blade stuck deep into the stone.

 

Before Rard can put much thought into the strange sword in the stone, he notices that one eye in the dragon’s enormous head is wide open—and staring his way!  [Rard’s Stealth (Hide) test opposed by the Dragon’s Observe (Spot) test, +6 TN for being asleep, marginal success for the dragon]  The dragon is asleep, Rard thinks to himself: Can it possibly be watching me?  He shrinks into the shadows as much as he can, cowering against the stony arch.  Slowly the great eye moves about, probing the western side of the chamber.  The monster breathes a low rumble, its body barely moving.  Rard begins to hope that it is not awake after all but then hears thunderous words emanate from the beast’s jaw pronounced in the Common Speech: “I HAVEN’T SMELLED YOU BEFORE…”

 

A shiver cuts the hobbit to the quick, and he finds himself starting to quake.  “NOT ANOTHER DWARF, I THINK,” the dragon rumbles.  Its next words are softer, though still deep and loud: “Come and show yourself, stranger.  Don’t worry, I’m not hungry.  I have already feasted these past many days on some ponies I acquired off a troop of dwarves.  Come and teach me what you are: I will even reward you with a treasure from my collection.  Take what you wish, for there is plenty and to spare.”

 

*   *   *

 

In the trench outside the North Gate, Éogar is roused from his slumber by his comrades.  A faint rumble has sounded from deep inside the dwarf-hall.  The comrades sit up and grab their arms, listening intently.  A moment later they hear a cavernous voice say, “I haven’t smelled you before.  Not another dwarf, I think.”

 

“The dragon!” Mim squeals in a tiny voice, trembling behind his master.

 

The companions stare at each other in grave concern.  The worm is awake, and Rard is still inside!

 

 

Scene 4: Dragon Talk

 

Shortly before noon on April the 30^th, Rariadoc Brandybuck finds himself compelled to talk with a great and terrible dragon.  It is like old Mr. Bilbo’s stories come to life!  The hobbit crawls sideways into the shadows, pressing up against the stone archway so that his voice will not readily give away his position.  "D-d-d-do you pr-promise not to eat me?" he stammers.  "Can dragons be trusted?" he asks, for indeed he does not know.

 

“Of course,” the dragon replies in a surprisingly mild voice, resonant and temperate.  To which query his answer applies is not stated.  The drake lifts its great head off the ground, probing the darkness at the western side of the huge chamber.  It is then that Rard realizes the dragon must not yet know precisely where he is; the creature can smell him and knows he is present, but not his exact location.  Its sonorous voice rumbles again as it says, “Have you not spoken with a dragon before?”

 

"Well, I've never met one before.  In fact, I didn't even realize that dragons still existed," says Rard.

 

The drake, its massive eye ever probing the shadows, replies, “We do exist and ever shall, at least the greatest of us.  The beast unfurls its broad leathery wings, stretching them as a man might stretch his arms upon rising from slumber.  “And you behold the greatest dragon that yet lives outside the Withered Heath,” it boasts.  The drake takes another deep sniff through flared nostrils.  “Now will you come out and show me what you are?  You have the scent of dwarves about you but different, and your voice is higher and smaller than theirs.”

 

[Wisdom test, marginal success] Something about the way the dragon sniffs the air unnerves the hobbit.  Rard decides that the drake has not yet given him assurances to his liking that he will not be devoured, and he remains ensconced in the shadows by the western arch.  He stammers back, "I-I-I am indeed not a dwarf.  I am Rariadoc Brandybuck, Emissary of the Shire, Master Tracker of the Army of the North, on behalf of King Elessar of Gondor and the Free Peoples."

 

“Mmmm,” the dragon rumbles in thought, “so many names and places and titles.”  It then asks, “What is your purpose in coming here, Rariadoc Brandybuck?”

 

"I had hoped to find this ancient hall empty so that my friends and I might pass through it on our way east."

 

A rumble passes through the drake’s great bulk as it replies, “Clearly you have not found it empty!  It belongs to me, the Drake of Gundabad!”  Once this spat of temper passes, the dragon lowers its wings and the tone of its voice.  It asks, “Why would your king send his Master Tracker and a company of his men east around the mountain?”

 

Unsure how else to respond, the hobbit reflexively falls back on the truth: "We were attacked by Orcs that infest Mount Gundabad.  We would like to drive them out."

 

A thunderous quiver emanates from the drake’s maw, perhaps a laugh.  “They do indeed infest my mountain, and in great numbers too,” it says.  “But I permit them to dwell therein and even pass through my domain, in return for the tribute of gold and silver you see before you.  Now you seek the same passage, yet you skulk in shadows and bear no hoard of treasure to give me.”  It takes another deep breath, sliding off its nest and crawling a few yards toward the western arch.  “Tell me, who are these friends you have brought with you?” it asks.

 

"Who are my friends?” Rard echoes, unsure of how the dragon would react to his traveling with dwarves.  "Well, my friends are also emissaries of several races," he says in a rush, adding almost apologetically, "One of them is indeed a dwarf.  I take it you have known several dwarves?"

 

“Ahhh, I knew I smelled dwarf about you, little spy of the Shire,” the dragon growls.  “I have known many dwarves over my long life, for the wretches never forget long-lost homes and insist on returning to these northern mountains long abandoned.”

 

Not liking the drake’s tone, Rard quickly tries a different tack, guided by his aching belly.  "Those ponies you mentioned earlier, how did you find them?” he asks.  “And did you eat anything that was attached to them?  I'm very hungry myself and was hoping they had some food goods on them."

 

“They were delicious,” the dragon answers, its long tongue lashing out to taste the air.  “Their bags still lie by their carcasses, and I have no use for what they carried.  Come forward and take whatever you need…”

 

[Opposed Wisdom tests, Rard = 9 vs. Dragon = 7] Rard’s head is positively swimming after talking with the dragon for at least a minute.  He is greatly impressed by the loquacious drake but manages to keep his wits about him.  The hobbit is not sure he can trust the beast, and through his clouded mind he remembers Gilavas’s warnings about the dangers of dragons.  He looks wistfully mules’ packs, knowing that food and water may be only a few hundred feet away, but from the shadows he replies, "I think I will stay here in the shadows for now, thank you.  I am certainly glad that we decided to come this way.  I now have a story that almost no-one else can tell.  I have seen a dragon, and not just any dragon but the Great Dragon of Gundabad." 

 

*   *   *

 

In the trench outside the postern door on the western facing of the North Gate, Rard’s companions can only hear the inchoate rumblings of the dragon’s mighty voice.  "Rariadoc has been found!” Elboron says, jumping up from the ground with his father’s longbow in hand.

 

Nurin snorts in disgust and says, “Trust that little fool to botch even a simple reconnaissance!”  The dwarf-lord remains firmly planted on the ground, Mim cowering at his back.

 

Biárki, however, rises and moves to Elboron’s side.  “It is time to meet this dragon.  We can delay no longer," he says.

 

“If you rush after him, you may rush to your deaths,” Nurin cautions.

 

“Dragons are not to be trifled with,” says Gilavas, quickly on his feet but not quick to rush in heedless.

 

Elboron nods and replies, "We must move quickly, but we need a plan.  I fear our weapons will be useless against a dragon.  Éogar’s spear may be enough to slay it.  We must either draw the dragon into an ambush, or use trickery and the beast's own arrogance to get Éogar close enough to strike."

 

"Without Rard's scouting, we have no way knowing if an ambush is even possible,” says Éogar.  “Still, we cannot abandon Rard if he needs our aid."

 

"We need a light," Elboron says, opening Biárki’s backpack and pulling out a torch and the dwarf’s tinder kit.  When the warrior fumbles with the flint and steel trying to spark a flame, Nurin sighs and ambles over to him.  “Making a quick fire is dwarves’ work,” he says, grabbing the flint and steel from Elboron and quickly igniting the torch.  Nurin hands the fiery brand to Elboron, closes up the tinder kit, and stuffs the pouch back in Biárki’s pack.

 

Elboron nods to Nurin in gratitude, holding the torch in his right hand and his bow in his left.  As he begins to lead the way into the postern door he says, "Éogar, wrap your spear in your cloak.  It would not do for the dragon to recognize it."

 

Éogar pulls his cloak forward as he follows Elboron, doing his best to obscure the weapon behind the cloth.  It is too large to hide, but at least Drake-Slayer’s particular appearance cannot be readily discerned.  Éogar says to Gilavas as they walk forward, "Hold your magic until we begin the battle.  Dragons are ancient beasts and perhaps could sense your power.  Best to keep all of our surprises hidden for now."  Gilavas nods graciously and betrays a small smile as he thinks on this young Man advising him about the power of dragons.  The irony is lost to Éogar, who speaks now to the dwarf-lord behind him.  "Nurin, conceal yourself when we enter the chamber.  The beast may recognize you," he says.  “And keep downwind: It appears to have a fine sense of smell from what we have heard..."

 

“All the more reason why Mim and I should remain here,” Nurin replies from a distance further back.  It is then that Éogar turns around and realizes that Nurin is not following him.  “I have already told you my course: If you cannot slay the dragon, then Mim and I must make our way to your king’s camp to share counsel with him.  I have given you Drake-Slayer, and that is contribution enough.  Rescuing foolish hobbits who get themselves captured by dragons is hardly my responsibility.”

 

Éogar turns his back on the dwarf and retorts in disgust, “Go your own way, Nurin.”  The knight rushes after his friends, and together the four companions disappear into the darkness of the postern door.

 

*   *   *

 

Meanwhile, back in the central hall of the North Gate, Rard continues to parley with the Drake of Gundabad.  The hobbit hunkers down and slides along the edge of the wall, keeping in the dark shadows, frequently doubling back to confuse the watchful dragon.  Indeed, the drake’s eye never ceases to probe the shadows, and its nostrils flare up time and again to take in the hobbit’s scent.  At last the great beast says, “You have good manners for a spy who associates with dwarves.”

 

“I do not wish to be judged solely by the company I keep,” Rard squeaks back.  “I did not get to choose all of my traveling companions, and dwarves are good for something.”  The dragon receives this baiting with stony silence.  Rard nervously quips, "Why, who else is going to mine gold and silver for us?  I don't think orcs are good miners.  After all, when was the last time they paid you any tribute?"

 

“They pay whenever they wish to pass through my domain, which is more often now that your king’s army is here,” the drake says.  “And know this, little spy: Orcs give me treasure more readily than ever you shall see a dwarf give away a piece of gold.”

 

Rard allows some of his personal feelings to creep into his voice as he says, "I do agree that dwarves are too consumed by their past. Take the dwarf we travel with.  He thinks to take back his home of Khazad-dum.  When was the last time that was a dwarven stronghold?"  When that, too, is greeted only with silence, Rard sputters out a new speech to keep the dragon distracted.  "But enough of dwarves and orcs,” he says.  “I do not get to meet a dragon every day, I would hear more about you, and your hoard.  To be honest, I had not hoped to see even a hundredth of such a treasure in the course of my lifetime!  I could retire to the Shire and have such feasts that would be spoken of for decades!"  [Persuade (Fast Talk) vs. Dragon’s Wisdom: complete success for the dragon]

 

The drake snorts, a cold wind that cuts even to the edge of the chamber.  It now rises fully onto its haunches, leveling its fearsome maw toward the western arch.  Rard freezes, afraid that he has given himself away.  “This Shire sounds like quite a place,” the dragon hisses, its tongue lashing out to taste the air.  “I think I might have to visit it soon.  It should not be hard to find, now that I have a good sense of what your little spy-folk smell like.”  Rard swallows hard, as the image of this winged beast rampaging through Hobbiton flashes in his mind.  Without realizing it, the little hobbit has come in grave danger of falling under the dragon-spell, for playing word-games with a shrewd old worm is always a hazard.  [Opposed Wisdom tests: Rard = 9, Dragon = 10, both spend 1 Courage]  When the worm speaks again, it is with a voice of suasion sweet to the hobbit’s ears.  “What are your people called, little spy, and what part do they serve in your king’s war?” it asks.  [Drake’s Persuade vs. Rard’s Wisdom, extraordinary success for the dragon]

 

“We’re hobbits, though the big people of Gondor call us halflings,” Rard finds himself answering, eager to please this magnificent creature.  “Hobbits aren’t much for soldiers, but we are good scouts, mapmakers, and even better farmers.  Why, all the army’s food comes from the Shire.”  Rard’s mouth suddenly feels dry, though his mind is swimming.  Why did I just say all that? he thinks to himself, panicked.

 

 “Hobbits,” the drake snarls, as if testing the word.  “They sound a curious little people.  And have you sated your curiosity in coming here, hobbit?”

 

His mind in a haze, Rard can think only to chatter about the dragon’s treasure.  “You have quite a large hoard, though I do not see the point of some of it.  Take that stone hunk with the stairs hacked into it.  Is that a sword in it?  What good is that?  Though it looks better here than it would in my living room."

 

“An old dwarf trinket trapped by an old dwarf spell,” the dragon scoffs.  “But if you like it, come and have a look at it.”

 

"First, if you do not mind, would your stretch out for me?” Rard asks.  “After all, I have never seen such a large beast before." 

 

[Persuade (Fast Talk), +3 RP bonus, vs. Dragon’s Wisdom, complete success for Rard] The Drake of Gundabad growls with pride, stretching out its full wingspan and lifting its great tail high off the ground.  It is truly a huge and terrifying beast, far larger than any creature Rard has ever seen before.  “And you shall not see my like again, hobbit!” it boasts.  “Come closer, and get a better look at me.”

 

[Observe (Spot), superior success] Though his heart trembles and his mind is in a fog under the dragon-spell, Rard notices clearly that the drake’s underbelly has no scales, wholly unarmored, pale, and soft like any creature’s flesh.  For all the gleam of its treasure pile, nothing has sunken into its soft underside.  "Impressive!  You are indeed a mighty creature,” Rard gasps.  “How much larger is the Dragon of the Withered Heath?  After all, you said you were the greatest outside of Withered Heath."

 

The Drake of Gundabad crawls a bit closer to the western arch, the chamber shaking under the weight of its mighty steps.  “When I left the Withered Heath I was a young worm, but in the centuries that I have lived here I have grown strong and terrible,” it hisses.  “Now no other dragon that dares show itself to the light of day is my equal!”

 

"How have dragons not taken over the world?” Rard asks in wonder.  “Your hide looks impenetrable, and you can breathe fire, roasting anyone that meets you."

 

The Drake opens its maw and roars, loud and terrifying.  [Fear test, superior success; Rard is unnerved, -4 on tests] Rard shakes with terror, wholly unnerved.  His body refuses to move for several moments, and even thereafter his every motion is disrupted by fearful quaking.  “Not all dragons breathe fire,” it says, bearing its long, wicked fangs.  “But what need have I of fire, when my teeth are like steel blades, my claws like swift arrows, and my tail like an avalanche!”  It slams its great tail onto the ground behind it, rattling its treasure-nest and sending a shockwave through the hall.  Perceiving Rard’s stunned silence, the drake knows it has petrified its little antagonist and sniffs out his scent.  Unnerved by fear, Rard has no hope against the dragon-spell clouding his mind.  “Come out, hobbit, and let me see you,” the drake hisses in a voice of suasion.

 

Rard’s legs move slowly, wobbling under their own will as he steps out of the shadows.  The drake’s horrible eyes widen in triumphant glee, and its awful tongue flashes out between its fangs.  The drake prepares to pounce on the now-revealed hobbit, for surely its legs and outstretched wings will carry it to him in a single bound, but then a dim light suddenly appears in the archway behind Rard.  The Drake of Gundabad pauses, alarmed by the sudden arrival of outsiders.  There, standing beneath the high stone arch, is a young Man of noble bearing, a torch in one hand and a bow in the other.  At one side is a stout dwarf with a mattock, and at the other is a slender High-elf with a sword.  Behind them is a tall knight, his cloak wrapped closely about him.

 

The drake’s feral gaze narrows as it takes in the new arrivals.  “The little spy’s company was close by all the while,” it says, none too pleased.

 

 

Scene 5: Dealing with a Dragon

 

As Rard alone confronts the fearsome dragon of the North Gate, his friends Éogar, Elboron, Biárki, and Gilavas rush through the ancient dwarf-hall to reach him.  "This foe is beyond any one of us,” Éogar says as he runs behind Elboron.  “We must surround the beast if we are to have a chance, like a pack of wolves that brings down a great bear.  If we present a united target, the dragon will surely rake us all with his claws—or worse, if Rard's stories about Smaug are true."  The knight looks briefly to the Elf-magician at his side and says, "We may all need our valor bolstered.”

 

Gilavas nods once, a grim expression upon his face.  “We are in grave danger,” he says.  Then, the comrades see the great central chamber ahead through a tall arch, and they hear the dragon command Rard to come out of the shadows.  To their horror, the hobbit stumbles forward, exposing himself to the beast’s terrible gaze.  They run ahead into the archway, Elboron leading the way with torch in hand.

 

“The little spy’s company was close by all the while,” the dragon hisses as it notices the arrival of the others.

 

"To me, Rard," Elboron says in a commanding voice, all the while fixing his gaze upon the dragon.

 

At the sound of his friend’s voice, the fog clears from the hobbit’s mind.  "Wha-What… I... I thought you were outside?" he stammers.  The dragon flicks out its tongue, tasting the air.  Yet it does not pounce on Rard, for it does not yet seem certain how to deal with so many intruders at once.

 

"Fall back Rard," Éogar says.  The hobbit nods weakly and stumbles back toward the arch.  His friend whispers to him, "And ready your bow—this will not end peacefully."  Rard clutches his stout short-bow in his right hand, but with his left he gestures toward the dragon’s belly.  His friends take his meaning, and Elboron nods once.  The fellowship knows to keep silent.

 

"Greetings, mighty drake of Gundabad.  I am Elboron, son of Faramir, captain of this company.  May I hear your name, O great dragon?"  [Persuade, marginal success]

 

It is said that dragons love flattery, and it seems this dragon is no exception.  Yet it nurses a visible distaste of intruders and is not so readily lulled.  “You may be quick to give out your name, Elboron Faramir’s son, but a dragon lives far too long to be so hasty,” it says in a rumbling voice.  “I am the Drake of Gundabad, and that name is enough for all who dwell here to know me.”

 

Rard, ever eager to fast-talk a friend or foe, rattles on about the splendid form of the dragon, its size and power.  "Do you think you could show them how great you are as well, by spreading your wings?" he asks, hoping to show his friends the drake’s true vulnerability.  [Persuade (Fast Talk), complete success]

 

“Let them see and tremble, too, little spy!” it says.  The drake rises up on its back haunches again and stretches out its vast wings, two scores or more feet wide.  True to Rard’s word, the dragon’s underbelly is soft and pale, without the encrusting of any metal to ward its flesh.  The drake, curiously, does not seem to mind this delay and is content to talk idly.  Only Gilavas guesses the dragon’s intention, and he dares not speak to draw attention to himself.  If the dragon studies him overlong, he knows that it might perceive the Inner Light which burns in his heart—and this creature of Morgoth would both fear and hate it.

 

The drake lowers its wings and levels its serpentine gaze on the onlookers.  “Now do you see my great power?” it asks in a low voice, a hiss and a roar merged together.  “All who behold me know that I am Master of this place, and none may challenge me on land or in the air.”  The voice is strangely compelling, and the longer the comrades listen to it the more their minds grow clouded.  [Opposed Wisdom tests: Elboron, complete success; Éogar, complete failure; Rard, disastrous failure; Biárki, failure; Gilavas, complete success]  Only young Elboron and ancient Gilavas resist the dragon-spell; Éogar, Rard, and Biárki, unaware and unwisely, open their hearts to the drake’s reading.  “Such little Men, with so little weapons,” it hisses.  “Little like halflings, and helpless like Dwarves.  Exiles and renegades, vagabonds in service to a vagabond king.”

 

Elboron quickly interjects, "We come on behalf of Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor.  We seek passage through the mountain.  Will you grant it?"  The dragon regards Elboron coldly, for its gaze has not been able to penetrate his heart.  It takes affront at the young lord’s terse request, absent of any flattery.  [Debate (Parley), TN 25, disastrous failure]

 

“If you desire it, Faramir’s son, come and take it!” the beast roars, its hypnotic eyes flashing with rage.

 

Bewildered by the beast and sensing nothing to lose, Biárki hazards to engage the drake in speech a while longer.  "Great Dragon, may I view the sword in yonder rock?” he asks.  “I believe I might be able to free it for you.  I'm sure you'll find that we can pay better than any orcs."

 

“And why would I want that rusty old lump of steel freed, dwarf-thief?” it snaps in a dull growl.  “I know your kind well, and it sickens you even to think of paying for what you could take.  Even now you think that hoary blade is yours, yours by right.  Then come and take it!”

 

Rard, his mind bewildered once again, steps up to Biárki’s side.  "You-you, you promised me any piece of treasure, as there was plenty,” he stammers.  “I want that sword."

 

A room-shaking chortle emanates from the drake’s bulk, low and menacing.  “Of course, your little present!” it says.  “Go and take it, halfling.  You and your dwarf.”  Now it falls back, opening the path from the western archway to the sword-in-the-stone at the other side of the chamber.  The drake crawls back behind its nest-pile, giving cover to its front—and blocking the way to the northern hallway that leads out onto the northern plain.  “Free that old piece of trash from the rock and hold it aloft, little spy,” it says.  “Come, and let me see you with your new sword.”

 

By now, everyone’s head swims with the sound of the drake’s voice, and all of the companions are gravely in danger of falling under the dragon-spell.  [Opposed Wisdom tests: Elboron, failure; Éogar, failure; Rard, failure; Biárki, failure; Gilavas, marginal success]  “This is madness to talk so long with a dragon,” Gilavas says, a great light flashing in his eyes.  Only he resists the clouding of his mind, revealing the Inner Light of Aman that shines within his spirit.  All of his friends, though, are bewildered, every thought and motion a burden to them.  [Every character loses 1 from his action allowance for the rest of the scene, except Gilavas] The elf cries out, “Rard, Biárki, do not listen to the creature!”

 

But it is too late.  Biárki and Rard are already making their way across the north end of the chamber toward the stone by the opposite archway.  The fellowship spent so much time engaged in parley with the dragon that the companions did not even have time to try to slip into the shadows or sneak around the dragon.  By the time that Éogar tries to make his move, his mind is dazed and the dragon has already pulled back to block the escape route to the northern plain outside.  Rard and Biárki stumble across the hall to the large rock, and the dragon makes no move to interfere.  Only after the dwarf and hobbit are climbing the stairs cut into the side of the stone does the drake turn on the fellowship—on Elboron, Éogar, and Gilavas at the western archway.

 

“Your kind, Elf, has not been seen in this land since long before even my lifetime, centuries upon centuries!” the dragon roars, stepping toward the archway.  “I have heard only tales of Elves, and now that I set eyes upon one I hate the very sight!”

 

Gilavas cries out words of magic, invoking the Valar to give strength to the hearts of all who resist the Shadow.  “By Manwë, your fear will hold no sway over us, foul dragon!” he shouts, holding his sword high above his head.  [Resist Fear spell, success]  Though their minds are still clouded by the dragon-spell, their spirits are bolstered by Gilavas’s enchanted speech.

 

Atop the stone, Rard and Biárki find the blade deeply lodged in the rock.  The sword is a great longsword, tall and heavy.  Though certainly forged by Dwarves, Biárki realizes that it was probably made ages ago for Men.  Alas, its runes that might identify its name or history are buried in the rock.  The little folk could only hope the wield the sword in two hands, so Rard sets down his bow and grips the hilts with both hands.  He pulls hard, but the sword will not budge.  Biárki, then, spots a row of runes cut into the floor of the rock by the sword, a message in the dwarven tongue: “Let the descendents of those who made me now free me.”  The dwarf-warrior drops his mattock and elbows the hobbit aside, grasping the hilts with both hands.  With no effort at all, the sword suddenly leaps free of the rock.  The chamber rings with the sound of the steel blade sliding out of the stone, and Biárki now holds a great, oversized longsword above his head.

 

The dragon quickly snaps its attention back to the dwarf and hobbit, and it is clear that the beast did not expect them to be able to free the weapon.  It roars in anger, unable for once to use words.  The beast that up until now seemed content to toy with the invaders, to play off their flattery and cloud their minds, betrays genuine doubt.  A dwarf-relic is never to be trifled with.  Abandoning word-games, the hissing monster prepares to charge down Biárki and Rard!

 

*   *   *

 

Cold-drakes may be the least of dragons, but those with wings can go about with uttermost noise and speed.  As fast as a striking snake, the Drake of Gundabad leaps over its hoard-nest and bounds toward the sword-less stone just under 50 yards away.  As its long neck comes with range, the drake snaps its great maw at Biárki—but the dwarf is a very small target for so large a mouth, and he barely manages to avoid being caught.  Standing atop the stone, Biárki and Rard have little room to move but are at least on-level with the height of the dragon while on all fours.  The dwarf-warrior knows he was made for such a desperate struggle, and he grips the oversized longsword in both hands with purpose.  Summoning up the courage of a warrior-born, Biárki pulls the sword-point back and thrusts with careful precision at the huge dragon, a target so big he hardly can miss.  He lands an extraordinary hit [+3d6 damage!] on the dragon’s neck—and is amazed at how readily the sword cuts through the armored scales.  The monster hisses in pain, but it is so massive that such a blow is hardly a scrape.  The swift-striking Biárki lands a second precise blow next to the first, equally fierce.  The precision of his thrusts were hardly necessary and only reduced the strength of the blows.  Nonetheless, the dragon has been stung painfully twice on its scaled neck and now is in full wroth!

 

“Leave my friends alone!” Rard screams in panic.  “You promised not to eat me!”  Already unnerved and under the dragon-spell longer than anyone else, the only thing the hobbit can think to do is stumble down the stairs with his little bow in hand, desperately trying to hide in the shadows behind the big rock.  He still manages to quick-draw an arrow from his quiver, but he is too bewildered to try to shoot it.

 

“Even with a dwarf-blade, Biárki cannot stand alone,” says Gilavas, breaking into a sprint.  Though not a skilled runner, his kind is swift of foot naturally and he manages to cross half the distance to the dragon.  Éogar follows the High-elf but a moment later, rushing toward the rear flank of the beast.  Éogar is a skilled runner and, though he is still weary, his sprint carries also carries him half-way to the dragon.  As he runs, the knight pulls his spear Drake-slayer free from his cloak, and the dim light from the sky above glints on its mithril tip.

 

When his friends sprint forward, Elboron drops the burning torch to the ground and steps back into the stone archway, in case the dragon changes its mind and decides to charge him.  His hand fumbles in his quiver, and through the haze of the dragon-spell all he can manage to do is nock an arrow on the bowstring and pull.  He judges the distance to the beast—something like 90 yards, quite a long-range shot from where he stands.

 

 

Scene 6: Dragon Fight!

 

The companions’ hearts race within their chests as they find themselves confronting a great, old cold-drake in full fury, a potent and wily beast of legend.  Both Éogar and Elboron call on their courage to overcome their weariness, the blood pounding in their veins giving them a new lease of strength.  Though Éogar, Rard, and Biárki remain bewildered by the dragon-spell, Elboron summons up the courage to challenge the dragon’s will.  [Opposed Wisdoms tests, +3 from courage, complete success for Elboron] The young lord clears his clouded mind of the dragon’s words and, their influence purged, he is no longer hindered by the spell.  [Both Éogar and Elboron now have 2 Courage remaining]

 

Suffering two nasty gashes on the neck from the enchanted dwarf-blade wielded by Biárki, the Drake of Gundabad shakes its enormous head wildly and snorts in rage.  Before Biárki can pull the sword back for another thrust, the dragon snaps its powerful jaws once again at the dwarf, too bewildered to try to dodge or parry.  Its jagged teeth rake along Biárki’s mail coat, stout enough to deflect much of the impact; the dwarf is quite nearly dazed by the close call [13 damage inflicted].  While Biárki twists away from the closing jaws, the drake suddenly lashes out with one of its great forelegs, and the claws rake the other side of his coat and slide off the resilient dwarven steel; yet now he is quite dazed by the dragon’s fury [21 damage total].

 

At the base of the stone platform and behind it, Rard hears the crushing snap of the drake’s jaws and the thunderous swipe of its claw.  Wild thoughts race through his mind.  A dragon…too big to fight!  His doubt is countered by reason: It will eat your friends…then eat you!  He swallows hard and, through the haze in his mind, stumbles away from behind the stone and sprints toward the eastern archway.  The hobbit is a skilled enough runner to cover the distance of ten yards or so at a sprint.  He looks around desperately for cover but finds nothing except the narrowness of the archway, through which the dragon would have to squeeze but probably could do it with some effort.  He sighs and thinks to himself that, at the very least, he is now flanking the dragon opposite Éogar and Gilavas.  The dragon-spell clouds his mind too much for him to think to do anything at the moment.

 

Éogar and Gilavas continue to sprint with all their might across the vast chamber, desperately trying to reach the dragon before it overwhelms and devours their dwarven comrade.  Both manage to sprint to within ten yards of the dragon before it realizes they are nearly upon its position.

 

Standing alone on the rock platform, Biárki Biárlin’s son feels like all has life has led him to this moment.  He laughs in triumphant joy as he throws himself into headlong battle against the dragon that pollutes this ancient and hallowed dwarf-hall.  Having learned sword-craft during his long years with the Men of Esgaroth-upon-Long Lake, the dwarf wields the runed blade with skill and puts his full strength and a portion of his mighty courage behind an awesome two-handed attack [1 Courage left].  The drake deftly drops down a wing to try to distract the blow, but the dwarf’s courageous and lucky strike will not be deterred.  The edge slides across the scales covering its snout, cracking them and stinging the beast’s flared nostrils.  The blow is powerful enough to knock virtually any Man to the ground, but the dragon is simply too big and strong to be prostrated.  It snorts in painful irritation, now quite nearly dazed from Biárki’s series of nasty strikes.

 

Elboron realizes that the fray has drifted far beyond him, and he jogs beyond the western archway into the open chamber.  "Warriors of the West!" he cries out.  "Fear not this worm.  Dwarf-blade and Shire arrows, Elf-sword and Drake-slayer—free Gundabad from this hateful beast!" [Inspire test, complete success] All his comrades harken to his words, and their hearts are cheered.

 

The drake’s serpentine gaze twists to the right and spots the arrival of Éogar and Gilavas.  Suddenly, it swings its great bulk around to face them—but its whip-like tail lashes out at Biárki, who is still unbalanced from his two-handed power attack.  The tail-shock cracks the dwarf across his chest, much of the impact seeping through his mail coat and bruising his ribs [31 damage total, Injured -3]; for all his strength, he is still just a little dwarf and is knocked flat onto his back by the stunning force.  Now glaring at Éogar and Gilavas with intent malice, it opens its maw and roars at them, an utterly terrifying sound: “You have violated my domain, and here you will die!”  [Intimdate (Fear) test opposed by Willpower, +5 from Resist Fear, +1 from Elboron’s Inspire: Éogar, complete success (+6 from Courage); Gilavas, complete success (+4 Inner Light).  It costs him every last portion of his courage [0 points left], but Éogar faces down his fear and stands firm against the dragon.  Gilavas, the Light of Aman shining through him, possesses strength of will even greater than the drake’s terror.  Now the dragon shows a glimpse of fear in its eyes, beholding these heroes who will not be cowed so easily.

 

Rard, meanwhile, has reached the relative safety of the eastern archway, ten yards or so beyond the dragon.  His mind still swimming, he can only manage to press his body up against the side of the stone wall and hide in the darkness [Stealth (Hide), result 26].  He holds his bow in hand with an arrow notched, waiting for a good shot.  At this moment the dragon has its back to him, and all he can see is its mighty tail.

 

With the dragon less than 30 feet away, and uncertainty flashing in the beast’s eyes, Éogar hazards all on a fierce charge to take him into close range combat.  Though still winded, luck and skill carry him across the short distance.  It seems that his momentum is sure to carry his spear squarely into the drake’s shoulder, but the nimble beast suddenly leaps upward on wing and twists aside with a portion of its foul courage, dodging the stroke.  But a second later, Gilavas jogs toward the dragon’s other shoulder, now standing near to the rock on which Biárki has fallen.  The High-elf raises his sword and shouts, “This is not your domain, scion of Glaurung!  Despair, for your doom is upon you!”  [Intimidate (Majesty), +4 Inner Light, complete success] The Light of Aman burns brightly in his gaze, and the dragon cannot help but look into his eyes and shudder, panicked by the sacred power that runs through the magician’s veins.  Yet it is a Power in its own right, and cannot be chased off by words alone.

 

Biárki now rises back to his feet, for he too will not be so easily dispatched.  With no thought to defense or retreat, the injured dwarf lashes out with the heavy, rune-covered sword.  The drake is still whirling about, swiftly dodging, but Biárki manages to land a lucky stroke on the edge of its wing and crack the edge of the leathery surface.  The beast is covered with scrapes from the dwarf’s brutal strokes, and it looks like it may start to feel the pain.

 

Sprinting across the vast hall, Elboron runs as fast as he can to get nearer to the action and his endangered friends.  He manages to cross half of the chamber, reaching the dragon’s jumbled pile of bones and treasure.

 

The Drake of Gundabad shrieks with rage.  It flicks a great claw at Gilavas, who for all his swiftness cannot dodge the massive blow.  His shoulder is visibly torn by the oversized boney hooks [18 damage, Injured -3].  Then, it whips its body around again to face Biárki atop the stone platform.  The wicked jaws snap at the dwarf, tearing at his mail coat and cutting his flesh badly in several places [47 damage, Wounded -5].  At the same time, it thrashes its massive tail at Éogar, who tries to leap aside but cannot wholly dodge the attack.  He is clubbed in the side by the scaly limb [14 damage, Dazed -0], and he is almost swift enough to avoid being knocked back by it but still falls to the ground.

 

Rard, unnerved by fear, watches his friends suffer the brutal attacks of the dragon and decides he cannot abandon them to their fate.  Through the dragon-spell clouding his mind, he quickly levels his bow at the beast’s head.  He thinks, The dragon’s not showing its belly to me.  Oh, if only it would fly!  Well, maybe I can take out its eye.  Dragons are famous for their alert senses, but few things in the world are harder to spot than a carefully concealed hobbit skilled at hiding.  When the hobbit’s arrow comes flying from the shadows, the drake is caught wholly unawares and cannot respond.  The arrowhead pierces the drake’s eyelid and lodges deep in its socket, a debilitating wound that leaves the dragon nearly blind in its left eye.  The beast howls in surprise and rage, dazed by the pain.  His heart pounding in his chest, Rard quick-draws another arrow but is still too bewildered to make a follow-up shot.

 

Éogar now climbs back up onto his feet and jabs at the drake’s scaled flank with Drake-slayer.  The dragon tries to dodge the stroke but is too overextended, and the knight lands a superior blow.  Like the sword pulled from the stone by Biárki, his dwarf-made spear cuts through the dragon’s scales as if they were but leather or linen.  A trickle of black blood drips from the dazed beast’s rear haunch.  “Taste the bite of Drake-slayer!” the knight shouts to the drake.  “Never will you inhabit the home of its craftsmen!  Begone from this dwelling or this weapon will fell you!”

 

Clutching his lacerated shoulder with his free hand, Gilavas cries out to his friends: “I will distract the dragon.  Escape while we can!”  The Elf-magician then points his finger at the head of the beast and speaks his strange words of magic.  A blinding flash of light erupts; the dragon swiftly turns its head aside to minimize the brilliance, but the creature still looks to be partially blinded for several moments.  “Fly!” Gilavas repeats to his friends.

 

Biárki breathes hard, his body wracked with pain from the bleeding wounds inflicted by the dragon’s dagger-like teeth.  Swept up in the euphoria of destiny, the dwarf continues to hammer the dragon with the spellbound sword.  His first stroke is a superior hit on the beast’s jowl, tearing off a scale and drawing a sanguineous spurt.  The drake is now visibly injured, but the pained dwarf’s second stroke is wild and unlucky, swooping harmlessly through the air.

 

Like Rard, Elboron hopes to shoot arrows at the beast’s belly.  But so long as it remains on the ground on all fours, that will be impossible.  Deciding he must to something to help his friends, the young lord grabs an arrow from his quiver and fixes it in his father’s bow.  The shot is now within moderate range, and the blinded drake proves a simple enough target, but with the arrow’s mediocre accuracy it merely hits a scale on the side and practically shatters, virtually harmless.

 

“Biárki, come down from the stone—you are too easy a target up there!” Gilavas shouts to him.  The elf begins to fall back as he cries out to all his friends, “You all must escape through the front concourse to Forodwaith!  Fly!”

 

*   *   *

 

Gilavas calls out for his companions to flee from the Dragon of Gundabad while it is blinded, but the beast shows no signs of relenting.  It thrusts its vicious maw toward Gilavas, blindly snapping at the direction from which the blinding light came.  Though its eyes are dimmed, the jaws are so wide that they can sweep all before them.  With the last of its foul courage, the creature cuts into the Elf’s body with its jagged teeth.  Gilavas’s flesh is bloodily rent as he pulls back from the clenched fangs, leaving his body badly maimed (36 damage total, Incapacitated -7).  The drake’s heavy tail again lashes out at Éogar who stands near its rear haunch.  Determined to stab the beast as many times as his bewildered mind will let him, he is too fixed on preparing his own strikes to sacrifice momentum to defend.  Fortunately, he is too small a target for the blinded dragon and the tail only thrashes the empty ground nearby.  It then lifts its broad wings and beats them hard, propelling its scaly body upwards amidst a reeking torrent of wind.  Éogar, Biárki, and Gilavas are caught under its path as it takes flight.  [Strength tests, TN 16/TN 18 for Biárki: disastrous failure for Biárki; failure for Éogar, disastrous failure for Gilavas]  All of them are knocked off their feet by the wing-gale.  Éogar is merely knocked prone; Biárki is blown right off the stone, falling about ten feet to the hard ground behind the carved stares [49 damage total, Wounded -5]; Gilavas hits the ground so hard that he is stunned by the impact, losing much of his momentum to act.  While Elboron and Rard watch, the drake soars about 30 feet off the ground and begins to fly back toward its massive nest in the center of the chamber—and in doing so exposes its underbelly to Elboron.

 

Éogar pushes himself off the ground and leaps back onto his feet, but by the time he has done so the dragon is already beyond him.  The knight grips his spear, eager to strike the evil beast, but he is loath to hurl it at the dragon and leave himself unarmed.  Instead he jogs underneath the drake, keeping below its belly exposed high above him.

 

"Dragon!" Elboron cries out in anger and derision, "We do not fear you!  You crawl on your belly like the snakes we hunt for sport in Gondor.”  As the creature exposes its belly while flying toward its nest, the young lord smiles in sheer battle fury.  Only he has this advantageous angle, and he leaps at the opportunity.  Elboron grasps a shaft from his quiver, fixes it in his bow, and shoots it at the beast’s stomach.  Alas, the aim of this called shot is slightly off, and the arrow sinks harmless to the ground beneath the flying worm.

 

With the drake flying away from his direction, Rard does not have an open shot at its belly.  But, neither does the blinded worm have line of sight to him.  Hearing Gilavas’s urging, the hobbit sprints along the western shadows of the great chamber toward the northern exit.  [Run test, failure]  Given his nerves and lack of running skill, he manages to sprint less than 20 yards—about one-fifth of the distance.

 

Biárki, lying on the ground behind the tall stone that previous contained the sword now in his hands, summons up his last courage to try to shake off the dragon-spell bewildering his mind.  [Opposed Wisdom tests, +3 to Biárki for Courage, 12 total for Biárki, 13 for the dragon] Unfortunately, the spell is too strong and he cannot clear his thoughts.  Nonetheless, the dwarf manages to get back up onto his feet and stumble out from behind the rock.  All he can gather his wits to accomplish at the moment is to look at the runes carved on the blade of his newly claimed sword.  He recognizes them as runes commonly used by dwarves throughout the Second and Third Ages of Middle-earth, but they form sounds he does not understand in a language he does not know.

 

Gilavas, too, rises to his feet.  Stunned from the force of the drake’s wing-gale, the Elf-magician breathes hard in fatigue.  He shouts in a raw voice, “Fly now, the drake will not be blind for long!”

 

Elboron seethes with rage inside.  He so badly wanted to sink an arrow into the dragon, but luck was not with him.  Now that the dragon is on wing and rushing his way, far out of the reach of Éogar and Biárki, he decides the fellowship must heed Gilavas.  He calls on his courage to swallow his battle-fury, sounding the retreat [1 Courage left].  "To the North gate!” Elboron shouts.  “We must not forget our mission!"

 

Whether the drake is listening to the words exchanged by the companions cannot be discerned by them, but very little escapes the notice of a clever worm.  Fully airborne, the drake bats its leathery wings and soars above Elboron, a mighty gust in its wake, and then circles around in an arc toward the northern exit, all the while gaining in elevation, up to about 20 yards above.  [Strength test, complete failure] The wing-gale is so powerful that it knocks Elboron off his feet.  The dragon roars angrily, spitting wordless curses at the magician that blinded it.  But that blindness is fading, and within a few seconds its sight starts to return.

 

Éogar realizes that on foot he cannot hope to keep pace with a flying drake and quickly abandons any thought of pursuit.  Instead he stands his ground in the heart of the chamber, waving for Biárki and Gilavas to join him.  Only with his comrades will the Knight of Arnor consent to flee.  Elboron rises to his feet and begins to jog toward the northern exit, steering around the dragon’s nest of glittering treasures and shattered bones.  Now about 55 yards separates him from the concourse onto the frozen heath outside.  At the other side of the chamber, Rard continues to sprint as fast as he can.  [Run test, failure]  He makes about as much headway as before and still has about 65 yards to the exit.  Finally, Biárki appears from behind the rock and makes for the northern exit at full speed; Gilavas joins him, and Éogar leads the way only after they catch up to his position.  [Run tests: Éogar, complete success; Biárki, failure; Gilavas, complete failure]  The Dwarf and Elf are badly wounded, and this greatly inhibits their speed, already limited by the Dwarf’s stocky gait.  Éogar’s long stride could cover much more distance, but he purposefully slows to keep close to his friends.  Just over 80 yards separates them from the northern concourse.

 

When the drake next wheels about mid-air, its gazes at the companions desperately sprinting toward the northern exit with serpentine eyes that see all too well.  It lashes out its forked tongue to taste the air, batting its reeking leathery wings.  With each powerful rush of its wings, a blast of cold air swirls about 15 yards in every direction around it; the dragon hovers by the northern exit, about 20 yards in front of the concourse and about 10 yards off the ground.  It is like a wall of air, virtually impenetrable.  Elboron is the first to come up upon it, and he is blown off his feet by the gale [Strength test, complete failure].

 

Rard, on the far side of the chamber, continues to sprint as weakly as before and only after many seconds of running does he approach the powerful gust, stopping short.  A short distance from him are the carcasses of Nurin’s ponies, brutally slaughtered by the drake and stripped of their flesh.  Their saddlebags lie scattered on the ground, torn open and their contents spilling out.  The hobbit espies leaking waterskins and gashed sacks of flour—but he dares not pause to scavenge for provender.

 

Biárki and Gilavas, patiently escorted by Éogar, draw near to Elboron many moments later.  They lift their hands to shelter their eyes from the hurling winds raised by the pumping of the drake’s mighty wings.  Elboron cannot even manage to rise to his feet in the hurricane caused by the hovering dragon.

 

The beast lets out a loud roar and says, “Fools!  You dare to challenge a dragon in its lair, and think to escape with your lives?  My wings are like a storm, and carry me as swiftly as a thunderbolt.  There is no escape from my grasp!”  Rard, already unnerved, quails at the sound of the dragon’s boast.  Biárki and Éogar, too, despair and realize the beast speaks the truth—they cannot outrun the dragon or even approach it while it is on wing.  Elboron struggles helplessly on the ground against the torrent of wind, like a fly trapped in a spider’s web.

 

The High-elf magician closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them his pale-blue gaze shines with the light of ages.  He knows what must be done, and is determined to see it through.  “This foe is beyond any of us,” he says to those around him.  “Move away from me, spread out to the sides of the chamber as Rard has done.  Pull up Elboron and take him with you.”  Éogar demurs for a moment, but the Elf checks his protest with a stern gaze.  There is no time to debate him.  Éogar and Biárki rush toward Elboron, reach down to grasp his limbs, and together pull him out of the terrible gale.  Buffeted about by the winds, they awkwardly stumble toward the western edge of the chamber.  Gilavas stands his ground in the middle of the hall, staring the dragon straight in the eye from a distance of less than 50 feet.  The drake jerks his broad head left, then right, and espies the Men, Dwarf, and Hobbit trying to slip along the edges of the chamber to the northern exit, and so long as it hovers overhead the gust of wind is too strong for any of them to advance.  Yet the foul worm decides that it cannot ignore the powerful Elf facing it and whips its body about, streaking toward the magician!

 

“Master Gilavas!” Rard cries, “Run!”  It is an appeal taken up by Elboron, whose heart sinks when he realizes that Gilavas intends to stand alone against the foe.

 

“Fly now, my friends, and escape while you can!” Gilavas shouts.  Indeed, as the drake dives through the air straight at him, the wing-gale is redirected to the ground beneath its flight path.  Rard now can run forward along the eastern wall and Elboron, Éogar, and Biárki along the western wall.  They meet up in the northern concourse leading out onto the frozen plain below, spreading out as far as the eye can see beyond the spurs of Mount Gundabad.  The companions turn their heads to watch Gilavas, who raises his voice in a loud chant.  He calls upon Manwë the Elder King, Lord of the West, and Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, and Elbereth Gilthoniel, who long has blessed the Elves, and he channels all the might of his courageous heart into one last spell.  The sky around the mountain suddenly darkens, as clouds brew up in a sudden storm.  Gilavas holds forth his longsword and a great bolt of lightning shoots in from the hole in the ceiling above; it strikes his keen blade and sets it ablaze, an explosion of light that engulfs the High-elf’s entire being.  Then, a great bolt of lightning arcs forth from where Gilavas last stood and strikes the onrushing dragon, scorching its massive body.  The Drake of Gundabad howls in agony and crashes onto the ground, thrashing about wildly and raking every direction with its wicked claws.

 

“We must away while we can.  Gilavas’s sacrifice will not be for nothing,” says Elboron.  His companions grimly turn away from the interior of the North Gate and rush down the concourse.  They pass through the huge hall that at one time in the ancient past would have been protected by a portcullis and perhaps even a gate but is now wide open.  The sudden storm evoked by the Elf-magician’s spell has passed as quickly as it came, and the faint northern sun shines down on their heads.  Their feet pound down the concourse, which was long ago formed into a broad, level, gradual slope by the dwarves, and soon they find themselves upon the cold heath of Forodwaith north of the spurs of Gundabad.  The North Gate is but a dark, shadowy tunnel behind them: they hear the pained shrieks of the dragon, but no sound from their friend Gilavas.  They cannot tell if the dragon is dying or only enraged with pain and fear, but they can discern that the beast is not attempting to follow them out—at least not yet.

 

Though it seems to the surviving fellowship that they spent an eternity in the North Gate under the wily spell of dragon-speech, they now realize that it was only a handful of minutes.  It is very early in the afternoon of April the 30^th.  The grieving companions stand on a flat expanse of tundra that extends in every direction to the north, ground cold and hard and sparsely covered with short scrub brush.  The land does not look like it provides a bounty on which travelers may live.  There are no rivers anywhere in sight, though great patches of snow can be seen to the north.  The short bushes near the mountains in the tundra seem to have precious little growth on them.  Perhaps some animals live in this desolate wilderness and could be hunted for food?  Biárki’s backpack contains all the provender left for the fellowship, enough to last the survivors three days.  Water remains in very short supply: only one day in comfort left for the companions, two at need.  The fellowship is not helped any by the condition of the survivors: though Éogar was only dazed by the dragon’s tail-slap, Biárki was badly wounded, and Elboron still suffers lingering injury.  Only Rard is unhurt physically, though the kindly hobbit’s nerves are frayed and his heart sick with loss.  Furthermore, the desperate escape from the North Gate has left all of the survivors fatigued from the great exertion.

 

And Forodwaith, vast and inhospitable, extends in front of them.  According to Nurin and Mim, some sixty miles to the east may be found a low pass through the Grey Mountains.  Finding this little pass and getting through the mountains to the source-waters of the Anduin is the fellowship’s only hope of completing the mission.

 

 

Scene 7: The Frozen North

 

April 30^th beyond the northern spur of Mount Gundabad.  The Fellowship of Forlorn Hope has escaped from the North Gate at the cost of the life of Gilavas Parmandil, one of the last High-elves in Middle-earth.  The companions weep at the loss of their noble friend, forgetting their own hurts and weariness.  Catching his breath, Éogar looks back to the North Gate up the slope behind him and exclaims, "We cannot abandon the last of the Noldor!”

 

"I would go back as well, for the elf was a good and sturdy companion,” says Biárki.  “However, do we have any hope if the dragon is not dead already?  If we return and make the same assault, we will all surely die."

 

"The dragon is injured now, perhaps badly by Gilavas's power.  This may be our best chance to defeat the beast," Éogar says.  The knight then looks at his dwarven friend and, taking note of his pained condition, adds, "But so are we injured, too."

 

"Gilavas is surely lost to us.  His form was utterly consumed in the great bolt of lightning summoned by his last spell," Elboron says mournfully, wiping the tear-streaks from his face.  “The question is how we may best honor his sacrifice.  If we press on, we may die of thirst on the wastes.  If we go back, the dragon, if it yet lives, might slay us all."  The rage builds up in his heart and he says in wrath, "I would rather test the dragon again.  If it indeed is alive, it must be sorely hurt.  If we can rid Middle-Earth of such an evil beast, let us do so!"

 

"It will be difficult to face this beast without Gilavas.  Even wounded, this drake is dangerous," Éogar says to him softly.  His mind returning to reason after the initial pain of grief, he adds, "Biakari is wounded badly.  As for water, we can find it in these wastes."

 

Rard, too, wipes away his tear.  "Master Éogar speaks wisely,” he says in a sober voice.  “Gilavas gave his life so that we may carry out our mission to seek aid, and we must do that." 

 

"Our duty is to send word to the Eastern Slope," Éogar adds.  "Only I am compelled to return here and face this dragon.  I will not put the rest of you in danger while I fulfill my oath."

 

"We must not dally here then if we are to go and return," the little hobbit rejoins. He looks up into the face of his friend Éogar.  "And return we will.  We will finish off that foul beast together.  I will not let you face it alone."  The Knight of Arnor clasps Rard’s shoulder and smiles down at him.  Hobbits truly are remarkable people, he thinks to himself.  So much fortitude in such little hearts.

 

The young lord Elboron thinks long on their words and finally decides, "You are both correct.  Our duty comes first.”

 

"Our mission has become all the more difficult,” Éogar observes in a grim voice.  “Nurin will go to King Elessar and tell him we have been slain by the drake.  If we tell the troops on the East to begin the assault and King Elessar holds back because he thinks they will not, all will be lost.  We now must reach the East Slope and return.”  The knight pauses to let the others consider his words, but then shares a new idea that comes to him:  “Unless someone has a way to communicate to Nurin from here?"  He looks to Elboron and asks, "Do you carry your Uncle Boromir’s horn that Rard has told me stories of?  Could we send word to the dwarf-lord on the other side of the Gate?"

 

It is a glimmer of hope to Éogar but the mention of it brings only even more pain to Elboron, who never knew his father’s lordly brother.  It was a tragic death that unwrought the heart of Denethor, his noble grandfather, and led to his ignominious end.  All the memories of growing up in the shadow of Boromir’s death come to Elboron, and the young man can only manage to shake his head in response to Éogar query.  Rard discerns the source of Elboron’s discomfiture and tugs on Éogar’s sleeve.  He says in a small voice, “The Horn of Gondor was destroyed by the orcs that killed Boromir, and its pieces were carried down the Great River aboard Boromir’s funeral boat.  Denethor kept the pieces with him in his days, and I think they must be buried with his remains.”

 

Éogar looks to Elboron and says, “I understand.  Forgive me.”

 

Elboron nods once and states, “We must march northeast into Forodwaith, away from Gundabad, and then back toward the Grey Mountains.”  He gestures for Éogar and Biárki to come sit at his feet.  “But first, let me see to your wounds."

 

“But first let us see what happened in the North Gate,” Biárki counters gruffly, clutching his broken ribs.  “I cannot believe this whole group will walk off without at least determining whether the dragon yet lives.  If no-one else will, I shall sneak back into the hall and see whether the beast is dead or will be waiting for us when we return.”

 

Rariadoc looks ashamedly at the dwarf.  “No, I’ll go,” he says, reluctant but unwilling to let the wounded dwarf risk himself.  When Elboron and Éogar immediately start cautioning the hobbit, Rard waves off their concern and promises just to perform a perfunctory search.  He only will sneak through the gate and try to see or hear if the dragon is moving around.  Gripping his bow, the hobbit moves back toward the northern slope of Gundabad and the North Gate some distance above.

 

As Rard vanishes against the black rock of the mountain slope, Elboron does what he can to alleviate the hurts suffered by Éogar and Biárki.  Unfortunately, the fellowship’s healing kit was in Gilavas’s possession and perished with him in the explosion of lightning.  The young lord makes do with what is at hand, merely melted snow from the icy ground and strips of cloth torn from his own cloak to clean, press, and bind the cuts.  [Healing (Treat Wounds) tests, -2 penalty for lacking supplies]  Éogar’s injury is not serious, dazed by a bruise across his upper body where the drake’s tail clipped him.  Through courageous determination Elboron is able to assuage the damage [marginal success; 1 Courage spent, 0 remaining], and soon Éogar is returned to full strength [0 damage remaining].  Biárki’s many lacerations from where the dragon’s teeth clamped down on his iron coat are far more serious wounds, much beyond Elboron’s limited ken [skill test failure].  The dwarf needs a healer much more skilled than this young lord.

 

Suddenly, they hear a deep rumble from inside the North Gate, that turns into a shriek and then into a roar.  “CURSE THE SHIRE AND ITS LITTLE SPIES!” the dragon’s voice growls, pained.  “CURSE THE KINGDOM OF MEN, AND CURSE ALL DWARVES!”  Elboron, Biárki, and Éogar rush toward the mountain, and they spot a little figuring fleeing from the gate and scurrying down the slope.  Sounds of crashing and trashing emanate from inside the gate, rock cracking under some great weight, but no dragon appears in pursuit.  A few minutes later Rard has made it off the slope and past the spur of the mountain and is running across the tundra heath toward his comrades.

 

When he arrives, he gasps for breath wildly.  His friends give him a precious drink of water and help to calm him down.  Finally the hobbit is able to give his report: “I made it up the slope and back into the great hall without being spotted, but then a wind swept up that must have carried my scent, for the dragon was able to smell me out.  It is definitely still alive, but it stinks of burnt flesh and still has my arrow stuck in its left eye.  I think Gilavas’s spell actually wounded the beast, for its right wing looks hurt and it was slow to move.”  He swallows hard and adds, “It may still have fight left in it.  Maybe we should get away from here?”

 

Elboron nods and turns away from the North Gate, walking off northeast into Forodwaith.  “Come, let’s march,” he says.  His companions hurry after him, moving as fast as they can.  But the pace of the fellowship is limited by the stocky stride of the hobbit and the dwarf, reduced even more by Biárki’s considerable wounds and fatigue.  It is hard for any of the companions to keep a cheerful march, for they know that supplies are dwindling to dangerously low levels.  Rard suggests that maybe they should ration water, but Éogar points to the thin layer of crunchy snow on the ground and observes that it can be melted and drunk at need.  Nonetheless, the hobbit drinks very sparingly.  He pulls his elf-made cloak tighter around him and surveys the fields ahead. "I hope we find something soon,” he moans, touching his rumbling belly.  “And a pot to cook it in as well.  I left my pack and all my goods on the other side of the gate.”  He adds, forlorn, “Including my ax-head.  I wanted to trade it for supplies for our fellowship."  It is easy to dismiss the hobbit’s comments as just so much complaining, but his friends realize a sorry truth in them: The company no longer has any tools for cooking food, two fewer skins of water, and Rard has no bedroll on which to sleep.  Left behind, too, was Éogar’s lantern, on the ground by the western arch of the North Gate’s great hall.  Biárki pauses to remember his trusty mattock that he carried from Erebor to Moria to the Gundabad War, now lying on the ground of the dragon’s lair.  As much as he misses it, he decides this enchanted longsword with dwarf-scribed runes in a strange, foreign tongue is a suitable replacement; he cuts a short length of rope from Éogar’s goal and fashions a makeshift baldric to tie the heavy blade to his backpack.

 

*   *   *

 

The further the fellowship gets from the shelter of tall Mount Gundabad, the colder Forodwaith becomes.  There is ever a howling wind from the north, chill and biting.  Even though it is well into spring in the Shire, here it still feels like late winter.  The ground is hard, flat, and caked with shallow ice that seems like it never wholly melts, a nearly permanent frost that might only break at the height of summer.  Yet if this is what the end of April is like, the travelers fear to see how cool and bleak August might be.  Even when the sun appears through the white sky, it is dim, subdued, and provides little warmth or cheer.  The comrades walk on grimly, following Éogar’s unfailing direction sense to the northeast away from Gundabad, and once the mountain is a few miles to their back, they turn due east and move parallel to the Grey Mountains.  Their pace proves distressingly slow.  The cold winds leaves everyone constantly fatigued and the terrain, though flat, punishes the feet with patches of snow and ice.  Even worse, Biárki’s wounds prove a major hinderance; over the long haul, he cannot manage more than perhaps a mile an hour, given his frequent need to rest.  By sundown, which seems to come startlingly early in this part of the world, the fellowship has managed to travel not quite 5 miles from the North Gate.

 

The night is even more unpleasant.  Éogar takes a bundle of fuel from Biárki’s pack and lights a fire, which stands out in the dark of this flat ice-plain like a signal beacon.  The group devours the remnant of the day’s share of rations, cooked the other day by Rard.  The way-bread is cold, hard, and joyless fare.  The travelers drink the little bit of water allotted to them this day, and they find that the water is close to freezing.  Holding the skins close to their bodies helps to keep the water from solidifying but also saps more of their precious body heat.  They huddle up to the campfire because the night temperature is well below freezing.  Seeing his hobbit friend without any bedroll, Éogar shares his blanket with Rard and gives him some comfort.  Everyone falls asleep in a rush, too exhausted to keep any kind of watch in a land that seems too desolate to bear any life, dangerous or no.

 

On the morning of May the 1^st, which seems to come as late in this part of the world as night comes early, the companions awake to find themselves covered with frost.  It seems that the cold night wind always carries at least a bit of snow, and nothing entirely protects even the most warmly dressed traveler.  The comrades eat a frozen breakfast of way-bread and then spend several minutes breaking up the ice in their waterskins so that the fluid is again drinkable.  Trying to fill the skins with new snow does a little to restore the water level but not enough.  As the sun finally rises the companions can see the frozen plain stretching around them endlessly to the north and east.

 

They also see several man-sized shapes rising from the ground in the near distance and suddenly advancing on their campsite!  The figures are covered in heavy fur like wolves or bears and carry sticks—primitive sticks or clubs.  They are clustered in pairs, for a total of eight, and are moving in from every direction.  They must have spotted the campfire at night, or the smoldering ash at dawn, and have sneaked up to the camp at a crawl.  Reflexively the companions reach for their weapons: Éogar grasping his shield and new spear, Rard and Elboron taking up their bows, and Biárki pulling up the longsword at great pain.  No sooner have they their arms in hand than the interlopers are all around them, surrounding them.  Rard and Elboron stand back to back, desperately trying to shake the ice from their bowstrings.  Éogar stands at Rard’s side, Biárki at Elboron’s.  But for each comrade there are two of these hairy beings, who close to a distance of about 5 yards and ready their boney spears and clubs.

 

“What are they?” Rard gasps in fear.  “And what do they want with us?”

 

After Rard finishes speaking, one of the figures suddenly lowers the spear held in one hand and lifts the other upwards—pulling back what now can be seen as a thick fur hood and revealing a human face beneath.  It is the face of a young woman, pale and very fair.  Her hair is a light golden color and long, flowing down past her shoulders, and her narrow eyes like to blue sapphire gems.  She speaks in a firm voice, moderate in pitch with a gentle lilt—and she speaks in perfect Westron.  “We are Lossoth,” she says, “and we want to know what you are doing in our land?”

 

 

Scene 8: Among the Lossoth

 

As the Fellowship of Forlorn Hope’s campsite in the frigid north is surrounded by Lossoth tribesmen in the dawn’s early light of May the 1^st, the heroes are caught virtually unawares and are in little condition to resist.  Elboron is the first to drop his weapon, not out of surrender but because he knows it will do him little good should the Snow-men choose to attack.  When he hears a woman speak, Elboron looks surprised for a moment but quickly regains his composure.  "Fair Lady of the North, I am Elboron son of Faramir, of Gondor,” he says.  “You have my humblest apologies for trespassing upon your lands.  Our only defense is that we know almost nothing of your people, or what lands you claim.  We recently passed under yon mountain, and are attempting to make our way East."

 

The Knight of Arnor steps to the young lord’s side, lowering his spear but keeping his shield braced.  He says, "I am Éogar son of Garbald.  As Elboron says, we wish to reach the eastern slope of the great mountain, not to trespass against the free peoples of the north."  Little Rard keeps behind Éogar, for he is still unsure about these big people in shaggy furs.  Biárki stands behind them all, struggling to keep on his feet in his badly wounded condition.  Éogar introduces the silent hobbit and the breathless dwarf to the Lossoth band.

 

The woman studies the bedraggled travelers with an expression of concern, which deepens upon seeing the injured dwarf.  When she speaks again, her voice is calm and friendly.  Passing her ice-blue gaze over the group, she finally addresses Elboron: "I am Luládi, daughter of Ovámu, who is chieftain of our clan."

 

"We certainly mean you and your people no harm, and we would be your friends if you but let us.  I would be happy to tell you more about our journey and our King.  But first, let us put aside our weapons and speak as friends," says Elboron.

 

Luládi lowers her bone spear and gestures to the others, who then lower their bone and flint weapons.  She pauses a moment as if lost in thought and then says, "We do not often see travelers in our lands, and Gondor is, I have been told, a long way from here.  I would hear more of your story and have many questions for you, but this place is too near the mountain for my comfort and your comrade seems to be in need of aid.”

 

The dwarf suddenly coughs, a fleck of blood spitting up into his hand.  Éogar nods and says in a grim voice, “We have suffered injuries on our journey, and Biárki’s wounds are in need of care.  Will you help us?”

 

“Please come back with us to our camp, and we shall offer you what hospitality we can spare," Luládi replies.  The seven men in her company say something to her quietly in their native speech, and she silences their complaint with a few words.  The fair young woman then gestures for the fellowship to follow her.  The companions gather up their remaining possessions and fall in line behind the Lossoth.

 

“You know of Gondor, and you speak the Westron tongue,” Elboron says to Luládi, hoping his observation will prompt the woman to reveal how she has learned such things.

 

Walking ahead of Elboron and his companions, Luládi is silent and pensive.  She says only, "A traveler from afar taught me all I know of your speech."  When nothing further is offered, the young lord holds his tongue on the matter.

 

The companions of the fellowship trail behind the Lossoth as they cross the tundra, the ground hard and crackling with a thin layer of snow and ice.  The Lossoth are much better prepared for the trek, for upon the bottoms of their boots are long, wide, flat bone paddles, permitting them almost to glade atop the frozen ground.  The companions’ feet crunch on the hard ground and sometimes stumble in patches of snow.  Luládi is leading them further north, where the ground looks to be covered with even deeper snows.  After perhaps half a mile, they come to a pair of sledges like flat barges, carts without wheels but with bone runners along the side edges.  To each sledge is tied a team of thick-furred dogs that look more akin to wolves than the hounds of the southern lands.  The sledges are stocked with the Lossoth band’s various supplies, including blankets made of thick white fur.  Luládi gestures for Rard to climb onto one sledge, and then helps Biárki to lie down atop another.  “Your dwarf friend is too hurt to walk where we are going,” she explains to the companions.  “And your little friend,” she adds, looking at Rard in curiosity, “is much too small to wade through the snows.”

 

Rard smiles sheepishly at the fair woman and says, “This small friend is a hobbit.  I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a hobbit before.”

 

Luládi shakes her head and replies, “No, I have not.”  She then gestures for two of her comrades to mount the sledges and take the reins of the dogs.  Luládi returns to the fore, giving a sharp whistle.  The dogs bark a few times and scurry after her, pulling the sledges behind them.  Everyone else trudges along on foot.

 

The wind frequently howls long and hard in Forodwaith, always chill and often sharp.  It makes conversation difficult, especially since the Lossoth normally have the hoods of their fur coats held close to their faces.  It is a comfort that the companions sorely wish they possessed.  Even after the sun rises the air temperature hardly changes; it may be the start of May, but the air is barely above freezing the entire day.  Elboron and Biárki wear heavy traveling clothes suitable for winter south of the Grey Mountains, but here in the north they feel insufficient.  Even Éogar and Rard’s elvish garb, gifts from the Elves of the Woodland Realm, is no match for the weather of Forodwaith.  Neither possesses the lore to know it, but ages past the High-elves returning from Aman crossed a frozen expanse even greater than the Northern Waste and suffered cruelly.  If the magic of the Noldor could not spare them, what hope is there that the magic of the Wood-elves can ward clothing against such extremes?  The Lossoth have covered Biárki with one of the white-fur blankets, and on his sledge Rard surreptitiously slides a blanket over his little body.  Éogar and Elboron soldier on in silence despite the howling winds and the dropping temperatures.  The further north the party travels, the colder the air becomes and the more difficult the ground.  The scrubby sedge-lands along the Grey Mountains give way to snow-covered tundra.  By the afternoon the men find themselves frequently knee deep in snow, with some drifts up to their thighs.  The Lossoth chuckle at their discomfiture, but Luládi eventually stops the train and does them a kindness.  She pulls out two sets of bone paddles with gut laces and fastens them to the bottoms of their boots, wrapping the straps tightly about their ankles.  So equipped, the men are better able to follow after the Lossoth, though it takes great skill to walk about these strange bone paddles and the going is still awkward for them.

 

The Lossoth travel hard and long without break or complaint.  The Forodwaith tundra is harsh and vast, and these people obviously cannot afford to tarry in such desolate land.  The further north they go, however, the very world seems to be their ally.  Miraculously, the day last much longer than the one before.  When Elboron asks Luládi how this can be, she gives a throaty laugh and answers, “We are entering upon the season of the long sun.  The sun will remain in the sky for many, many days.  But had you come here six moons hence, the sun would not be seen for many, many days.  Then it is forever night.”  The young man of Gondor wonders to hear such things, and in his heart he misses home.

 

By the end of the long day of travel, Elboron and Éogar are exhausted.  The Lossoth travel at what amounts to a run for ten or twelve hours a day, relying on their stamina, bone-shoes, and sledges.  In such a manner they traverse at least four miles every hour and over forty miles in a day.  The Men of the South collapse upon the ground as the Lossoth lay out blankets and pelts, setting up a lean-to to break the northern wind.  Rard and Biárki are well-rested, though the dwarf is still pained by his dragon-wounds.  “Is there nothing you can do for him?” Rard asks Luládi in concern for his friend.

 

“He needs poultices for his injuries, clean bindings, and many days of rest in a safe shelter,” she responds.  “I can give him none of those things here.”  She anticipates the hobbit’s next question and says, “Our camp is another twelve leagues.  We will reach it by the end of tomorrow.”

 

The Lossoth, meanwhile, unpack wide clay basins that contain a strange, foul smelling fluid.  They strike flints together, and the sparks set the bowls ablaze, like oil.  In such a manner they are able to cook frozen chunks of flesh wrapped up in folds of strange skin.  The meat seems odd to the companions of the fellowship, but in their condition they cannot refuse the nourishment and hungrily devour the meal given them.  They are also grateful to be given water, which the Lossoth store in great bladders wrapped in pelts of that same strange skin.

 

While the travelers eat their meal and wait for the sun to set (though it never altogether sets and is already high in the sky the following dawn), they try to learn more from Luládi about the Northern Waste.  "What manner of foul beasts inhabits these lands?” asks Éogar.  ”Or, are they empty of all but fresh game?"

 

“There is little game in our lands,” Luládi answers.  “We hunt herds of snow-deer, which provide us with meat and fur and antler.  There are snow-foxes, which give us our best pelts.  There are also white-bears, but they are very large and fierce and only the greatest of hunters can claim their fur.”  She points to the white-fur blankets lying out on the ground and says, “We have two with us, and they are great prizes to my people.”  Gesturing to the strange skin that is wrapped around the meat supply and water bladders she adds, “My people depend on the seal, which we hunt in the great bay to the west.  The seal gives us meat, a most useful pelt, and fat for our oil.”  Her expression darkens as she addresses the other part of his query: “Of foul beasts, dragons are sometimes seen flying in the skies above.  They come from the mountains to the southeast, chasing the herds of snow-deer that we hunt.”

 

Éogar looks to Elboron and then asks, “Have you recently seen a dragon?  And do orcs ever trouble your lands?”

 

Luládi gazes at the two men for a moment, and Elboron is struck by how much she looks like his mother, though younger.  “You speak of the Dragon of the Mountain surely,” she says.  “I have long known that the creature lived there, but my people are powerless to drive it off.  Our only course is to hide from it, let it slaughter the herds as it wishes, and wait for it to return to the mountain.”  Her expression turns into a sharp scowl as she continues, “Orcs rarely venture far from the mountain.  But in recent years I have seen many of them march from the mountains to the east into the Dragon’s Gate.  I have led my band against them when possible.  If we come across a small patrol, we ambush and slay them.”  She offers a wry smile and says, “I was leading my band to scout the mountain slope when we came across your company.  At first we thought you might have been orcs.”

 

The Lossoth keep a watch, either to look out for the fierce bears mentioned earlier or to keep an eye on the strangers whom they do not yet fully trust.  When most of the others are asleep, Éogar whispers to Elboron, "Perhaps these Lossoth would make good allies against the Mountain.  They must be stout folk to stand against such a climate and would face one less challenge once King Elessar has cleaned the orcs from their stronghold."

 

The next day the travelers prepare to continue the journey across the tundra, departing after consuming a breakfast that is essentially the same as yesterday’s dinner.  The second day of traveling upon snow-shoes is easier for Éogar and Elboron, though they still struggle to keep pace with the Lossoth.  Luládi chooses two deer-hide capes to give the Men, wrapping the fur about their faces and upper bodies.  It helps to cut the chill, for despite the unending sun the weather is still frightfully cold with a biting wind.  No new snow or ice seems to fall, but the large amounts on the ground must never go away.  Rard and Biárki remain on the sledges huddling under the bearskin blankets, for if they had to walk across the ground they might very well sink under snowdrifts as tall as they are.

 

After another grueling day of travel, a full ten hours, the party finally comes upon a curious settlement.  It is like a village of tiny buildings, but each and every one is made entirely out of packed snow.  They are rounded in shape, with openings in the front that lead down into a flat center with furs laid out on the ground.  Another eight Lossoth men seem to live in the settlement, and they welcome back Luládi and her seven comrades upon their return.  They gaze at the fellowship in amazement, and no small measure of fear, but Luládi seems to be able to calm them with her words.

 

It is now the evening of May the 2^nd, though the sun remains in the sky and will remain there throughout what should be the night.  Éogar can sense that the band traveled due northeast from the North Gate of Gundabad across Forodwaith into the Northern Waste, nearly a hundred miles.  Such a feat would have been impossible for the members of the fellowship on their own, without snow-shoes, sledges, and Lossoth guides.  Indeed, Éogar knows that even he would be hard pressed to lead a company through this disorienting, harsh environment; without a guide, he fears the company might never make it through Forodwaith!

 

The Lossoth prepare a large snow-hut for the fellowship.  A bowl of oil is lit in the center of the chamber, giving off both light and heat without melting the snow walls, which seem nearly as hard as mud-brick.  Biárki is laid out atop an extra blanket and wrapped warmly.  When Luládi returns, she is bearing a healer’s kit with gut sutures, mold poultices, and pelt bandages.  As she pledged, she slowly and patiently tends to his many wounds.  She works with great skill and the special care of healing hands.  [Healing (Treat Wounds) test, TN 20, 10 roll + 5 modifier + 5 Healing Hands + 5 haven bonus = 25, complete success] After an hour, Biárki is sleeping comfortably, his wounds neatly dressed; he remains injured but no longer dangerously wounded [16 damage healed, 33 damage remaining].

 

Luládi looks to be winded from her exertion, and she rests on the furs by the fire with the other companions.  “He will need many days of rest to heal,” she says, breathing hard.  “You may stay among us until he recovers, if you wish.”  The beautiful young woman studies the two Men and the hobbit in silence for a time.  “I have many questions for you,” she finally says.  “What mission brings you to this land?  We Lossoth have heard sounds of battle across the mountain.  Have you come with an army of Men of the South?”  Narrowing her blue gaze slightly she adds, “And I would like to hear how you managed to come through the mountain without disturbing the dragon that dwells there.”

 

 

Scene 9: To the Grey Mountains

 

The Fellowship of Forlorn Hope is in the debt of the beautiful Lossoth woman Luládi Ovámu’s daughter.  She has guided them across the tundra to the safety of her camp, where she tended to the gravely wounded Biárki.  The taciturn dwarf thanks her in the kindest words he can manage.  While Biárki and Luládi rest after the ordeal, Elboron and Éogar explain to her the royal mission that has brought them into the Northern Wastes and describe their woeful encounter with the fearsome Dragon of Gundabad.  Everyone sits around a hot, though someone smelly, fire burning in a pit in the ground in the heart of the snow-house.  Luládi frequently stokes the flame by adding fistfuls of dark matter, some kind of peat, yet the heat never melts the hard snow-walls. 

 

Throughout the evening the travelers, especially Éogar, ask her about her land, her people, and Luládi answers as best she can.  When Éogar asks about a pass through the mountains to the south, she thinks carefully before responding.  Finally she says, "I know this pass you speak of.  I will guide you and your friends there once your dwarf friend is well enough to travel."  She frowns and adds, gesturing to Rard, "But your small friend, he will have a difficult time with the journey, and we cannot spare a sledge for you.  If you are willing to delay your journey a few days, I will have one my people craft snowshoes to fit him."

 

Rard smiles brightly at the thought and thanks her.  Elboron nods and agrees to stay in the Lossoth camp for as long as it takes Biárki to recover.  Luládi bids the outlanders to sleep well and leaves them, retiring to her own snow-hut.  Secure from all their enemies across the frozen snows and under watch by Luládi’s Lossoth, the heroes sleep well and deeply, their first true rest in more than two weeks.  Luládi returns to them on the morrow (though the passage of time is hard to gauge when the sun never rises or sets) bearing fresh water and meat to cook, which the companions gratefully receive.  And so the next many days pass for the Fellowship of Forlorn Hope.  Their stay among the Lossoth rejuvenates body, spirit, and heart.  [Everyone’s Courage regains 2 points of Courage.  Biarki and Rard get a chance to overcome their point of Corruption by making a Willpower test, TN 10: both roll a success and remove the Corruption.  Elboron gets to make natural recovery Stamina tests on May 4 and 11, Biarki on May 7 and 14, all with a +5 haven bonus.]  Elboron is wholly recovered of his lingering injury by the 10^th of May.  The stout Biárki recovers under Luládi’s care remarkably quickly for the severity of his wounds; it seems that away from the shadow of Mount Gundabad, his wounds are no longer slow to heal.  By May 17^th the dwarf-warrior is back to full health without even a scratch left on him.

 

Biárki remains ever grateful to Luládi and courteous.  One evening as she joins the fellowship around the fire, he shows her the mighty longsword taken from the North Gate. "I recovered this blade in the hall of the dragon and used it to bloody the beast,” he says.  “I wonder if it might have been made for your people.  Have you ever heard of its like?"

 

Luládi eagerly grasps the sword, a strange light in her eyes, but upon examining the blade her face falls in disappointment.  "No, my friend, I have never seen this weapon before and have no knowledge of it," she answers.  Luládi quickly hands the weapon back to Biárki and turns away, but not before the others see a tear glistening on her cheek.

 

Feeling the awkwardness of the moment, the dwarf quickly reads aloud the strange runes carved on the blade—Dwarven writing but not speech.  Éogar starts when he hears the words and asks him to say them again.  “Those words sound like very old Rohirrich speech to me,” he says.  “I am no scholar, but I think that they name the blade Worm-cleaver and say that it was made for a King of Men in honor of some alliance.  The names I do not understand.”

 

“A King of Men who never claimed his boon,” Biárki muses.  “It must have been made shortly before the Dwarves were forced to abandon Gundabad.  Perhaps that is why they stuck it in a stone under a spell that only a dwarf could break?”

 

Luládi is no longer listening to the speculation, grief apparent in her face.  Elboron notes well the young woman’s reaction but says nothing at the time, bidding her to retire to rest.  She gratefully retires to her own snow-hut, but every day thereafter she returns and sees to the needs of her guests.

 

The lengthy stay of just over two weeks gives the companions plenty of time to decide their next course of action.  As promised, the Lossoth manage to craft small snow-shoes for Rard and cut-down a pair to fit Biárki.  Éogar and Elboron are given their own pair, and Luládi encourages them all to practice walking in them before daring to set out across the tundra.  The first many hours are difficult, but in time everyone learns to slide across the icy snow without falling.

 

The restless hobbit spends much of the time following Luládi around the camp.  He tells her it is because she is the only one who understands his language, but in truth he is a little intimidated by the big men.  As he is used to by now, Rard is an object of some fascination by the Lossoth, who have never seen his kind before.  With Luládi acting as translator, he tries to win them over with tales of hobbit life and the Shire so far away.  [Persuade test, failure] The kind of life he describes seems unbelievable to the Lossoth men, who soon dismiss the little hobbit as either daft or a liar.  He offers to help with the cooking and asks to come along on the hunts, but the Lossoth men shoo him off as a nuisance.  Luládi comforts Rard as kindly as possible but dares not correct her hunters, who clearly are already wary of the burden these outsiders are putting on the camp.

 

Rard glumly returns to the fellowship’s assigned snow-hut and sits down with the convalescing Biárki.  The hobbit vents his frustration, bemoaning the loss of the dwarven ax-heads that he carried out of Gundabad for this very reason—to have something of value to offer potential friends.  Biárki calls the hobbit over and tells him, “Go into my pack.”  Inside, Rard finds the small dwarven ax-head that he had put in the dwarf’s pack because it was too much weight for him.  The hobbit gives Biárki a hug out of sheer joy, earning an irascible curse in response.  "Look what we have to trade with,” he boasts to his friends.  “Now we can garner what supplies we will need, and not have to rely solely on generosity."  He pauses and asks Elboron, “Unless we should keep it as a gift for the Lossoth chieftain?”

 

It is a matter that has been much on the mind of Elboron.  Greatly impressed by the Lossoth, Éogar has become convinced that they would make excellent allies in the war against Gundabad.  Though there are only a small number of hunters in this camp, surely there must be a greater number of Lossoth in Forochel, he reasons.  Elboron is persuaded by Éogar’s arguments, and together they approach Luládi about possibly speaking with her father, the chieftain.  Luládi listens to them and says, a hardened edge to her voice, "Our homeland is a very great distance from here.  To contact all of the Lossoth clans would take well over a cycle of the moon, and I can tell you now they would not help you.  My people do not want anything to do with the wars of your people."  Fearing that she has perhaps spoken too harshly, she adds, "Still, if it is your wish to meet with the rest of my clan and speak with my father, I will guide you there.”

 

Éogar urges Elboron to consider it, but the young lord shakes his head.  "Luládi says they will not help us.  And even if they did, what good would they do against the dragon?  If she is willing to guide to the pass through the Grey Mountains, that will be more than enough."

 

When Biárki’s wounds are nearly healed and the time to depart grows near, Rard shows the dwarf-made ax-head to Luládi and offers to trade it to her people in return for their hospitality and some additional traveling supplies.  She takes the hobbit to the hunters and lets him demonstrate what the ax-head is capable of, once it is cleaned and its edge sharpened against a flint stone.  The Lossoth are impressed by its strength and how well it keeps an edge, and the hunters readily accept the hobbit’s offer in trade.  They give him a seal-pelt waterskin and make for him a little backpack out of deer-hide, replacing those he lost in Gundabad.  To thank Biárki, Rard asks the hunters to craft a sheath for the dwarf’s sword.  They cut two long strips of fur-hide and sew them together along the edges.  Biárki finds the fur sheath sturdy and comely, and he ties it to his pack so he may draw his blade over the shoulder.  For himself Rard asks for some pottery, a little clay pot and pan for cooking to replace his cherished kit left behind with the rest of his gear.

 

The Lossoth gifts do not stop there.  Well-pleased by Rard’s trade, they proudly present the travelers with clothing accoutrements suited to the frozen north.  Each is given a warm fur tabard with a broad hood that can be drawn about the face, fur wraps to cover the tops of their boots, and fur sacks to cover the hands with offshoots for the thumbs.  Together with the snow-shoes, the companions can nearly pass for Lossoth and are prepared to travel across the open snows.

 

*   *   *

 

On the morning of May the 17^th, such as it is, the Fellowship of Forlorn Hope sets off from the Lossoth camp with Luládi as their guide.  The Lossoth are sad to see their chieftain’s daughter depart them, and many cautionary words are exchanged between them.  Clearly they fear for her safety.  Luládi explains to her new friends that her people will stay at this camp for another four months, and she has promised to return to them by then.  She also asks her people to supply the group with provisions, for the food and drink brought by the fellowship has long since been consumed.  The Lossoth carefully fill each fur-wrapped waterskin and put in each person’s back a quantity of smoked meat, seal fat, and dried fish to provide sustenance for 6 days, though a careful eye can tell that Luládi’s pack is filled with twice as much.

 

And so the company sets off across the frozen waste, hiking over ice and snow to the south.  The Grey Mountains are nearly thirty leagues in the distance, rising faintly above the southern horizon.  The peaks seem to serve Luládi’s people as guideposts, for as long as the tops can be seen it is possible to navigate across the featureless tundra.  At times when the mountains are obscured, she explains, her people face the last known direction and hurl a spear along that path; when the travelers come upon the spear, it is picked up and hurled again on the same course, thereby permitting them to follow a continuous path.

 

The companions from the West, despite their practice, are nowhere as skilled at walking on snow-shoes as Luládi.  She ever pushes them to keep a faster pace, for the pace that the fellowship is used to keeping south of Forodwaith seems positively slow to her.  The Lossoth have generously given the party a quantity of food that is sizable for what they possess, but it will not last the week.  Though Luládi is guide, she turns to Elboron as the fellowship’s captain to decide their march.  The unknown pass through the Grey Mountains to the Anduin source-waters awaits…

 

 

Scene 10: New Lands, Old Friends

 

On the morning of May the 17^th, the Fellowship, in the company of their newfound friend Luládi, departs the safety of the Lossoth encampment in the Northern Waste.  Though these wild men do not speak Westron and have wary of outsiders, at the bidding of their chieftain’s daughter they have shown the travelers nothing but kindness.  Éogar especially thanks the men for their hospitality, asking Luládi to translate his words.  "We are in your debt for the food and shelter you have given us,” he says.  “One day soon, I will return and the dragon that hunts your herds will inhabit the mountain no more."  The wild men nod their heads in grim assent, though their expressions clearly reveal that they doubt the dragon can be slain by anyone.

 

The journey across the frozen tundra is long, arduous, and monotonous.  Elboron, insistent upon reaching the mountains quickly but without exhausting the company, pushes a hard march.  It is no great ordeal for Luládi, who is used to such rigors in the cold wastes, but it is a tiring undertaking for the Men, dwarf, and hobbit, who still are unsteady on their snow-shoes.  Nonetheless, Éogar supports the young captain’s decision.  “Without the sledges, it will take many days to return to the mountains," he says, looking to Luládi.  "If you can find the pass for us then our journey will be so much the easier, for it is likely the only way through the mountains to our troops on the Eastern Slope."

 

The beautiful young northern woman nods in understanding, leading the way toward the Grey Mountains many leagues to the south.  She speaks very little, and seems somber as she did back in her camp.  Her silence is generally held to by those following her.  Only Rard occasionally mumbles to himself when the wind kicks up and bites him to the quick.  During once particularly cold wind, his teeth chattering, he pines, "What I would give for a nice cup of Longbottom tea and a plate of warm hackberry tarts."  Elboron smiles faintly and promises the hobbit that they will still find time on the march to eat.  Camping on the open tundra is especially trying.  Luládi erects a humble lean-to out of a bone pole and a seal-skin, and it breaks the force of the northern winds slightly.  Everyone huddles together for warmth, wrapped in their fur cloaks and heaviest clothing and blankets.  When the travelers rise in the morning, they barely feel as if they had slept at all, so hard is the ground and so miserable the cold.

 

While shivering in front of the night camp’s peat fire, consuming a nourishing but cold dinner, the companions share brief conversation.  In this cold exposing the mouth for even a few minutes is painful.  Yet Elboron’s curiosity about the Lossoth woman has grown too great, and finally he asks her the question he has been burning to pose since the fellowship first met her.  "My lady, I would very much like to hear of the traveler who taught you our language,” he says.  “Will you tell the tale?"

 

Luládi, who certainly is less affected by the cold than the others, stares into the small, dirty fire.  Finally she responds in a quiet voice, "There is little enough of a tale to tell.  His name was Erethor, a Ranger of the North.  From Rhudaur, so he said.  He came to our lands and was taken in by my clan."  She pauses and looks away to the direction of Mount Gundabad.  "He was killed by orcs nearly four years ago."  What this Man of the West meant to her is unsaid.  [Insight test, complete success] Elboron, who has learned to judge the hearts of men and woman, discerns from the pain in her voice that Erethor was close to her; the hurt of absence is visible on her face.  Sorry that he may have caused her pain, Elboron asks no more for the time.

 

The company manages to cover some thirty miles each day, ten hard hours of jogging over the frozen ground with the awkward snow-shoes.  Each day brings them noticeably closer to the looming Grey Mountains, the spurs of which they reach by the end of the third day.  Indeed, once they come within a dozen miles of the mountains the ground once against is relative free of snow and ice.  The soil is still covered by a permanent frost, but the travelers are able to pack away their snow-shoes and walk once more on their own two feet.  Yet being close to the mountains is not a comfort for Éogar, whose heart is troubled.  At times he bemoans is fate on this journey—to lead the company into ambush by a deceitful dwarf-lord, to quail in fear from a wretched dwarf-ghost, to lose a comrade in battle against a dragon too strong for him to overcome.  The sullen knight insists on standing guard for at least a portion of the night when the fellowship camps by the spurs of the mountain.  He says, "We can no longer rely on our sharp-sensed elf friend.  He has done too much for us this journey, and we are not well prepared without him.

 

Elboron comforts his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder.  “I will relieve you,” he says.  For Elboron, too, has decided it is wise to keep a watch now that the company has come closer to the land of the mountain goblins.  By providence or good fortune, the watch proves not to be necessary; no goblins or any other living creatures are spotted north of the Grey Mountains.  The next morning Luládi guides the fellowship between the spurs of the mountains, looking for the low pass that runs between the peaks.  [Weather-sense, complete success] “We cannot delay,” she says, urging the company to follow quickly.  “Off the great snows, the thaw will melt the ice and raise floodwaters.”  Her uncanny wilderness lore proves a great boon to the fellowship, for she is able to help them find the entrance to the pass within a portion of a day—a task that could have taken them many days of blind searching unaided.  Furthermore, Luládi helps them avoid treacherous branches of the low pass that look to be flooded.  Nonetheless, the terrain is still harsh and the going slow: even at a hard march, the group is lucky to cover 15 miles in a day.  Camping in the mountain valleys between the peaks is far warmer and less windy than the northern tundra, but it is also more dangerous.  Elboron commands no more fires, much to Rard’s consternation.  It is well enough: the company has but two faggots left, and Luládi’s peat is mostly burned away.  Éogar and Elboron keep their watches throughout the night, and often they hear the howling of wolves—whether foul or merely feral, they cannot say.  None approaches their camp, however, and no goblins are espied on the journey.  Perhaps the siege is working, bottling up the orc-hordes inside Mount Gundabad?  If so, it is welcome news to the companions!

 

The foodstuffs given to the companions runs out at the end of the sixth day, and Luládi is compelled to share the extra portion given her by her folk with the others.  At least water is plentiful now and clean, for this low pass is a full twenty leagues east of the pollution of Mount Gundabad.  The waterskins are kept full at all times, a welcome change compared to the privations suffered on the other side of Gundabad.  On the seventh day, Luládi leads the comrades down the low pass onto the heaths between the southern spurs of the Grey Mountains.  Nearby is the rushing torrent of waterfalls and mountain streams splashing together to form the source-waters of Anduin the Great River.  The travelers make their way to the west bank of the forming river, which they are eventually able to discern must be the Greylin.  The open heath beyond the mountain spurs is simple terrain to them compared to what they traversed before, and again they can cover at least 3 miles in an hour.  By the end of the seventh day they reach the confluence of the Greylin with a stream running from the northeast—it must be the Langwell.

 

The next morning, May the 24^th, the travelers awaken and consume the last of the food in their packs.  It is a somber realization that they had better find the allied camp soon, ere they become famished.  Wildlife seems scarce near the mountain, though the river looks to be filled with spawning fish.  “Oh, if only I had my line and hook!” Rard moans.

 

Following the Langwell upstream over slightly rising elevation, the travelers spot a settlement ahead in the distance.  It is not a large city by any means, but it has a wall and numerous buildings.  Luládi stares at the faint shapes in disbelief: “What a great encampment!  Do all your people live in little mountains?”

 

Elboron smiles and explains to her what a town is, a concept wholly foreign to her.  “I think that must be the rebuilt site of Framsburg,” he says.

 

“Framsburg…” Rard ponders, sure that he has heard the name of the place before.  Suddenly, his thoughts are interrupted by the neighing of horses.  A troop of riders is further upstream a short distance, watering their horses in the river.  They apparently have spotted the fellowship and, mounting their steeds, are riding toward them.

 

“Maybe they are scouts from the army?” Rard asks hopefully.

“Or Easterling raiders,” Éogar counters warily, remembering too well the dangers faced when last he traveled this far to the east. 

 

Elboron does not hesitate to order the companions to form up, weapons ready.  He instructs Luládi to stand in the middle, surrounded on both sides by the warriors of the West.  Within a few moments the riders draw close enough to make out their visages: tall Men with flowing golden hair, beards of yellow or white, armor of scaled mail, and steel swords long and straight.  They look very much like the Riders of Rohan who served with the Grand Muster, before they fell in their hundreds.

 

The horsemen come with a few dozen yards and halt.  One urges his horse forward, and he calls out in a loud voice, “Who comes into the realm of Framsburg from the east?  Two of you may be dwarves and are welcome, but Men of the East are forbidden.  Turn back now ere we ride you down.”

 

“We are no Men of the East,” Elboron shouts back in Westron.  “I am Elboron Faramir’s son, leading a company from King Elessar across the mountains.”

 

At that the lead rider pulls his masked helmet off his head, exposing his face.  He sheaths his sword and spurs his horse to draw closer, coming within ten feet.  “Then you are well met!” he exclaims.  “I am Herubrand, Thegn of Framsburg.”

 

“Herubrand!  Can you not tell a hobbit from a dwarf?” Rard cries out, lowering his bow and running toward the man.  Éogar, smiling broadly, pulls his helmet off his head and steps behind Rard.

 

“Rariadoc!  Vornmir!” Herubrand responds, jumping down from his horse to greet his old friends.  After they embrace and clasp arms in friendship, Herubrand waves for his own men to dismount and rest at ease.  The ruler of Framsburg walks over to the other travelers, offering greetings to Elboron, the dwarf, and the beautiful Lossoth woman.  Herubrand then faces his two old friends and says, “Long have you been expected.  I have looked for you to come these past two years.”  He then faces Éogar and asks, “Vornmir, where are Finbor and Frolin?  Have they not come with you?”  He adds in a jesting tone of voice, “After all, Finbor swore that he would return my sword to me.”

 

 

The story continues in Part IV (click here)