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They made camp in the cool, blue shadow of the mountains, so near that Marach now had to strain his neck to see the sunrise line the ridge in gold. He could already hear the beginnings of motion from the loose circle of tents. A cold wind carried away the smoke from last night’s fires.
“You have them, Malach?”
His youngest son checked the contents of his pack for the hundredth time since they had arisen a few hours before. “Yes, father.”
“Go on, then. I don’t know where they expect to meet us, and I’d rather have the light when it happens.”
The path up the slope was made for smaller and steadier travelers, and the three men were forced to walk single file. Imlach misstepped and the ledge beneath his feet crumbled, tumbling down the mountain side. They continued carefully after that, hand over hand. By the time the sun was directly above them, their palms were bleeding. The trees were thinner here, providing less shade, but an outcropping of granite made a natural shelf that could easily accommodate their small party.
“Halt. We’ll rest here.”
“Do you think it will be much farther?” Imlach settled back against a stunted larch tree and turned to look down at the slope behind them. “I can’t make out the camp.”
Malach pointedly maneuvered around him and set his pack down, with uncharacteristic gentleness, on the moss. “That’s because it’s behind that ridge. We’ve barely been walking half the day!”
“And how would you know? We could be lost. Maybe we’ll have to wander for weeks. Maybe we’ll never find them.”
“Maybe you’ll stop moaning, for once.”
“Oh, you don’t mean that. I – augh!” A branch had snapped, sending Imlach sprawling. He stared at the cloudless sky with a resigned expression. “I have moaned across three rivers, two mountain ranges, and half a continent. And you really expect me to stop, now that we’re almost there? Admit it. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself, if you didn’t have something to gripe about.”
“I do not gripe.”
“Alright, you suffer with quiet dignity. Think I care?”
“You seem to have devoted some thought to the matter.” Marach, who had been scanning the trail for signs of movement, did not turn towards them. “And there is no cause for worry. This is their mountain. They will find us.”
It was cooler when they set out again. The trees and the air grew thin. The sky was stained with purple at its edges, when they came upon a tall, smooth marker, carved with strange runes. Imlach collapsed against it, sighing loudly. “It’s too late. They’ll never come. We’ll probably freeze to death up here.”
Malach slapped him. “The Dwarves in the east do not measure time by the rising of the sun. Why should these? We must be prepared to speak to them, no matter the hour.”
Marach had already started to gather wood for a fire, when three figures emerged from behind the stone. All three carried axes, but they were only lightly armored – guards, most likely, but not expecting an attack. He gestured to his sons for silence and turned, slowly, to face them.
The dwarves began to whisper among themselves. Their language, Marach thought, was not dissimilar to that which he had heard spoken by the merchants of Khazad-dûm. One wore an elaborate helmet cast in the shape of a winged lizard. A gout of flame issued from the creature’s throat. It reminded him of his mother’s stories, a home in the far east, now ashes. The other two seemed angry, by their tone, and by the violence of their gestures towards his party. The continued until the helmed dwarf, by all appearances the leader, gave them some signal with her hands, and they disappeared back into the tunnel. She removed her helmet, and addressed Marach, with some difficulty, in his own tongue. “What business brings you here?”
His next words had been carefully memorized. “I am Marach, and I lead a great number of my people out of the east. These are my sons, Malach and Imlach. We seek passage over – or through – these mountains. We have traded frequently, in the past, with your kin in Khazad-dûm, who vouch for our intent.”
He could see Malach rummaging in his bag for the clay tablets. “Here.” He proffered them, cautiously, towards the helmeted dwarf, who examined them with interest.
It was a long time before she spoke. “You are not lying, at least.”
He gestured to his worn cloak, the conspicuously empty sheath at his belt. “Does it look as if I could afford the risk?”
The dwarf raised a substantial eyebrow. “You do not look as if you could afford much of anything, at the moment.” Her tone softened. “Come with me. Your sons stay.”
She leads him, alone, through an opening in the rock. The passage remained narrow - at one point, he was forced to his hands and knees – for about two hundred paces, and then abruptly widened. The scale of the hall beyond pushes, painfully, at the edges of his mind. Six or seven families could pitch their tents within it, and still have room for all their livestock, and more besides. The ceiling is carved with runes in complex patterns, and the stylized images of stars and birds. Soft, white light glances off outcroppings of milky crystal. His guard was waiting for him, near the entrance to another tunnel.
“And you are called -?”
“Alviss, to you.” The dwarf paused to take an oil lamp from the wall of the corridor. The substance burned clear and bright, with no smoke, and carried an unfamiliar scent. She held it above her head, and it took a moment to realize she was offering it to him. “The halls are not lit past this point. I have met very few who are – how shall I say – like you, but I think it is some difficulty to see in the dark.”
The lamp was perfectly round, with no handle. The stone felt warm against his palm. “It is – I should say, we do. Thank you for your kindness.” The stone beneath his feet is smooth and polished. He starts and almost stumbles when he sees that it is also covered in patterns. They walk in silence, save for their own footsteps and the steady, distant drip of water. “What did you mean, like me? I did not think that any other men had passed this way.”
“I mean that they were tall. Hairless. Not quite so tall or so hairless as the Nimîr – no, don’t ask me about the Nimîr, if you have your way you’ll meet them soon enough – and anyway, I met them in the east.” They pass a grotto, lined in different types of moss. He could almost hear the smile in her voice. “When I made my pilgrimage to Durin’s tomb, and sacred Kheled-zâram. They were not so tall as you are, either. Herders, mostly. I learned a little of their language.”
“And why would you do that? I meant no insult, only – we are not a numerous people, or wealthy, or learned.”
“But you are brave, to come such a long way.” Marach noticed that the path is slanting downwards. “I am taking you to see our King, who I hope will help you. They can. They should.”
“I will take no offense should they refuse. Your halls are deep and safe. There is no need to place yourselves in danger for our sake.”
Alviss did laugh, at that. “There are many here who would agree with you. They’re wrong. And they would have us fight alone, trapped beneath the earth, when the time comes.” She reached for the lamp. “That’s not allowed in the council chamber.” She pinches the wick. Marach blinks, and his eyes water in the dark.