Dwarves

The weather was poor that morning, and the sun kept slipping in and out of the clouds. As Allen made his way through the mountains, he grumbled inwardly, feeling that Arien, the deity of the sun, had not been steering his solar vessel properly today. Of course, he only dared complain a little in his head, never aloud.

By then, two hours had passed since they had escaped the tunnels of the Misty Mountains.

A little over two hours earlier, after Bolg had broken through Allen's blockade and fled toward Orc Town in a panic, Allen had hurriedly gathered all his soldiers. They had barely cleared the battlefield, taking only Bolg's Giant Net before having those who still had the strength carry the wounded and rescued captives. He had intended to retrace their steps and escape the tunnels of the Misty Mountains.

At that moment, an elderly dwarf among the rescued captives had stirred weakly on Allen's back and said, "We absolutely cannot go that way. This place is far too close to Orc Town. I know another hidden exit we dwarves stumbled across when we attacked the Half-orcs years ago. Those Half-orc whelps might not even know that route exists. We can take it. Cough, cough, cough..."

The elderly dwarf coughed a few times, rested briefly, then continued, "You cannot simply walk back like this, either. If you do, the Wargs can follow your scent all the way home. You would not want those wolf pups coming to your door in the middle of the night, would you? I see you have a way to start fires. You can pile up the Half-orc corpses here and burn them all. The stench of scorched bodies filling the tunnels will confuse the Wargs' noses. What do you say, human lad?"

Allen readily accepted the elderly dwarf's advice. He was no stubborn fool. Why choose a more dangerous course when he had a better suggestion? Besides, this old dwarf they had just rescued was hardly likely to help the Half-orcs lure them into a trap. In this era, the grievances between the dwarves and Half-orcs living in Rhovanion were too numerous to recount.

Soon, following the elderly dwarf's advice, Allen led his men in piling a great many Half-orc corpses at the entrance to the river channel, dousing them with fire oil, and setting them ablaze.

Then, paying no further attention to the burning Half-orc corpses, they followed the elderly dwarf through the winding tunnels. After roughly fifteen minutes, they found an exit shining with daylight and left the tunnels of the Misty Mountains.

What Allen did not know was that, just as they emerged from the tunnels, Bolg had charged back to the river channel. Had Allen followed his original plan, he would inevitably have had to fight Bolg once more in the tunnels.

By then, however, Allen was in no mood to concern himself with such things. His elders had always told him that climbing a mountain was easier than descending one, and this time he finally understood. On the way up, everyone had been full of energy. Although the path had been difficult, at least their spirits and stamina had been good.

Now they were descending, with Otta, who knew the forest better, leading the way. Quite apart from how difficult the path was, they had spent most of the past two days and one night trekking long distances, slept for only six hours, and fought the Half-orcs along the way. Everyone was utterly drained. The soldiers who were in slightly better shape still had to carry the rescued captives and wounded on their backs or on stretchers. A heavy silence hung over the whole party as they trudged onward without a word. It was not that they were in a bad mood; they were simply too exhausted.

Although Allen was tired as well, he was in quite good spirits. This trip had not only brought back Beorn's family, but also yielded three dwarves and two Silvan Elves.

After eating a little food and drinking some water, the dwarves had already recovered somewhat. The two young fellows could now walk slowly with someone supporting them. They certainly lived up to their race's reputation for strength and endurance. It also had to be mentioned that their greed was famous, though of course that was merely one "insignificant" trait among their many qualities.

The two elves, however, were in terrible condition. Their many scars and vacant eyes made it clear just how inhumanely the Half-orcs had treated them. Their ravaged souls had taken a tremendous toll on their bodies. Now, under the care of Allen's men, they had just closed their eyes. In truth, elves did not need to make a special effort to sleep. If necessary, they could even sleep while running. Allen guessed that they were trying to soothe their wounded hearts.

The old fellow on Allen's back was another matter entirely. His name was Furdin. Of the two younger dwarves, one was his nephew, Frey, and the other was his old friend's son, Tyr. Their party of more than twenty had been preparing to cross the Misty Mountains and visit relatives in the Blue Mountains, where some of Durin's Folk still lived. He also had an extremely distant connection to Thorin Oakenshield, the ruler of the dwarves in the Blue Mountains. This was because he had an equally distant connection to Dáin II, the Dwarf King of the Iron Hills, and therefore naturally had a connection to Thorin as well. It was all too complicated for Allen to fully understand.

Dwarves were a long-lived race. By the Third Age, they could usually live for more than 250 years, and even this reflected a considerable decline. In the more distant past, they had lived longer still. They placed great importance on family ties throughout their lives, especially the bond between father and son. Furdin's son had followed Thorin Oakenshield to the Blue Mountains, which was why Furdin had wanted to gather some companions and travel there to see how his own son was getting along.

For reasons everyone knew-namely, the troubles between the dwarves and the Silvan Elves-Furdin and his companions had not chosen to take the Old Forest Road to the Misty Mountains. Instead, they had risked passing through the city-state of Dale, which was effectively ruled by an evil dragon, skirting the Greylin at the northern edge of Mirkwood before heading toward the Misty Mountains. Of course, they might not have known that the Old Forest Road was no longer safe either, and that the Wood-elves had abandoned their lands there.

They had been lucky enough to escape the notice of Smaug, who slept on his gold every day, but they had greatly underestimated how active the Half-orcs were in the Wilderland. Furdin was an old dwarf warrior who had fought at Azanulbizar, the Battle of Moria. As he remembered it, they should have slaughtered nearly all the Half-orcs in the Misty Mountains. Yet they had barely crossed the Greylin when they encountered Bolg out hunting. Dwarves were generally formidable fighters, all brave and seasoned warriors, but as the old saying went, two fists could not fend off four hands. Nor could they outrun Warg Riders in the wilderness. After most of their party died in battle, they had suffered the humiliation of capture. Now only Furdin and his two companions remained alive.

The old dwarf rambled on at length from Allen's back, from introducing himself to recounting their capture, from the past glories of Durin's Folk to the present prosperity of the Iron Hills. He warmly invited Allen to visit his home in the Iron Hills, promising to serve the finest food and wine in thanks for saving his life.

In truth, compared with humans, most dwarves were generally quite honest. As long as vast quantities of gold or magnificent gems were not involved, they usually kept their oaths. But that did not include old dwarves who had lived a very long time. It was not that they would fail to fulfill their promises, but that they hid what they wanted within those promises.

Allen understood what Furdin was thinking. The old dwarf needed Allen to escort them back to the Iron Hills, but Allen had no intention of doing so, at least not yet. It was not that he had never considered how to help them get home. He had thought it over repeatedly and simply could not come up with a good solution.

In Allen's current circumstances, he could not take an army out for one or two months to escort them home, then spend another one or two months returning. It was not a matter of how much it would cost. It was simply too difficult for a village that had only just settled down.

Still, there was a way, though it would require the help of the two elves. Nothing could be discussed until they recovered.

So Allen tactfully said that he would surely have an opportunity to visit the Iron Hills someday. He also greatly admired their king, Dáin II, and would need Furdin to introduce him when the time came. For now, however, his village needed rebuilding in every respect, so he probably could not go anytime soon. Allen did not rule it out entirely, though. Instead, he casually suggested that, if the two Silvan Elves recovered well, he would consider escorting them back to Mirkwood first. That would allow him to take Furdin and his companions through Mirkwood to the Iron Hills, saving a great deal of time and making the journey relatively safe.

Furdin scoffed at the suggestion of escorting the elves home first, but with his wealth of experience, he knew it was the best solution. Even so, he did not leave it at that. From Allen's back, he began lavishly praising his nephew, saying that Frey was an experienced blacksmith, especially skilled at forging weapons. If Allen needed one-no, old Furdin was certain that Allen's village needed such an experienced blacksmith-he hoped Allen could give Frey a job.

Allen had no reason to refuse such a request. He said that Frey would be more than welcome to work as the village blacksmith, and that he would certainly pay him very well.

Once Allen agreed, old Furdin finally breathed a sigh of relief and fell silent. Before long, he was asleep on Allen's back. After talking nonstop all along the way, the old fellow was tired too.

Allen finally had some time to sort out his thoughts and recall what he knew about the dwarves of this world-a brief review, to avoid being accused of padding.

To Allen, the circumstances of the dwarves' birth already foretold their troubled fate. Aulë, the craftsman among the Valar, had created them without permission from Ilúvatar, the Father of All. Nor had Aulë possessed enough power to create flawless living beings. At first, the newborn dwarves had been like puppets, possessing only the faintest instinct, an instinct to survive. When Ilúvatar learned of this, he rebuked Aulë. Though Aulë could not bear it, he chose to destroy the dwarves he had created with his own hands. The merciful Ilúvatar saw Aulë's obedience and also perceived that small instinct for survival within the dwarves. He forgave Aulë, adopted the dwarves as his children, and granted them souls, allowing them to multiply in Arda. Yet Ilúvatar also forbade the dwarves from awakening before his firstborn children, the elves, and his secondborn children, humans.

Allen always felt that the dwarves were treated like unwanted stepchildren. Fate had not left them in peace after that.

This was especially true of Durin's Folk in the Third Age. They had fallen from prosperity into decline, driven by a Balrog from their ancient homeland of Khazad-dûm, or Moria, to the Lonely Mountain. Then they had migrated from the Lonely Mountain to the Grey Mountains, only to be driven back to the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills by Cold-drakes. After finally enjoying a period of peaceful life in the Lonely Mountain, they had once again been attacked, this time by the evil dragon Smaug, and driven back to the Blue Mountains. Countless tragic figures had emerged along the way.

The one Allen regretted most was Thorin Oakenshield. After enduring untold hardships and finally reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, he had died at Azog's hands in the end. Allen had always wondered whether Thorin Oakenshield, having overcome dragon-sickness, might have ruled the dwarves better than Dáin II and resisted the Darkness in the north.

Of course, it had to be said that their turbulent fate was certainly connected to their greedy nature. Yet Allen sometimes wondered whether this was Ilúvatar, the Father of All, punishing the dwarves in a roundabout way. Humans were greedy too, but they lacked the dwarves' skill at creating wealth. Human greed always manifested itself in betrayal and the slaughter of their own kind. As a result, they did not attract powerful creatures of other races with excessive wealth and bring disaster upon themselves.

Still, the dwarves' craftsmanship truly was second to none, and Allen was delighted that his village would soon have a dwarf craftsman of its own.