A grey light grows in the eastern sky, and rays of salmon-pink stain the peaks of the Misty Mountains. Dawn breaks upon the world, and two Dwarf merchants arrive with their caravan. In the High Pass they are halted by a gruesome scene...
'By my beard!' exclaimed the portly merchant. 'What devilry has come to pass this night?'
All about them lay a great carnage: where snow had been white, now all was stained dark; there were many corpses, hideous and black, and some were without limb, and others were so hewn that they could not be recognised.
'Goblins,' murmured the other. 'Half a score of them, by my count.'
The dwarves then looked up and recoiled.
There in a rank were erected wooden poles amid the slaughter, man-high in length, and they were equally spaced apart. Upon each was thrust a goblin head, and the torment of their dying moments lingered upon every face. All told, they indeed numbered half a score.
'A goblins' feud perhaps?' asked the merchant, who had not dared move from the seat of his caravan.
'It is certainly not the work of Elves, or our own kin,' said the other. 'But I do not read any sign of in-fighting either. Nor do I think that those heads were placed by other goblins.'
'What do you mean?'
'They are too high,' he answered. 'Whoever planted them must be large indeed. And have you noticed the spares?'
He pointed toward two extra poles along the rank, but unlike the others they bore no heads.
'We have been expected,' said the dwarf, and there he gave a dark look.
'Mahal save us!' cried the merchant. 'Then let us escape whilst the sun is coming up!'
But as they made ready to leave there came suddenly a thumping sound, followed by a great shadow that loomed over the dwarves. It barred their way, and a deep growl came, earthy and rich, and it spoke one word of demand:
'Toll.'
