Groping through the inky black suffocating, smothering void. Following a tiny flickering star, a writhing rose of illumination casting a milky glow on the way ahead, the heaps of crumbled masonry, sudden yawning chasms on one side or the other – or both- of the path ahead. Once, long ago, the way had been lit by a cleverly placed system of mirrors, many of which were still in place. For even orcs cannot see in utter cave darkness. Which was the reason Rhavanielle had chosen this path, grueling though it may be. The map she had been given was made when the city was well travelled and populated by the industrious people of Durin and visited by elves and men eager to trade and share in the renowned knowledge and craft of Hadhodrond. The map was, however accurate only in the abstract. For decline, neglect, vandalism and war had all combined to reduce the storied halls and highways to an abysmal state. Besides, the map had been made for travellers, who though common, were not entrusted with knowledge of Khazad Dum's many secret halls, armories and workshops. A people who would not teach their own language to strangers were hardly likely to entrust them with a detailed plan of their most sacred city.
The elf stood in contemplation for a moment, risking a little more light on her chosen path. The little ball flared brightly prompting a chittering in the velvet shadows as the weird blind cave beetles scuttled into deeper crevices. She wore a light silk shirt with a leather vest over it and a thigh length leather kilt, long wool socks and sturdy boots which was plenty of clothing in the vague heat of the under-earth. On her back she carried a rucksack with her heavier clothing and a good supply of food, all of which she'd need at various stages of her planned journey. On her belt she was girt with a good sword of Imladris and she carried a stout staff of Fangorn ash. Her auburn hair was tucked beneath a simple leather hat acquired in the market of Esgaroth long ago.
She had found herself in a round chamber perhaps thirty paces across. Three portals led out of the room, one of which she had come in through. Of those remaining, one was filled with stairs leading steeply upward. The other led straight on into the dark. She consulted the map again and had to admit that she was well and truly lost. The stairs were badly damaged and the floor nearby that doorway was covered in chunks of rock. On closer inspection, she realized the rock was ore, for her deva spark illumined scintillating specks of silver. Strange. For there was no mining track at hand. It was only after picking up some of the stones that she saw that underneath the heap of ore was a skeleton. Several skeletons. Covered in badly rusted armor, the leather fittings of which had dried into dust long ago, the remains she judged those of orcs, for the armor was mismatched and the remains of knives and other weapons were roughly made and devoid of discernable aesthetic canon beyond their simple, deadly purpose. To orcs, murder and torture was the only art they were allowed and they developed it to a high pitch of perfection. These orcs, however had met their end under an avalanche of ore stones cast from above.
She sniffed at the straight way and made herself utterly still, listening intently. For the first time in what must have been two days, her ears detected distant sound beyond the weird and occasionally dangerous natural denizens of the cave world. For an instant there was a distant shuffling sound. Followed by a harsh echoing cry. Orcs? The sound came from up the stairs. She could not afford to be guided by idle curiosity. And had less interest still in having a run-in with goblins. But the debris choked stairway also exuded a faint breath of cooler air. She felt a sense of relief mingled with the trepidation of what the sounds might portend. If she felt fresh air now when she was nowhere near either of the gates then her goal must be near at hand!
Rhavi picked her way carefully over the rubble. As she ascended, she had to thread through heaps of orc skeletons, whose armor had been pierced by dwarf arrows, the shafts of some still protruded from helms and ribcages. The seemingly interminable stairway at last ended in a doorway framed by the geometrically intricate arabesques favored by the dwarves. At the top she had to make her way through a veritable thicket of remains. The orcs were now intermingled with dwarf remains. A great battle had come to a climax here long ago and she could almost feel the anguish of the Naugrim who resolutely held the choke point until exhaustion at last stayed their hands and the orcs won the hall at last.
She mentally asked her light to travel the room and saw the outlines of the hall she was in. A great octagonal chamber, the center of which was occupied by a great forge carved from the living rock. The remnant of a series of billows lay about the floor nearby, a vast expanse decayed leather, portions of which hung from the ceiling like brittle stiff banners or lay on the floor like a giant's dessicated corpse. The heavier metal parts lay scattered about on the floor and she wondered that the orcs had not scavenged the copious quantities of metal from the now long cold forge. But then there was a copious supply of metals to be scavenged in Moria.
Satisfied that she knew were she was, she put her back to the side of the forge and set a stylus to the map, sketching in her finds and copying a very singular diagram and series of runes engraved into the face of the monstrous forge. It was after stowing the notes and putting her rucksack back on that she heard another sound. The snuffling again. This time, much closer at hand. And then a soft rustling and a subtle noise of a shifting on loose gravel. Upward. To the right. She whispered and the deva's soft light faded. She discerned a subtle and dim light sifting forth from the wall. The outline of a door at the head of a short flight of narrow steps revealed itself. She had hardly put her open hand to the cold stone of the door when it was flung wide. Rhavanielle and a gnarled little goblin carrying a scourge stood in surprised wonderment staring at one another in shock. Before either could act, the scholar's little spirit companion flared to a stunningly brilliant life. It was as though a lightning bolt had landed betwixt them. Rhavanielle had the advantage in an instant, the goblin's eyes being completely unable to assimilate such a flash of pure light. She brought her staff down in an instant and the goblin collapsed with a split skull before it could utter so much as a cry. Rhavanielle blinked. The light had gone, the deva's spark receding to a scarcely visible phosphorescence. She had walked into what must have been a storage room for tools. Wooden pegs sprouted in regimented rows from empty cabinets. Fixed to the wall were iron loops and hanging by the wrists from one of these was the form of a dwarf.
Stripped to the skin, the figure was surely unlovely. Hairy and knottily muscled, certain anatomical details left its gender in no doubt. The victim had been treated to at least one extended session with the whip and his body had long slices, some still oozing blood which had coalesced in a sticky pool under the body.
She dragged the dead goblin inside and shut the heavy door behind. The dwarf stirred from his tormented swoon , eyes wide in astonishment at the latest visitor.
The elf strode swiftly to the wretch and unfastened the leather bonds with deft fingers. The dwarf's feet slapped to the floor and he groaned with pain as aching limbs were allowed once more to assume their natural proportion. His modesty long since compromised, he simply sketched a weary bow, prompting a wince of pain.
“Sfeithi Longshanks, son of Ossvalt Shatterhand. I am in your debt,” he announced.
She looked him up and down. “Long shanks?” she asked.
The dwarf sighed “Long story. And, I am told, funny. I'd tell you but this is no time for mirth. They'll be back. The others went to report my capture, I reckon,” he said. “Can you spare me your cloak, perhaps, madam?” Sfeithi the dwarf rolled the goblin over and took a weapon from the creature's belt. A wicked, curved knife of black iron. Black iron made blacker with his own dried blood. He smiled grimly and caught the cloak she tossed. Rhavanielle turned away as he fashioned himself an ad hoc skirt with the fine green cloak.
He spoke again saying. “I owe you my life, elf. By what name may I know call my deliverer?” he said, bowing low as she turned around.
“Rhavanielle Arbellesun of Greenwood!” she announced casually.
“Mirkwood?” he asked. His voice betrayed not a trace of guile, so she could hardly stay insulted long.
“Mirkwood, yes. It wasn't always so murky. I don't remember it ever being otherwise. But we hope for better times.”
Sfeithi sighed and tightened his makeshift kilt. “So do we all. How did you find this place?” he asked. “The orcs have a great camp nearby. I wasn't aware there was any other way in here.”
Rhavanielle pondered this news. “They're in the Redhorn Lodes?”
Sfeithi nodded and grimaced. “Thousands of them. Like ants. We were scouting the Lodes. Came up from the east...There are three big chambers full of them. I assume that was where the ore was broken up before being brought up to the forge here back in Durin's day. I didn't get much of a look at it. They were beating me along the path and then they stuck a sack on my head, stripped me naked and beat me some more. I thought I was done for!”
“My understanding is we can get to Durin's Way now easily enough,” she said, looking off at her mental map. “There's a stairway behind me that'll get us there. I had hoped though to press onward to the Twenty-First Hall once I'd located this forge.
Sfeithi set his jaw. “Well, we can see. I'm in no shape for serious fighting as you can see.”
She shrugged. “Nor am I. Or not much. But I'm no without resources,” she said and stepped back into the vaulted forge chamber. The pair made their way silently down another stair to the southeast that resolved itself in a long hall. Sfeithi wondered at Rhavanielle's little deva.
“What's its name?” he asked.
“I don't know,” she said, suddenly at a loss. She'd been communing silently with the spark which had answered her call in the marshy area round about the pool by the Hollin Gate. But the thoughts that passed between them were strange to mortal beings and names were quite beside the point. She walked in silence a while the spark leading the way “There are many spirits in Middle-Earth. Some good. Some bad. Some don't think about us at all one way or another. This one was happy to lend me the aid I required. The boon it asked for in return was to be fed.”
“Fed?” he asked, watching the little ball of light bobbin gently ahead of them.
Rhavanielle nodded. “Oh yes. It feeds on feelings. Fear. Anger. The orcs supply plenty of anger and fear and I've had occasion to slake its hunger.”
“It kills orcs?” he asked incredulously.
She shook her head. “No, no. It can't really harm anyone. I have to manage that on my own. But it surely seems to terrorize them. The light of it pains orcs, even when it's dim. I can see its true shape and so can they, which scares them even more. But you are mortal and that sight is not given to you.”
Sfeithi left off asking about the faerie light. The more he learned from his rescuer, the more he felt he was in danger of feeding it fear of his own. As he considered this point, the thing flared briefly. He shivered and sent his mind elsewhere. “Why has an elf-woman come alone to Moria? Surely there are no treasures here that you lack,” he asked. His tone was respectful but deeply suspicious.
“There is something I want here,” answered Rhavanielle guardedly. “it's my own errand. A fool's hope I suppose. But I've followed the trail this far and I won't be stopped.”
“You are bold,” he said, surprised and a little skeptical. “What is this something? What is here is the patrimony of my people.”
“The people of Durin had many dealings with the outside world once upon a time. Your memory is scarce longer than that of Men, unless it be some grudge. That you will hold for a hundred generations.”
Sfeithi bristled, brows stiffening visibly. Impudent elf, he thought. But she spoke on before he could make an objection.
“I see you are insulted. Don't be. There is much about your own history others of your people may well know but you yourself do not. In elder times, the people of Durin's line had much trade with their kin in Beleriand. Trade that was often in ideas, not mere objects or goods. There was an archivist that once lived here who compiled the earliest tales told by the dwarven fathers and passed on in oral tradition for millenia. It was considered too sacred to be committed to writing. Not even in Khuzdul. However during the time of Eregion, dwarves of Moria allowed many hints to slip. There were many projects both peoples worked on together, which required some secrets to be divulged. And my people are if nothing assiduous in making records.”
Sfeithi's expression softened. Or rather it mutated from veiled anger to befuddlement. “Of what interest to an elf is the tradition of the dwarves? And what business is it of yours anyway? Elves! Always nosing around in other people's affairs.”
“My interest is not in meddling, my stout friend,” she answered. “I found a map tucked away in the libraries of Imladris. The notations are all in the tongue of the Naugrim and that is not taught to outsiders. But some little is known and of what is not, I have been able to tease out some. And much guesswork and wasting of time beside. The map was held to be a guide to a chamber of records wherein the answers I seek may be found in the form of a map made by the men of Westernesse. A great treasure to your own folk as well, I dare say!”
The two of them walked carefully down the road away from the orc-camps, Sfeithi's mind whirling. “What do you think these precious records contain? You're risking your life for some old stories?” He was beginning to think the woman was witless. Perhaps elves were as crazy as they said.
“A map of the territories beyond the steppe of Rhun...compiled by the people of Erebor,” she said.
“Look here, woman,” Sfeithi retorted, shaking his head. “Don't you people have your own accounts of this sort of thing? Isn't that sufficient for your perverse curiosity? And what do you think is there? Beyond the eastern edge of the world...”
“Knowledge of the true nature of mithril.”
Sfeithi stopped in his tracks, prompting Rhavanielle to spin round to face him. The little deva spark hovered between them, bathing their faces in a pallid fluorescence.
“Hold on just a minute, skinnylegs,” he laughed. “If you took all the tales dwarves tell one another in ale halls about mithril lodes and emeralds the size of mountains and chased them all down, you'd soon find yourself ragged. But suit yourself. You've got a thousand years to piss away in some pointless search for something that doesn't matter to anyone. You've saved my life. The least I can do in repayment is save you some time. And maybe your life too. You go traipsing around those plains and you'll end up being dragged behind someone's chariot or if you're lucky a concubine for some chief. Those people out there are savages!”
Rhavanielle nodded, waiting for him to finish. “Of course they are. But I don't plan to get on a horse and ride. I'm taking a ship.”
“Well good luck with that. I've got my own concerns. One of them is staying alive. Now lets get going before those orcs figure out what happened.” He set out with a determined air, the elf following along in his train like a high counsellor for a diminutive monarch. “What do you want to know about the nature of mithril, anyway? It's not as though it hasn't been worked for millenia by my people and your own. And Men as well!”
“Mithril is used for metal work, aye. And employed in the making of runes for sorcery.”
Sfeithi frowned. “I”m not familiar with sorcery...”
“Well, I am. But during the Second Age, Celebrimbor and Narvi performed certain experiments with mithril.”
“I'd not be surprised. And still...so what?” Sfeithi had given up hoping that the girl would make any sense, but still, he was as eager as any dwarf to hear new tales of the fabled Narvi.”
“So you are educated. You know the story of the Deceiver who stole the craft of ring-making from the Mirdain working in Ost in Edhil. Well, as you must also be aware, the three elven rings were made in secret. One each for air, fire and water. But you wouldn't be the first to note that one element is missing from this sequence.”
“Earth, yes. But history is what it is. There is no tale of a fourth elven ring,” Sfeithi sighed.
“That's because it was never wrought. Sauron acted too quickly,” she said. Her voice carried a note of triumph.
“You're off your head, missy,” the dwarf answered. “You're going to make a fourth ring of power?” He stopped and looked at her, prompting her to halt in her tracks. Sfeithi had to chuckle at her again. “You're like a wet-behind-the ears dwarf of a hundred summers. You got ahold of some information somewhere and you think you're going to change the world with it. How many magical rings have you made?” he asked, beginning to walk again.
“Well...none...but I know someone who can do it. Provided I get the knowledge I seek.” The elf seemed very convinced.
“Again, this is your affair. I just want to get back to my camp. Maybe you'll find someone there who's intrigued by all this mystical talk. I just want supper and a cup of tepid ale and I'll be happy. Or happier.”
The pair were compelled once to hide from a party of orcs that emerged loudly at a crossroads. The two score squat misshapen goblins were in a hurry, fast marching toward the way they had come. Clearly her casual murder had been remarked and the alarm given. None of the orcs so much as paused, the pack passing amidst a rattle of arms and tromp of iron-shod boots on stone. After that, Rhavanielle and Sfeithi heard not so much as a sound beside their own breathing and the soft pad of his bare feet. The dwarf took note of the almost complete silence of his new friend.
They found Durin's Way shortly. A long highway set on either side with guard houses. Some of these were occupied by orcs, but those attendant seemed singularly unattentive to their duties and it was without overmuch difficulty that they made the First Hall.
