The Moon of the North
Part I
"The Wolves of Snow"
Great and vast landscapes lay beyond the mountains, beyond the distant horizons. It was in that distance that the object of their desires lay, the final goal of their determined quest. Seven of them there were, seasoned dwarves young and old, bound by blood and companionship. Stocky, hairy and bearded, adorned with packs, trinkets, and all sorts of odd assortments, these dwarrows formed an intriguing little column, as they trudged wearily across the rugged landscapes. Hosgrim Ironbeard was one, a seasoned and grim dwarf, his eyes following the steps of the swarthy Byli, the company’s pathfinder who marched on determined at the head of the column. Thorlaen and Thordralin marched with matching zeal, followed closely by the ever-tipsy Altli and the silent Khalei. At their rear was the youngest dwarrow of the lot – Odda Stonehewn.
Although odd and ragtag, this company of dwarves lacked no passion and determination. As if hewn from stone themselves, these great miners of the deeps - warriors and wild-wanderers – skillfully trekked across the rock and cliff, glade and forest. Clutching the long wooden hafts of their spears and axes, with an odd shield in their midst, the company of the seven was a formidable force. The dwarrow race was hardy and hard to extinguish, known for their prowess in battle and the knowledge of the land and the mountain deeps.
But now they changed the comforts of the great subterranean corridors of the Thorin’s Halls for ancient and rough hewn tunnels in the depths of the far-stretching Blue Mountains. Northwards their journey led them – and northwards meant ice.
Because it was in the great, vast North that their goal lay: the ancient mansion of the dwarves, Kibilzahar. In the tongue of man it was known as Silverhollow, and it lay snug in the snow and ice filled landscapes of the faraway north. Many moons ago, many centuries before the time of these seven travelling dwarves, Kibilzahar thrived. Longbeards journeyed far across the endlessly stretching Blue Mountains, reaching its end near the frozen ice bays of Forochel. And at this very end they chose a strategic location to dig deep into the ageless stone. Decade after decade, the picks and shovels of the dwarves worked tirelessly carving out of the rock a far-reaching system of tunnels and halls. Kibilzahar emerged from nothing: distant and lonesome, it was the northernmost home of the dwarves – far beyond the realms of man and elf.
"The Ancient Silverhollow Slumbers"
But evil cannot be escaped. The all-seeing eye of darkness never rests, and reaches to every hidden nook of the Middle Earth. And so it was that the prosperous and secluded life of Silverhollow was ended. Gathering in the peaks of the Mountains of Angmar across the ice bay, emerging from the deepest tunnels of the Blue Mountains to the south, throngs of foul creatures migrated across the land towards the dwarven mansion. Dark-dwellers of old they were, goblins and cave trolls of the deeps, critters of ages bygone whose minds were bent only on death and destruction. Through the tunnels that stretch beyond the earth, these foul warriors reached the ancient home of the dwarves. Kibilzahar was harassed for many a year – its life of peace violently upturned. The dwarves were many, but their enemies were more – in the face of such restless evil no amount of defiance and fearlessness can survive.
Year by year, month by month, the dwarves of Kibilzahar dwindled. Each beard that fell brought them closer to defeat. For thirty years they fought to retain their home – a bitter war against the invaders. But alas, evil wins. What once was a bustling dwarrow mansion, now fell into ruin and the long darkness. Centuries passed and Kibilzahar – that Silverhollow of old tales – became a long-lost relic of the Dwarves, a dark hole infested with many a foul thing.
But so long as the memory of the dwarven kin serves, Kibilzahar will not be abandoned. Many times the occasional dwarrow attempted to set foot into those dark halls, only to meet the uncertainty of the fate that lies within. And with this ancient tale of Silverhollow echoing in their minds, the seven dwarves – friends and blood-brothers – ventured forth, through tunnel and mountain peak, to find their way north and to reclaim what was lost.
“By Durin’s Beard!” – Altli exclaimed, perplexed. The middle-aged dwarf was all hair and beard – with ragged clothes and crude weapons emerging from beneath all the bushy hair. Perched on top of his head was an archaic helmet with a candle in its middle, which threw a faint light on the creases of his face. “I’d kiss a troll for a keg of ale right about now!”
“Quit yer squawking, boy!” Hosgrim Ironbeard grumbled. “We’d all line up and kiss him, too. No need to go hollerin’ on about it.”
“Boss is rather grumpy, again.” The rearmost dwarf, Odda, said under breath to Altli.
“’Tis the lack of ale, lad.” Khalei said warily. “We’re all a tad bit jumpy ‘cause of it.”
Altli kept trudging along, a curiously content expression settled on his face.
“I ain’t complainin’ one bit!” he said, pouting proudly.
“That is because you keep stuffing your gullet with that foul drink o’ yours!” Thordralin butted in, overhearing the conversation. A seasoned veteran of the company, Thordralin was a comely dwarrow, his long hair and finely combed beard fiery red.
“Foul?” Altli replied incredulously. “By Durin’s Houseslippers! I’ll have you take that back. My onion cider is the finest brew this side of the Blue Mountains. For twelve winters it lay in the barrel – it is priceless!”
By now, the conversation could be heard by the entire column. Soon enough the grumbles and the chuckles of the dwarves formed a unified humming that was a telltale sign of a dwarven company.
“Aye, priceless indeed!” Hosgrim threw in, his mood somewhat improved, “Priceless ‘cause no one wants to buy it!”
The entire column burst out laughing, all at once. Trudging stopped and voices roared high as the raucous laughter consumed all seven dwarves. Thorlaen was on his knees racked by laughter, while Thordralin and Hosgrim were in tears. Even Altli laughed incessantly, even though the joke was on him. He roared and roared until drool ran down his beard.
The truth was, these dwarrows needed little to be pushed into a merry mood – it was what kept them going at the day’s end.
“Wrazhunnu patulhu ka gorrey houchidh!” a rough, thundering voice suddenly pierced the laughter.
Rasping and commanding, it echoed through the small valley and bounced from the surrounding cliffs, sounding larger-than-life. The dwarrows at once tensed up and grasped their odd weaponry, eyes darting to and fro for the source of the voice.
“The little half-things too loud,” the same voice continued, “make easy to slaughter them.”
“Yer welcome to try!” Hosgrim Ironbeard exclaimed, even though the speaker could not be seen. By now he realized that the company was ambushed, and he cursed under his breath. “Show yourself!”
“Slaughter?!” Odda Stonehewn asked, “What does he mean by that!?”
But the rasping, deep voice only continued, its source unseen.
“Little men no good in our land. Bring iron and big eye. Kurijakku, do voiju!”
In a blink of an eye, the snowy woods that surrounded the company of the dwarves came to life. What seemed to be snow suddenly rose up, snow laden pines rustled, and large boulders sprang forth. Tall and burly men they turned out to be, masters of disguise and camouflage, clad in skins of wolves and bones of men and animals alike. They clutched primitive spears made of wood and flaked stone, the rough points directed at the seven dwarves.
“Gauredain”, Thorlaen muttered, the worry in his voice obvious to all. “Wild men of the North.”
“Aye.” Altli agreed. He was all serious now, markedly different than just a few moments before. “Seems we at last ventured to the real North.”
"Gauredain On the Prowl"
But that fleeting moment of silence that followed as the tension rose between the two hirsute groups was abruptly cut by a loud exclamation. Hosgrim Ironbeard held his long-hafted axe in front of him, battle ready.
“Baruk Khazâd!”, his voice rang out loud and powerful, its timbre full of zeal and inspiration.
And above them all, the moon shone full and bright.
To Be Continued
