From the fire is made, evey Dwarven axe and blade!
When the hammer falls, forging weapons for all!
When the hammer falls, songs of battle fill the Halls!
“So you’ll go?”
“I must, lassie. I’ve got no choice.”
Bini’s eyes narrowed; her hands crossed tightly across the chest. She studied the other’s face for a moment, unrelenting.
“You have a choice. You could stay here, with me.”
“And be branded a coward? Stay here, while Father and Lord Dain go to wage war? To reclaim Erebor? Bini...”
“Your beard is barely past your chest, you stubborn oaf! Have you thought what would happen if you didn’t come back? What would be of your brothers? Of Valaya? Of me?”
She pressed an accusing finger against his chest, thrice, perking up on her toes look him closer.
“And what would happen if I didn’t go? I would miss the glorious reclamation of The Kingdom! Of the Mountain! Durin’s Beard, Bini, I’ve been named! I am of the Five Hundred.”
“And you are also young, and foolish, and I... I... Ugh, I don’t know whether to slap you or hug you, you stubborn beard! So just....”
Bini huffed, her fists clenched at the side, steam pouring forth from her anger. With no word, she stormed out of the stone-carved room, leaving Dalbran a very, very confused beard.
“Company! Attention! Ansaru, bekâr! Rakân, bekâr!”
Five Hundred Dwarfs heeded the order. Five hundred shields were put forwards. Five hundred spears were tapped against the ground. At that time, it felt as if they were not merchants, miners, masons or toymakers. At that moment, they were The Five Hundred. Five Hundred Dwarfs, each and every one clad in heavy plate, with the crest of Ironfoot upon their helm.
“To your Captains! Dismissed!”
The voice called out once more, and as neatly as they had fallen in, Five Hundred Dwarfs heeded orders, and broke formation. In the searing mid-day sun, the block of iron spears and broad shields soon turned into long, neat lines of fifty each.
“Sixth Company! At ease, lads, at ease.”
Gurrni appeared before them, bearing his mighty horned helm. Even more now, clad in plate wrought by a skilled hand, covered from head to toe in overlapping steel and mail, he loomed over the other beards, as broad and stout as the very mountain peaks of Ered Mithrin.
“Tomorrow, you leave the Hills. Tomorrow, you embark upon the greatest venture of your time. Tomorrow, you march to Erebor, and to victory! Long have you trained, and you have been named. Your resolve is iron, and your hand is that of the smith. None shall find you wanting. The King has returned! Long Live The King!”
“Long Live The King!”
Fifty voices rang in answer. Across the plateau, the other Captains held a speech not to similar to Gurrni’s. Or so, at least, Dalbran imagined.
“Too long has the Worm taken refuge in our hold. Too long has he dwelled upon the vaults and treasures of old. Too long has he called himself King unde-”
Whatever Gurrni had to say was cut short. For there, sprinting down the vast stairs and winding causeway, came three Dwarfs. Young they were, for no great beards flew from them. Three young lads. No, two lads, and a lass.
“We’re coming with you!”
One of the three resounded, finally stopping to a halt as they reached the end of the steps.
“Yes! Yes! We’re coming with you, and you can’t stop us!”
Dalbran knew that voice too well.
Bini Valsdottir. Besides her, two young beards, both of fiery orange. Donorrin and Dirrun Gurnisson.
“What is this nonsense, lads? Bini? What in Durin’s name do you think you’re doing?
“Well!” Donorrin stepped up, holding up what seemed to be a parchment. “We are now, officially, business associates of Val, Son of Varik! And he has interest in this... venture!”
The Dwarf waved the document in front of his father, beaming with pride.
“We are here to oversee that this remains in the best financial interests of Val, Son of Varik! And that his gold is well spent, y’see.”
The older Dwarf took the parchment in hand, studying it closely, his eyes racing.
“By the order of... in all business and merchant matters...” He mouthed quietly. “This... seems to be in order.” Gurrni grumbled, and returned the paper. “Fine. But you three slack behind the line, and you don’t come anywhere near the fighting, understood?”
“Yes, sir! Understood!” The three beards responded, offering a quick, somewhat jestful salute.
“Very well. Well, if we have no more interruptions...” Ironhelm’s attention turned once more to the line of armoured beards. “Dismissed. I suggest you all get some rest.”
Dalbran tried to catch a glimpse of the three newcomers, peeking up above the melding and roving lines of Dwarfs. The only thing he got, thought, was a wide, cheeky grin of a fair-haired dwarrowdam.
“Durin’s Beard.” He muttered. “Bini Valsdottir, you’ll be the death of me.”
