It was a spacious and comfortable hall.
The Dwarves had hewn great blocks from grey stone and raised them, using the mountain itself as a roof.
An opening had been cut into the eastern wall to admit the sunlight and the chill air of the Ered Luin, and on the northern wall the craftsmen had carved out a hearth where leaping flames banished the damp and cold of the deeps.
Yet there the comforts ended.
Their strained coffers meant the royal household could not even observe basic hospitality; the teacups offered to guests were of plain wood, a sign of how harshly… hard-pressed these Dwarves were.
Compared to the halls of their ancient kingdoms at Erebor and Khazad-dûm, this chamber was as humble as a peasant’s dwelling.
Had Gandalf not seen that the Dwarf-prince still kept a company of elite guards, he might have feared he had come to the wrong place.
Even so, even one as valiant as Dwalin had begun to worry over the Dwarves’ future.
One could tell from the way he refused to discard a battle-axe that had been weakened by overheating in the forge.
The Grey Wizard silently took all of this in, yet revealed nothing; he merely smiled and sipped the Dwarves’ strong tea.
“Ah…” He sighed softly.
“This is young tea from the Shire, a most nostalgic flavour.” Once the Dwarves were satisfied that the wizard had come with some measure of goodwill, Thorin’s expression softened considerably.
He sat upon a throne carved from the living rock, possessing a natural majesty.
Yet the Dwarf-prince wore no crown, and his garments were plain, save for a golden belt clasped about his waist set with a single ruby.
Wise Balin and valiant Dwalin sat at his feet.
“Esteemed Gandalf,” Balin began, speaking on the prince’s behalf with cautious warmth.
“It is an honour to behold a wizard once more within the halls of the Dwarves.
Durin’s Folk have not forgotten your surpassing insight and peerless lore.
You ever resolved the knottiest of troubles, as silent and gentle as a breeze rippling across a lake.” Gandalf set down his cup, his aged face forming a gentle smile, his eyes gleaming with wisdom.
“Indeed, so it is!
Thrór once sought my counsel on the ruling of his realm; Thráin II inquired of me concerning the tangled paths of fate.
Durin’s line and I are bound by deep ties.
I know many of the Dwarves’ secrets, and I have witnessed both the glory and the ruin of Durin’s Folk in Khazad-dûm, in Erebor, and in the Grey Mountains, an age of mingled honour and tears!” At the mention of their forefathers’ glorious deeds, the faces of Thorin and his kin grew sombre.
The Grey Wizard smiled softly and went on: “Yet all that is past.
Now it is time for Durin’s Folk to set forth upon a new road.
The splendour of the Kingdom under the Mountain must be rekindled by you, Thorin Oakenshield!” The wizard’s voice rang out, deep and threaded with a faint, tantalising allure.
Thorin and his cousins looked up in confusion, glancing at one another.
“I know Dwarves do not lack courage or the will for vengeance.
Yet if Durin’s Folk remain ever in the Blue Mountains, when shall you reclaim your homeland half a world away in the east?
How can a warrior’s blade stay sharp if it never leaves the sheath?” At the wizard’s mention of the homeland usurped by the dragon, a blazing fury kindled in the eyes of the weathered Dwarf-prince upon his throne, a wrath hot enough to sear flesh.
“Dwarves have not forgotten the anguish of losing their home, nor have we neglected the whetting of our blades!” he declared.
“If any man doubts it, let him come and test it for himself!” He glared at the Grey Wizard, seeing in his words a deliberate insult to a noble Dwarf.
Beside him, Dwalin was also ill-pleased, muttering curses under his breath.
Balin, however, remained far calmer and raised his voice: “Gandalf the Grey, wise counsellor of kings, master of deep knowledge!” He drowned out Thorin and Dwalin.
Gandalf turned to him with keen interest.
Such a shrewd Dwarf was rare; it seemed the years had not only added more white to his beard but had also granted him sound judgment, so the wizard mused.
“Though I know not why the wise and learned Grey Wizard visits the halls of the Dwarves at this hour, I trust it is not merely to goad and mock us, poor, homeless Dwarves that we are?” “Certainly not!” Gandalf answered with a smile, drawing back his sharp-edged words.
Thorin, too, now recovered himself.
He knit his brows and addressed the wizard with great displeasure: “Gandalf, if you have some lofty counsel concerning Dwarves, speak plainly.
Fair words and flattering speech are not the manner of a friend.” “But such is a wizard’s nature,” Gandalf laughed heartily, and his mirth dispelled the uneasy air between them.
“Noble and honoured son of Thráin, the valour of the Dwarves and their resolve to reclaim their homeland ought never to be doubted.
For that, I must beg the pardon of Durin’s Folk!” So saying, he rose, leaning upon his staff, and bowed like an aged man before the Dwarf-prince and his cousins.
Thorin and the others were all taken aback, uncertain whether to treat him as a simple, aged Man or a cunning, deep-layered wizard.
“Enough.” The Dwarf-prince leaned wearily back upon his throne of stone, propping his head with one hand, and said listlessly, “I forgive you, Gandalf the Grey.” Still fuming, Dwalin resumed his seat.
Only Balin caught the small smile playing at the corner of Gandalf’s mouth; but, mindful that this was a wizard of unfathomable depths, the old Dwarf wisely kept the observation to himself.
Perhaps the back-and-forth of probing words had exhausted the Dwarves’ patience.
Thorin Oakenshield straightened on his throne and said in a cold voice, “I know not what purpose brings you here.
Wizards ever bewilder folk with ambiguous words that leave the heart uneasy.
Gandalf, I am weary.
If you have no urgent business, you must excuse me.” It was as good as a dismissal.
In truth, Thorin knew well that a wizard would never come to a Dwarf-hall without cause, but he had decided that keeping a respectful distance from one so mysterious was the wiser course.
Left with no choice, Gandalf at last revealed his true purpose.
“Valiant and noble Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin II, heir of the Kingdom under the Mountain, I have words to speak, and I bid you all listen!” The wizard’s previously somewhat shabby form seemed suddenly to grow tall; his aged face blazed with an energy greater than that of a youth.
His voice rose, high and stirring, and his eyes glowed, piercing straight to the heart.
“I bring greetings and a call for aid from Círdan, Lord of the Elves of the North, ruler of Lindon, Master of the Grey Havens, the great Shipwright!
While Dwarves yet linger upon memories of their homeland, restless and uncertain, the Elves of the North bear the burden of holding back the tide of evil!
Indeed, but three days past, ancient Carn Dûm, the capital of the Witch-kingdom of Angmar, has risen anew.
A dreadful evil power gathers swiftly there, nurtured by some dark and unutterable malice.
Among them are Orcs, fell wolves, and dark Men and demons out of the far North.
And at their head is the Pale Orc, Azog the Defiler!” “Impossible!” The Dwarf-prince sprang up in wrath and dread; a terrible aura rose about him.
“Azog that foul and hideous beast died long ago!
I hewed off his arm with my own hand, and he was dragged wailing through the gates of Khazad-dûm by a pack of filthy Orcs, while Dáin rode after him and thrust a blade through his back.
He cannot still live!” Thorin shouted, clutching his head in anguish, his rage distorting his features.
“His screams echoed for a full year as he slowly died in agony; even now his shrieks of torment resound in the deeps of Khazad-dûm!” The Dwarf-prince rounded on Gandalf in fury, crying, “Liar!
You are a liar full of falsehoods!” At this the guards at the door, thinking the parley had broken down once more, drew their swords and axes, rushed in, and surrounded the wizard.
Balin and Dwalin fared little better.
They, too, had lived through the Battle of Azanulbizar in 2799, that dreadful war in which the flower of Dwarven warriors had been all but annihilated, and they had watched countless kinsmen and friends fall.
Thus they stared at the wizard who brought such dire tidings with shock and fury, the blazing wrath in their eyes seeming ready to burst into flame.
But cruelly enough, the truth was grim.
Confronted by the angry Dwarves, the Grey Wizard’s eyelids twitched, yet his reply remained: “I am sorry, Thorin, Balin, Dwalin.
I had no wish to be the bearer of such tidings.
But it is true: Azog the Defiler, in this dark tide, commands the host that is even now assailing the Grey Havens, the final and most hallowed stronghold of the Elves in the North.
This word was brought to me just now by a hummingbird; it cannot be false.” Thorin stood frozen, then the Dwarf-prince, whose blood-feud with the Pale Orc ran bottomless, erupted into wild roars and curses; a torrent of terrible words poured from his lips.
“I curse him!
I curse him and his foul, vomitous spawn!
May they all perish in torment!” “Calm yourself!” At last the Grey Wizard could endure no more; with battle hanging in the balance, he had no time to waste on these obstinate Dwarves.
Gandalf struck his staff upon the ground, and a forceful wave surged outward from him like a gale, sweeping through everyone present.
The Dwarven guards around him were blown to the floor; Thorin and his cousins staggered and reeled; the flames in the hearth guttered and died.
And once more his form seemed to grow immensely tall, and his voice, as if rolling down from the heavens, became deep and terrible.
“I did not bring word of your foe to drive Durin’s Folk into mindless frenzy.
Thorin, the Elves of the North are under assault by a dreadful host of evil.
As a member of the ancient alliance, the Dwarves are bound to come to their aid.” As if struck sober, Thorin’s towering rage cooled a little.
His eyes rimmed red, he motioned for the guards to stay their hands and said coldly to the wizard who had dared enter his hall and peddle this perilous scheme: “By what right?
The alliance between Elves and Dwarves was broken long ago!” Something seemed to cross his mind.
Clenching his teeth, his eyes burning with hate, Thorin said, biting off each word: “Why should I go forth to save the lives of those accursed, pointy-eared folk who stood idly by when Dwarves were in direst need?” He hurled the questions aloud, every word and phrase piercing to the quick.
“Who turned a blind eye to former allies when the dragon ravaged our homeland?
Who shut themselves away in their shadowy, contemptible caves while Dwarves wandered homeless and starved in the wild, contentedly sipping their wines and feasting on fine food?” Gandalf opened his mouth but found no answer.
The weather-beaten Dwarf-prince declared in fury: “It was the Elves!
The faithless Elves!” This time, even Balin could not help but nod in agreement.
There is a saying: the wound that cuts deepest is dealt by those nearest to you.
That the Elves had stood aside in the Dwarves’ greatest hour of need had bred a quiet resentment even in one as wise and steady as Balin.
If Balin felt so, the other Dwarves needed no telling.
The guards who had scrambled to their feet glared at the towering wizard in their midst, eyeing his staff warily.
Gandalf sighed, let the overwhelming presence ebb from him, and once more became a weary old man.
“Thorin, do not let blind hatred cloud your reason,” he said unhappily.
“Lord Círdan is a great and honourable figure; his deeds rank among the foremost even in the long annals of history.
The Elves of the North had no part in the grudge between Durin’s Folk and the Silvan Elves.
If you would speak of grievances, you must go back to the First Age, when the Dwarves seized the Nauglamír and slew the Lord of Doriath.
Are you certain you wish to debate that with me?” Perhaps this tale was so notorious that even headstrong Thorin and Dwalin fell silent.
Among Dwarves there is a version which claims that the Lord of Doriath withheld the Dwarves’ payment, so they seized the Nauglamír as just compensation.
Yet any Dwarf of sound mind knows this account is riddled with flaws.
For even if that were true, why then slay Elwë Singollo, the Lord of Doriath?
That act alone shattered a thousand years of friendship between Dwarves and Elves.
Over this, both kindreds became locked in an undying feud; over this, two great kingdoms declined and passed into the stream of forgotten ages, a lesson worthy of deep reflection.
Both Thorin and Dwalin knew this tale well, and each had his own thoughts on the ancient feud.
Seeing the wizard cunningly use it to silence the Dwarves, all present silently cursed him in their hearts: Sly wizard!
Besides, Círdan of the Grey Havens was indeed a revered elder.
Though Elves and Dwarves had long had little traffic, the deeds of the Northern Elf-lord were still remembered among the long-memoried races, Dwarves and Gondorians alike.
Therefore, Thorin hesitated once more.
He looked at Balin, then at Dwalin, and remained silent.
Seeing the Dwarf-prince begin to waver, the Grey Wizard pressed his persuasion.
“Thorin Oakenshield, why do you still hesitate?
Are Orcs not the common foe of all free and kindly races in Middle-earth?
Are the Dwarves not also dwellers in this land?
If these foul minions succeed in breaking the last and most sacred Elf-haven in the North, do you think the handful of warriors of Durin’s Folk here in the Blue Mountains could stand alone against such a terrible power?” “It is time to decide, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin!” the wizard cried.
“Will you muster the Dwarven host and march to the Gulf of Lune to deliver the beleaguered Lord of the Northern Elves?
There you shall find your foe, and Lord Círdan, who rules the North, has prepared rare treasures for you…” “Hold!” The grim-faced Dwarf-prince, his hands thick-knuckled, cut the wizard off.
“What did you say?” His expression grew strange.
Around him, the bearded guards began muttering among themselves.
Faintly, Gandalf caught words like “treasure” and “gold”, which lent a hint of absurdity to the tense atmosphere.
Gandalf’s face grew wry, a look of exasperation and resignation.
“There you shall find your foe…” “No.
The next part.” “…” In the summer of the year 2931 of the Third Age, after consulting with Balin and other trusted counsellors (though above all, the Dwarves and the Grey Wizard had drawn up a mercenary contract over a hundred pages long, with every manner of fee set down in detail, to the last copper coin) and after quarrelling for nearly three days, the Dwarves at last sounded the deep horns.
Companies of elite Dwarven guards, clad in heavy armour, bearing steel spears and shields, riding upon rams and driving war-chariots, marched in ordered ranks down the winding roads of the Ered Luin from the north.
At their head rode the fully armed Dwarf-prince, Thorin Oakenshield.
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