Borin the Long-Limbed, Dwarf of Erebor, FF by Inarus. Book II: Hithaeglir - Chapter VII: Touching Daylight
Here follows the tale of Borin the Long-Bearded, Dwarf of Erebor:
Book I: Ered Mithrin
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Chapter I: March to War
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:March to War
Borin was exhausted.
The dwarven army thundered across the low hills of the Grey Mountains, fifty thousand strong, it was a tremendous number and every dwarf-wife was proud of it. The King of the mighty race had considered conscription to fill the ranks but the mere advertising of the destination ensured a full army. The dwarven race was marching to Khazad-Dum but first the orc fiefdoms upon the Grey Mountains were to be pacified – and by pacification they meant extermination.
Thus the mighty dwarven legions marched under the gathering storm clouds of Middle-earth, at this moment the Wildmen of Dunland were causing unrest on the borders of Rohan and orcs were massing in the fallen realm of Arnor, it made one wonder if there would ever be peace in Middle-earth.
Within the First Dwarven Legion, Borin the long-bearded dragged his weary feet through the trampled soil, longing for a pint of a tavern’s finest ale.
And just as that thought drifted through his mind the shout of, ‘Goblins!’ echoed through the ranks. He readied his walking axe which so far had been an efficient prop to keep him standing, from his back he took his shield and clasped it to his side; the shield was decorated with the same markings as those that shone in the moonlight upon Khazad-Dűm’s West Gate bordered with a rim of silver.
‘Arrows!’ came a shout and the shields rose over their heads so that the lines of legions resembled a silver tortoise. The heavy slamming of metal tips upon stern steel echoed in the dwarves’ ears as they waited, some did so calmly for they were veterans; most such as Borin were terrified.
The arrow-fire eventually subsided for (surprisingly) the goblin archers were sensible (if that was the word) enough to not shoot their allies. A moment later the goblins leapt from the hillside and landed upon the roof of shields which immediately lowered to reveal sharp axes and all that could be seen was obscured in a mist of black blood.
Borin also saw little, a blur of motion above him, things kept leaping onto his back but a swipe of his axe removed them though it was awkward to move his weapon in close quarters. ‘Loose formation!’ an officer shouted and everyone spaced out and free from restriction they wielded their blades with precision and no goblin could withstand them for they were heavily trained dwarves despite never facing a foe that was aiming to kill rather than to train.
Borin looked up as he heard the twang of bowstrings, his voice rose above the din, ‘Arrows!’ and the shields rose once more and the clanging echoed across the hillside.
Upon a crag that spurred out from the mountainside a goblin stood, flanked by his personal guard. His age was lost though he had seen many things, Sauron’s fall but one of them. He was armed in an array of weaponry, harsh knives that his drunken serfs would claim to be gifted to him by the greatest of the nine, a tall staff cut from mallorn that was taken in a raid upon Lothlórien before the fall of Dol Guldur. His name was Azurhg III and he was lord of the fiefdom of Ered Mithrin, servant only to the great Goblin-King of Mount Gundabad, Capital of all that was orcish.
There Azurhg III stood and then sounded the recall for the battle was lost.
Chapter II: The Mouth of the Caverns
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:The Mouth of the Caverns
Borin looked in and looked back; for once he favoured the sunlight.
They were a thousand feet up at the source of the Forest River of Eryn Lasgalen; Borin stood beside the stream where it cascaded down to where the rocky crags smoothed and levelled into moss-covered slopes, ahead the watercourse emerged from the darkness of a deep cavern with a collection of orcish inscriptions carved into the stone around the entrance.
‘Abandon all hope, foes of Azurhg the Mighty,’ a dwarf, Kirin, read; his knowledge of orcish had been learnt in an earlier campaign against the Withered Heath, he had been captured by Wildmen under orcish command and sold for ransom, he was one of the rare, fortunate ones. ‘Azurhg the Mighty was the Second, he was slain Up North.’ – “Up North” was a term used by dwarves to describe the Withered Heath for by 140 F.A. the burnt and blackened lands were bitter with blizzards of snow and hail.
Borin raised his battle axe, double edged, heavy and required two arms to be wielded well. He stepped forward slowly, his task was simple, explore the mouth of the caverns that would lead deeper and deeper to the goblin strongholds in the heart of the Grey Mountains, they were not to go far, to retreat should they come under heavy assault, to be back within the hour – though how could you tell the hour underground?
Slowly the First Dwarven Legion entered and it was swallowed up. Within the darkness the Dwarves raised burning torches to lead the way into the nothingness; the drip, drip, drip reverberated in the gloom and the echoes of their footsteps seemed distant, almost as if they came from in front rather than behind.
But no, the torchlight stretched far and naught could be seen, fear clutched at their hearts as the darkness closed in around them; tap, tap, tap, click, click, click. That was a new sound, like nails upon wallpaper, Borin looked, left and right but there was no visible source. Behind him there was a sudden shuffling followed by a hoarse cry out, but before they all turned to see the goblin that had landed on one unfortunate dwarf a whole army leapt from the ceiling which they had scaled for the element of surprise.
Borin rolled sideways and the goblin crashed to the cave floor with a sickening crack of broken limbs, he finished the beast’s life and then smashed the flat of his weapon upon another creature’s cranium which crumpled under the impact. He then rushed forwards and carved the head of a goblin from its shoulders and was covered in a spray of blood, he knocked down a creature as it aimed to sever an ally’s throat then rushed to another and struck its back so that it fell face down to the floor.
Meanwhile many dwarves lay slain from the falling knives, whilst others who had evaded the blows now battled fiercely with their foul-faced foes. But overall the battle was one sided for there were many dwarves who had not yet entered the tunnels and the goblins were weakening; at last they retreated leaving a bloody cave floor.
‘We go no further,’ said the officer, ‘Back to camp.’
Chapter III: A View across the Abyss
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:A View across the Abyss
Borin tied the end of his beard to his belt else he trip upon it, ‘I hate this waiting,’ he said.
The Second Dwarven Legion led the advance to allow the First to recuperate. As he spoke in the mouth of the caverns, the Second Legion delved deeper into the narrow passageways of the mountains, battling with the cruel goblins of the Darkness. Time dragged onwards and at last a dwarf emerged from the tunnels, blood pasted across his face, he was breathless and as Borin and his companions moved to find out about the Second Legion’s success the dwarf fell exhausted to the ground, a spear emerging from his spine.
They swiftly raised their axes as a horde of goblins burst into the cave with such speed that the first line fell in seconds to the scimitars of the servants of evil. Borin now rushed forwards and hewed a creature in two severing limbs from limbs. The dwarfs swiftly produced a shield wall across the tunnel entrance and the goblins withdrew else suffer more severe losses.
The First Legion’s Commander ordered an advance and reluctantly we obeyed, plunging into the darkness. The tunnel dropped down steeply, ahead they saw shapes retreating down but the soldiers did not increase their pace, then at last the tunnel ended and the soldiers spilled out into a void in the mountain.
They stood upon a platform of stone jutting out from the wall of a great chasm that stretched to the depths of the earth. A narrow rope-bridge spanned the abyss to the Goblin citadel, carved out of the wall of rock itself, in small windows archers observed the newcomers but did nothing. Let them run back, one rope-bridge would serve as a perfect defence against Legion after Legion. The Second Legion already lay at the roots of the mountain.
Chapter IV: The Citadel of the Grey Goblins
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Part I: Toil under Arrow-Fire
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Toil under Arrow-Fire
Borin was exhausted again.
A bottomless chasm stood between the Dwarven Legions and this was the only entrance known to the dwarves though other, narrower passageways stretched out in all directions from the Citadel of the Grey Mountain Goblins; but those routes were more dangerous than the one they were about to take.
The soldiers of the First Dwarven Legion had constructed a shield for over their heads, a sturdy wooden roof between them and the arrows. They manoeuvred this shield down the tunnel then to the rope bridge where they began their brutal labour: As the Third Legion cut stone from the cavern walls and passed the carved blocks down to the dwarves at the rope-bridge, the First Legion established the foundations of a bridge of stone held together with a secret craft that only dwarven stonemasons knew: the craft of a glue, stronger than the concrete of later ages, though its secret is now lost.
Borin pressed down on a newly placed slab of freshly mined rock; it had to be held firm for several minutes else it would not hold; he heard a companion call his name so he turned then seated himself on the slab. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘The Goblins are using fire arrows, so far the shield is holding but it shan’t be long until one of those shafts alights the shield, can you help?’
And so Borin found himself clambering onto the roof of the great shield over the toiling soldiers, hammering a nail into a flat square of metal. Now that he was exposed he was afraid, arrows rained down from above but his armour was thick enough to save him – or at least that was what he told himself. One dark shaft slammed into the wood not far from him, an inch to the left and it would have passed perfectly through the space between his helmet and backplate. His steady strikes with his hammer became increasingly inaccurate and he cursed himself as he caught his thumb in a swift swing of his tool. Another arrow came close as it embedded itself in the wood between the unprotected fingers of his left hand, he did not wear gauntlets as they made it difficult to hold objects except during battles. Borin placed down another sheet of metal whilst another shaft landed on top of the giant shield, but this one skidded of the metal, rolled down the slant then disappeared off the edge, it plummeted into the depths of the abyss.
Borin swallowed nervously and moved to place the last metal plate. Tap-tap-tap, one nail; tap-tap-tap-tap, two nails; he moved the furthest forwards and positioned the next, tap-tap-tap-‘OUCH!’ je struck his left index finger and adjusted the nail that had been struck in at an angle, tap-tap-tap, one nail remained; he slid to the right and the void beckoned to him, he moved his eyes from the edge and brought down the hammer upon the nail, once, twice, thrice, and suddenly the dwarf cried out as an arrow struck his right hand, piercing the palm and he ripped it from his flesh. Blood spilled out swiftly, a vein had been severed, it spilled out onto the metal but it seemed hardly severe. He was about to finalise the job when a dark shape leapt onto the great shield and he seized his hammer in his bloody hand and parried a furious goblin sword. The beast was nimble but with a short tool of a workshop Borin was not aiming to kill in a mad lunge that would lead to his death not his foe’s. However in its nimbleness the goblin leapt too close to the edge and Borin lashed out with his foot sending it over the edge.
However in kicking the goblin Borin himself lost his balance and fell to his feet before sliding over the edge...
Part II: Going for a Plunge
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Going for a Plunge
Some say you are dead before you hit the ground, Borin wondered if there was ground to reach.
But a hand caught his bloody one, relief flooded his body, he was slowly hauled up, then his grip slipped and he cried out. ‘I’ve got you,’ his saviour said, ‘but give me your other hand.’ However when Borin raised his hand he could not reach the other dwarf’s, he dropped further and only his bloody fingers were being held. Borin’s arm felt as though it was being torn from the socket and he knew he had to let go. Then he slipped from the other dwarf’s grasp and was falling, falling, ultimately swallowed up by the darkness.
He plummeted for what seemed to be an eternity, battered by air as it rushed past him, he could see nothing at first but then he saw, directly below him, something glistening in the faint light of the workers’ torches far above. At last it was over.
Suddenly Borin smashed into water leaving him breathless as pain struck his body. The pool was deep and it was a while before the dwarf had the strength to ascend to the surface, only when he did so he heard distant voices and ducked beneath the depths once more.
On the same side of the Goblin Citadel, jutting out from the wall of rock, was a level spur mostly taken up by a large pool of water that trickled in steadily from a small waterfall. Beside the pool lay a corpse, the goblin that Borin had kicked from the shield, Borin smiled, whilst he had fallen safely into the pool this victim had missed it by inches. Illuminating the scene was a burning torch that was clasped to the wall beside a wooden door from behind which came the voices, goblin voices.
Borin heard a slamming sound and moments later a bucket was pushed into the water; these creatures were collecting the liquid for some purpose. The dwarf paused then pushed himself up again and slammed the palm of his good hand into the throat of the goblin collecting water, then dragged it into the pool and dived down once more to drown the beast below. When at last it was limp he rose to the surface and leapt weakly from the pool, knocking the scimitar from the waiting goblin’s hand. He slammed his fist into its face then dodged a returned blow, he rolled to the ground and from his first victim’s corpse he took its weapon and turned as swiftly as his exhausted body would permit, he sliced the blade across the creature’s abdomen and it stepped back, clasping its belly as what looked like sausages pushed themselves through the wound. Borin almost retched but then the creature teetered on the edge and vanished over the brink.
Borin sighed in relief then moved towards the door then hesitated, he needed a disguise, he doubled back and clad himself in the armour of the goblins then filled some buckets with water.
Meanwhile the dwarves of the Fourth Legion readied themselves for the taking of the citadel, the bridge was almost complete and in less than an hour the storming of the citadel would begin.
Part III: Infiltration
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Infiltration
Borin moved uneasily down the corridor, still feeling pain across his entire body.
The tunnel was flat for a few feet then reached a roughly carved spiral staircase of stone, it ascended steeply and soon he was dizzy but he kept on going, determined to reach the peak. He encountered no-one, every creature was waiting for the gates to fall.
The staircase kept climbing, passing doors at irregular intervals, at one Borin stopped, opened it cautiously and then peered through the gap –then withdrew his head swiftly and slammed the door. He had found the kitchen. But with the door closed the putrid stench of rotting flesh still crept through the cracks. Borin moved swiftly upwards. He checked more doors, found “bed”rooms, storerooms, armouries, workshops and finally he found one that opened on a terrifying scene: ahead was the gate with a sturdy portcullis that stood between the Dwarven army and the Goblins, and of the goblins there were few in sight, only about thirty trolls filling the entrance hall to the citadel.
And now it struck him. When falling to his almost death he had no time to quail, but now, facing the most fearsome beasts he had seen in his short life he sank to his knees and shook violently in utter terror. And there, a nervous wreck, they found him.
Two goblins seized him and a third the bucket of water he had been carrying. He was dragged roughly upstairs and thrown into a room, dark without the light of the torches in the stairwell. ‘Now get back to work, scum!’
Eventually Borin pushed himself up from the ground and examined his surroundings. The room he was in was a balcony that overlooked the waiting ranks of trolls, a window on the opposite side of the room to this view looked down upon the Dwarven Bridge which was now almost complete. Two goblins manned a cauldron of boiling oil, preparing for the moment when they would spill it onto Borin’s companions. Just the thought of the screams sent a chill down his mind. Two more creatures guarded a cog handle by the wall and the dwarf speculated it would open and close the gate and portcullis. Four versus one, hardly good odds, but he had the element of surprise, though not enough time.
‘Oi! You! Get that bucket o’er here, we’re sweltering!’ a goblin ordered and the dwarf hastened to obey. ‘Hurry up you filth, else it’s the wargs for ya!’
Wargs underground? Borin wondered but hoped he would never find out. He lifted the bucket to chest height then brought it in front of the demanding goblin, directly above the cauldron. Then he dropped it and jumped back.
A few splashes caught his armour but not his flesh, his foes were not so fortunate. When slaving away over scolding liquids thick armour does not keep one cool, and tunics certainly did not keep the oil from their stinking flesh. The two beasts by the cauldron screeched and fell back, steaming, Borin drew his sword and tackled the remaining creatures, slaying one in seconds before the shock had worn off. Then Borin parried a fierce barrage of blows before beating the beast’s blade from its clasp and cutting its cranium in two.
He relaxed, then hurried to the door and jammed it shut. Outside the bridge was finally finished and Borin moved to the cog wheels and grasped the handle, and turned. It was harder than it looked, but slowly, with much effort the gates opened and the portcullis rose and the Dwarves saw the goblin trap of trolls earlier than the evil fiends would have liked. Now Borin slumped to the ground, let his head rest against the wall and sat there. A few minutes passed and the sounds of the battle below began, followed by a horde of creatures attempting to batter down the door to his room. Borin was trapped.
His eyes wandered to the pot of oil and an idea struck him for it was not connected to the ground. He moved to a suitable position and managed to manoeuvre it to the balcony edge without scolding himself. He then stepped back and with a single strong kick knocked the cauldron’s contents onto the trolls below. The roaring was deafening and he clasped his hand to his ears until it subsided, though when that finally came to pass he moved his hands to his nose for the stench of burning troll flesh was almost as bad as the goblin kitchen’s odour.
The cauldron empty, the dwarf dragged it to the door and there it held the door whilst the battle raged below him. He had done enough that day or so he deemed.
Part IV: The Battle by the Lake
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:The Battle by the Lake
Below where Borin rested, the Fourth Dwarven Legion battled fiercely with the trolls.
The Dwarves, with battered shields, resisted the beasts of the darkness – though only just. They pushed the creatures back and felled them with sharp axes but then the lights grew in the tunnels that branched off the entrance hall, goblins spilled out, shrieking and cursing, the Legion formed a wall of strong shields and like water on rocks the goblins charged into the lines of the Bearded folk.
Commanding the Fourth Legion was Officer Kilin, a veteran of the conquest of the Withered Heath. He had joined as a young recruit and ascended swiftly through the ranks after remarkable feats of bravery and selflessness. Now this Dwarf stood defiant on the front lines of his unit, pushing back the ranks of foes with his mighty shield. His crest upon his battered helm was unique: gold in colour and whenever it was in sight the dwarfs fought with courage for they knew they were not alone.
Into a wide tunnel the Legion marched, the Fifth swiftly moving into the entrance hall behind them to guard the other, smaller passages. The Fourth Legion delved deeper into the great tunnel, their path was well lit and they encountered no enemies but still they were cautious, each dwarf’s eyes darting left and right then up, searching the shadows, fearing the worse. Officer Kilin was the first to see the mind-blowing sight when the tunnel ended: they were in a cavern, vaster beyond imagining with a ceiling so high that it was shrouded in darkness. A lake was at the bottom, dark save for where the torches around the sides illuminated its beauty. The road from the tunnel led around the left side, descending steadily as it grew closer to the brim of the water. When finally it was level it met a badly constructed tower of scaffolding that climbed up the rock wall with branches reaching out to habitats in the rock. The road continued further then widened before coming to an end at a cliff face marked only by a grand door to the Goblin King’s Chambers within.
The Legion proceeded towards the King’s Chambers with furtive looks towards the scaffolding that scaled the rock face like ivy. None of them heard the quiet splashes from the water as a horde of goblins moved stealthily from beneath the surface, they were behind the Legion and swiftly a few creatures took out the dwarves in the rear lines without a sound save for a few muffles. The goblins may have taken more if one young inexperienced monster leapt at a soldier but instead jumped too far to the right and crashed into three startled warriors. With cries of anger and shock the Dwarves turned and struck the offenders with merciless blows, aiming not to kill almost painlessly but to maim and torture. The dwarves had their vengeance, the goblins lay in pieces upon the road but above the scaffolding creaked under weight, to the flank the waters stirred and then the goblins quailed and fled as, fast as lightning, a long black tentacle issued from the depths and receded, taking with it Officer Kilin.
Had he been a lesser dwarf his companions may not have acted so boldly, they cried out and hurled their throwing axes towards the tentacle fiend whilst others charged into the water, evading then hacking any slippery limbs that stretched out towards them. They reached the head of the fiend as it opened its mouth and jumped on its head. They sent their sharp blades into its eyes of jet and now it was flailing about wildly, striking any dwarf that came close. Those noble rescuers caught Kilin as he fell from a thrashing tentacle’s grip, but then more floundering arms struck them into the water and they were lost under the raging waves. The long armed fiend vanished into the depths and silence overcame the Lake. Kilin and his saviours were nowhere to be seen...
Suddenly there was a splash ahead and some dwarves dived into the depths and swam as best as they could (which was not very well) towards their splashing and spluttering comrade. Upon seeing him to be well a few ducked beneath the surface and for a while they too were gone. The survivor moved slowly towards the shore and was greeted with dry cloaks to keep him warm. Silence resumed.
Eventually a few heads popped up from the murky waters but their numbers were no greater than when they submerged themselves in search of the drowning dwarves. They reached the Legion and shook their heads, ‘We’re sorry, Officer Kilin, we cannot see them, they are lost.’
Part V: The Last Stand of the Goblins
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:The Last Stand of the Goblins
Inside his chambers, Azurhg III was nervous.
Never before had a foe bridged the chasm, let alone reach so deep into the mountains. Now they were breaking down the door to the throne room whilst the mighty Royal Guard kept their pikes steadily aimed at the door, a wall of piercing death. Amongst the ranks trembled Bolg, spawn of Kolg, a veteran goblin of numerous wars but now knew he faced his end. Not far from him a dwarf grasped the cold steel that would end his life. It was terrifying.
Suddenly the door was breached sending a shower of splinters and dust in the Guard’s direction. Bolg was blinded and only the foul stench of the dwarves reached him. Then he felt a sudden impact as a creature rammed into his pike, he held firm and thrust forwards, throwing the dwarf from his weapon. The dust cloud cleared slightly and he saw a dwarf charge forwards, between his pike and the next goblin’s. Bolg raised his own weapon, let it drop so he had a shorter length of pole before him then brought the tip of the pike down on the dwarf’s helm, crushing it with a delightful crunch. Another dwarf came forwards and his axe came down so swiftly and accurately that it broke Bolg’s weapon in two, the goblin hurled the remaining stump at the creature before taking up his mace. All around him the pikes were being dropped as the dwarves wormed between the shafts of wood, now it was axe against maces, scimitars, hatchets, and the dwarves were losing. But their numbers were far greater than the goblins’.
Bolg crushed the arm of a dwarf then stepped back to avoid an overhead swing, he swung his own weapon but missed by inches forcing him to evade another swipe of his opponent’s axe. The formations were broken and it was one against one, each soldier replaced by another when he fell.
But at last Bolg was being pushed back. His shield arm was aching, the buffer itself threatening to splinter into pieces. Azurhg III was in the fray, slaying dwarves effortlessly – one did not become King by family. Goblins were dying, their screeches were terrible and Bolg wanted to run, to escape, to taste freedom and the air of a new day – but there was nowhere to go, they were trapped; he was in a corner now, only he and the King remained. All the dwarves were crowding around them, but still they, fell. Suddenly Bolg’s shield shattered and the blow broke his wrist too, an axe thudded into his shoulder and the pain – the pain was just indescribable. Another axe struck his skull, but the blade was blunt and the attacker weary so it only made him slump, barely conscious against the wall. As black blood poured from his wounds, drenched his undergarments, flesh, body; Bolg saw, through failing sight, the Last Stand of King Azurhg III. The mighty leader slew many, his great warhammer of heavy metal crushed dwarves skulls like a child does ants; the bodies piled up around him but the numbers were too great. As his hammer knocked one to the ground, another foul dwarf swung his axe at the King’s throat, severing flesh and ending the King’s noble life. Bolg cried out but his cry was a mumble of blood strewn words.
The final thing he tasted was the dark liquid in his mouth; he smelt last the putrid stench of dwarf, his eyes failed with the sight of his fallen King, his ears died with the triumphant cheers of the dwarves. Then the Darkness took him.
Chapter V: Victorious
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Victorious
Borin was nervous.
It was a week since King Azurhg III had fallen under the bloody axe of Officer Kilin, three days since the Seventh, Eighth, Ninth and Tenth Legions had disappeared into the network of tunnels that spanned out from the citadel. Now Borin was waiting tentatively outside the King’s Chamber, as nervous as a schoolboy who has just been caught drinking beer in the playground and sent to the headmaster’s office. He knocked. Once again his brain reminded him he was going to meet the King and he shook in fear.
‘Enter.’
He obeyed.
The floor of the chamber had been thoroughly washed but as he bowed his eyes noticed the black blood in the cracks.
‘Who’s this again?’
‘Borin son of Borus, sire.’
‘Ah yes, yes. You did us a great service in the taking of this citadel; I have reviewed your record and it is... brief. I feel medals are in order but not enough, a promotion; the position of standard-bearer in your Legion is free. Thank you, and dismissed.’
Epilogue
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Epilogue
Borin’s arm ached, his body shivered violently and night was yet to come.
It was dark, though early. Winter had come to Middle-earth and one of the King’s advisors had convinced the leader of the Dwarves that the bitter highlands on the northern border of Rhovanion would still be passable and survivable. Borin hoped he would get the sack.
Snow drifted from the heavens and lay think on the ground, the dwarven legions trudged through it bitterly, their thick armour seemed thin in the face of the icy winds that came down from the peaks. The Legions trudged forwards, losing a dwarf every hour as he collapsed face down into the snow, overcome by the cold. The temperatures were dropping the higher they climbed, a tempest stirring high above. Before fair Anor disappeared behind the misty peaks, the storm would be upon them.
But at last the Legions’ road turned northwards and, where one of the many streams that fed the Anduin was sourced, they found a narrow gorge through the mountains, the road across the Grey Mountains to Mount Gundabad. The road cut through the rock as if it had been carved, the slopes on either side were vertical, the light of the dying sun blocked out by the trees and other vegetation that sprouted from the more slanted, grass-strewn sides above.
Less than a mile in the sun was utterly lost and torches were lit to guide them in the darkness.
‘Shields up!’ ordered the Legions’ officers, fearful of possible archers on the slopes above. Awkwardly Borin lifted his shield over his head, unsteadily grasping the standard of the First Dwarven Legion.
But what the goblins did loose upon the helpless soldiers was far more lethal: as the dwarves marched along, high above the goblins finished filling cauldrons of oil. When at last the Legions were directly beneath each cauldron the pots were tipped forwards and the scolding liquid descended upon the roof of shields.
The impact was absorbed by the shields that instantly heated to an unbearable temperature whilst the liquid itself surged through the cracks where the shields overlapped. Cries of agony echoed in the gorge, the sound unbearable, the pain unthinkable. And when that was over the goblins jumped upon the startled soldiers, scimitars unsheathed.
Borin had fallen under a tumble of his companions’ bodies, their dying moans as the oil tortured their flesh resounding in his ears. Fear rooted him to the spot at first, then the sounds of dying dwarves tormented him to the point of madness and he suddenly screamed and thrashed out, determined to free himself from the mass of bodies. Most still lived, but they were silent now. And when Borin finally emerged into the light of the torches all he saw was death, goblins determined to taste victory. He readied his axe and as he charged forth he cried, ‘Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-męnu!’
And above more goblins refilled the cauldrons whilst archers notched arrows to their bowstrings.
Book II: Hithaeglir
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Chapter I: The Gorge of Fire
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:The Gorge of Fire
They called it the Gorge of Fire, now the Dwarves tasted the heat.
Already hundreds, if not thousands of dwarves were struck down by the scolding oil of the orcs, their screams a chilling noise in the oncoming night. Borin raised himself from his shelter of corpses and looked back towards the southern mouth of the gorge, a faint light could be seen. Overhead the heavens thundered, a storm was coming to the northern peaks of the mighty mountain range of Hithaeglir. It started to rain.
The goblins high above bore expressions of utter glee. They had the same lust of blood as when they had placed a bet on a warg to rip another to pieces in front of their merciless eyes. The archers viewed the simple loosing of an arrow into the heart of any hapless wanderer that strayed down their gorge as sport and leisurely, savouring the moment, they strung their bows, there was no rush. Another crack of lightning high above illuminated the scene.
The creatures manning the oil were nimbly travelling the short but craggy distance between their pots and the great cauldron where the scolding liquid gathered for distribution. Another bolt of lightning sounded. These goblins seemed carefree in their work, the taking of a dwarf’s life was an honour and when they had so many creatures in their trap they revelled in performing their duties.
Once more a flash of lightning lit the narrow gorge and Borin saw the true horror of his situation. First there were the bodies, some moved with strength, recovering from small burns that they could bear. Most were moving only their arms in desperate pleas for help. But there was no help. The lightning – another bolt now temporarily illuminated the same terrifying scene – showed Borin the cauldrons of oil above being filled, each pot flanked by three archers. And there were a lot of pots.
Then the storm showed its true power, in a single second the sky loosed a flurry of bolts and they struck the northern peaks of Hithaeglir and the earth trembled. Beside his cauldron Grigrik looked up at the raging heavens. Pity about the weather, his wife would have to dry his clothes when he returned to their cave. He suddenly cried out in pain as a sharp stone struck his cheek. He rubbed the spot then looked down at the cauldron before him, it seemed sufficiently full. There was a clang as another stone struck his helm. The earth shook beneath his feet and he staggered but remained on his feet. In the distance he heard a scream as an archer lost his balance and plummeted head first into the gorge. There was a thundering above, Grigrik looked at the sky.
And then he screamed.
Borin never saw the avalanche until it was too late, until it blocked out all light and was upon him.
Chapter II: Under Ground
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Under Ground
Borin knew fear, terror, but not this.Nothing could be worse than this.The restriction cast on his body.The weight of the rock upon him.The pressure of it on his chest.The knowledge that he would not, could not escape.The knowledge that slowly the air would be squeezed out of him.
Above him there was the noise of the earth shifting, small pebbles dropped through the cracks in the larger boulders, dust clouded his vision. Currently only his curved shield on his chest kept the rock from pushing against his ribcage though gradually the shield was being forced closer and closer downwards. His helmet had protected his head, a large rock was suspended an inch from his mouth and he knew that once that collapsed his jaw would be broken. Or maybe the impact would be light, only bruise his lips, but stop the flow of oxygen that right now trickled through the cracks in the rocks. At least a lack of oxygen would be less painful than having it pressed from one’s lungs.
The earth shifted again. The rock trembled, slipped. Now it touched the nose-guard on his helmet. A sprinkle of dust dropped onto his nostrils, the urge to sneeze suddenly came upon him and his head spasmed as the urge overwhelmed him. The movement dislodged the rock even further and Borin remembered no more.
Chapter III: Survivors
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‘How many of the blighters?’
‘A thousand.’
‘That’s sir, SCUM!’
The goblin nodded and scuttled away.
‘Select about... fifty, prepare them. The victory celebrations will be grand.’
‘Only fifty! The populace will demand more, ’specially at the cost of so many of our brethren.’
‘Make it sixty-five then.’ The Captain limped up the path then stopped, turned and called back, ‘And make sure the bugger can count to sixty-five who ya put in charge of the bloody prisoners!’
*
The dwarven prisoners trembled fearfully as their captors entered their presence.
Those that had come to “have a little fun” with the prisoners were hobgoblins: half-orc, half goblin with burning red eyes and long teeth that ended in sharp points that sparkled in the firelight. They were heavily built, muscles that were larger than seemed natural for their small frame. Their strength was almost equal to a troll’s – despite being crossed with a lesser species they surpassed all save the Uruks of Mordor and Isengard in agility and might.
‘So scum, you’ll be glad to hear that ye ain’t gonna be fighting tomorrow, that lot ’ave all been chosen!’ bawled the hobgoblin with a spike-covered skullcap, ‘so that means ye don’t need to be fit and well for some time. So we’re gonna have a bit o’ fun!’ At these words two guards rushed into one of many cells and dragged out a dwarf.
Each cell was merely a wall of rusty vertical bars arranged into a square around ten of the unfortunate dwarves and now several hundred eyes watched as one of their companions were dragged out and deposited upon a long wooden surface, and with those clamps for the wrists and feet it was unlikely to be a bed.
A goblin hurried to the crank on the left side of the “bed”, ‘Can I begin, sir,’ the hobgoblin asked as a child would ask to open a box of building blocks.
‘Not yet,’ his superior growled, he turned to the fearful audience, ‘remember this, some may be lucky but most will find themselves here one day. There will be no rescue for you hopefuls, in case you pieces of slime are wondering. Once the rocks came crumbling down to trap you buggers we sent out our own army and wiped every last stinking Legion your King sent up here off the face of Middle-earth!’ He roared that then fell silent, eventually he added, with a broad smirk, ‘and of them there were no survivors, not even your King.’
And in case there was a dwarf there that still hoped, that thought he was lying, the Officer raised a severed head from below the Rack to which Borin was bound; it was the Dwarf King’s head.
Chapter IV: Borin the Long-Limbed
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Borin the Long-Limbed
Whilst the guards whistled to the screams of the captive the other prisoners clasped their hands to their ears.
The Rack had the appearance of a flat wooden table; the cranks were hidden carefully underneath so the prisoners did not realise the exact purpose of the chamber they were trapped in. The Long Bearded Dwarf cried out in agony, the sensation was beyond anything he had ever experienced, his limbs were dragged taut, strained past endurance, threatening to be wrenched from their sockets; each muscle was being torn into strands. Borin heard a creek as the crank was turned a single notch and he let out a howl that chilled the bones of all the prisoners that accompanied him in that Hell.
Licking its foul lips the torturer leaned over his prey and said slowly, drawn out for the terrified dwarf’s own distress, ‘Oh you’re screaming now, just wait, wait for the crack of your limbs as they are stretched from their sockets, and then understand real agony as they are torn your torso.’
‘I’d... rather have... no limbs... than a... a face... like... yours, you... ugly... son of a- ahh..!’ The cog was turned even further and his words dissolved into another ear-splitting scream, his arms and legs felt as if burning pokers had been laid upon them and the joints felt as if-
Here this description cannot proceed, every simile is exhausted, and each of those were mild in comparison to what Borin endured. The pain proceeded for a further five minutes, though to him it felt like five millennia, the crank was only turned once more during that period and it was his terrible, animalistic cry that sped the end of his torture. A moment after that crank was turned that fourth time the door was slammed open and a procession of goblins entered, each one a handpicked elite soldier, guarding the beast himself, the Goblin Emperor.
‘Halt this game, you slimy piece of-’ at this moment Borin fell unconscious and the words spoken cannot be retold. Borin was removed from the contraption, it seemed that he was of value to the Goblins, should the Dwarves accept the ransom of the many prisoners. When he regained consciousness he appeared to be resting on all his companions could assemble into a “bed”.
‘On the bright side,’ one dwarf said with what he must have believed to be reassurance, ‘you’ll no longer be tripping over your beard.’
One Month Later
Chapter V: Rats in a Cage
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Borin awoke, his legs feeling as if a horse had used them for a mattress, he groaned; it still wasn’t a dream.
He looked around, it was not right seeing such mighty beings reduced to useless thin scraps of meat, certainly the entire situation was not right, but this seemed even more demeaning. Of course, causing a dwarf to feel the utmost discomfort was undoubtedly featured in the job description of a goblin prison guard but after what seemed like years in that cell the dwarfs could not tell right from wrong, night from day or blue from green – such colours he had not seen since, oh since he saw the sky and the grass.
Several miles away the newly crowned Dwarven King, Durin VII (Durin the Last as he later became known), struggled with stratagems, he had paid the ransom for his captured soldiers but the goblins knew how much he needed them and demanded double; what did they need with gold? A thousand dwarves imprisoned in an army that set out as fifty thousand sounds like nothing but the numerous battles had lost the Legions five thousand and there were millions in the mountains. As Durin poured over the maps of the terrain he frequently cursed, believing that his predecessor had been too premature in marching to war. He did admire his father’s vision, but it seemed far too ambitious.
Meanwhile the orc population were getting restless; they wanted some reassurance that the war was going well; indeed they felt safe, inside a mountain not only defended with their own traps and loyal, mighty soldiers but also defended by all the tools and weaponry abandoned by the original dwarven settlers.
In the jail the prisoners rotted, their minds exhausted; sleep was a mercy for they were unaware of their torture. One day (a month and a fortnight into their agony), a hapless goblin ignored a bone in the prisoner’s food. Upon finding this thin but strong piece the misfortunate dwarf (his luck seemed to have come to its lowest point when he broke a tooth biting ravenously into the bone) tore it from the remaining flesh and stuck it swiftly into the lock and vigorously twisted and shook it. The guards were, as usual, caught in rapid conversation, occasionally in the common tongue, most of the time in the harsh tongue of the Gundabad orcs, thus the dwarf’s attempts to break open the cage went completely unnoticed. His companions were slowly being roused by those who were aware of his escapades but the question was what to do when the lock was picked?
There was a quiet click when the latter occurred, the dwarf, Falin, removed his miraculous tool, and gripped it tight in his hairy fist such that the broken point was poised to stab. Suddenly the dwarf next to him fell backwards, performing an act so convincing that the guards believed he was truly suffering some severe ailment. They moved cautiously to the cage but, seeing the froth bubbling from his mouth (it must be stated that it is a remarkable fact of dwarven nature that they can produce significantly more saliva than their taller neighbouring races), the creatures rushed to aid their prisoner else they be punished for losing potential income. As the first goblin placed its hand on the handle and placed the key in the lock, Falin suddenly pressed his weight to the door and it swung backwards, knocking the two beasts to the filthy floor. Instantly their foes were upon them, Falin striking the first in the gullet and crimson spurted freely. It was the first colour they had seen since their imprisonment and it said a lot about the dwarf race.
The startled creatures that had been too shocked to utter any loud noise now lay slain upon the dungeon floor; two dwarves squeezed into their armour and in that guise they deceived the guards on the other side of the prison door, deceived then slew. So four orcs led the “prisoners” from their cage and now the rats ran free within the labyrinth that was Mount Gundabad.
Chapter VI: Rats in a Maze
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Rats in a Maze
They ascended floors unopposed for millions could not keep all of Mount Gundabad guarded.
A foreign eye would be surprised to see the destinations of passageways scrawled in bright paint at intersections but if they could see the entirety of the citadel they would understand why. Millions of passageways spanned outwards from the central chambers, crisscrossing and spiralling, some making dangerous routes and many now severed in two by disturbances of rock. On occasion the distressed dwarves ran across a small group of goblins but these were little trouble for against determined foes they were swiftly overcome, their weapons salvaged to arm the dwarves that were still unequipped. The escapees traversed successfully, following narrow passageways that climbed rather than descended deeper underground, if they believed in divine intervention they would have stated afterwards that Gods guided them and perhaps that would not be untrue for safely they made it to the same place where they were first dragged in (though this they knew not, only that their path was leading them higher and closer to daylight.
However not even the Gods could intervene so mercifully. As the dwarves spied the light of the outside world for the first time, the narrow passageway spewed out into a mighty cavern, bustling with outraged goblins. They all knew that there were now over nine hundred dwarves somewhere in their citadel. In the midst of the assembled goblins a general argued with his subordinates, ‘How in the name of Melkor did they get out in the first place?’
‘The bloody guards got ’emsleves drunk on the last of the froth from the dwarves’ packs,’ reported one goblin and he flinched when the general cast his infuriated gaze upon him.
‘I guess they should be thankful that the dwarves stumbled upon these out of action guards,’ the general said quietly before bellowing, ‘else I would make ’em feel scoldin’ steel so much they-’
‘DWARVES!’
Borin cursed, ‘Oh fu-’
Chapter VII: Touching Daylight
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Touching Daylight
‘What do we do?’ one Dwarf asked fearfully.
‘How in the name of Illúvatar are we meant to get out of this one?’ another said to no one in particular.
‘We need a diversion,’ suggested Falin, ‘if a few of us go to that tunnel there and shoot arrows and bellow commands the buggers will go down there whilst we sneak out.’
There was a general agreement and a group of dwarves parted to carry out the task. It took several minutes for them to assemble and prepare for the distraction but to those waiting for them to begin it felt like hours. Finally an arrow flew from a scavenged orcish bow, closely pursued by a tardy cry of, “Dwarves, fire!’ A few more arrows flew from the dark though most missed; axes were thrown as well, proving to be far more accurate. The orcs assembled and turned to face the source of the shouts and shafts then prepared an unusually orderly advance, leaving only a handful of goblins guarding the exit.
‘Forward and quiet!’ someone ordered and without the need to be told twice the dwarves scuttled towards the exit with the speed and silence of hares. Even the loudest of races could be quiet when their lives depended on it.
By the time the goblins became aware of their prisoners subterfuge, the Dwarves had formed up behind them, forming a barrier between the exit and the enemy, and those guarding the exit had been swiftly overcome. Now the dwarves made a steady retreat, taking relentless and furious attacks from the goblins, few died for the dwarves wanted more to escape than to get revenge and a defensive dwarf is a hard target to slay.
Borin stood furthest from the exit, his scavenged blade bloody with the amber fluids of the native goblins, his shield was dented from the severe battering it was being subjected to by a fierce hobgoblin with a mighty warhammer. It was harder than it appeared to withdraw in such an orderly fashion, each step had to be measured carefully for should any dwarf stumble then the break in the line could easily mean their entire doom for their foes would surge into the breach like water through a shattered dam.
Suddenly the fearsome creature before Borin gave a terrible howl and rose up its weapon high, then brought it smashing down such that it clove his shield in two. Borin cried out as he fell back, the bones in his arm shattered from the impact. Yet before his attacker could do further damage another dwarf charged forwards, bearing a spear with apparent unease. However the weapon ran true, spitting the beast perfectly: cutting between the ribs and piercing the heart. As it fell back and its slayer took Borin’s place, the injured Dwarf was helped back to a safer position.
As the dwarves at the frontlines reached the mouth of the cavern they bolted like frightened horses and sprinted towards the light of the rising sun. The goblins held back for they loathed the sun and it burnt them like it turns vampires to mounds of useless dead flesh (or so the myths of Beleriand tell).
Five dwarves remained; four were of the Kings guard and protected Falin as he waited for the last dwarves to escape from the citadel. As bodies piled up around them he swung his blade in a wide arc with sufficient strength to immediately sever the rope that held the mighty door open. At once he and his guards sprinted for daylight, however one of them was cut down as he showed his foes his back, another was felled by the front door to Mount Gundabad collapsing upon him, but Falin and two of his guards escaped unharmed but weary.
One thousand dwarves were imprisoned in the darkness of the Goblin Citadel; fifty were led away to uncertain fates, six died in the cells, but eight hundred and ninety-seven dwarves escaped from the evil mountain. The forty-seven dwarves that died nobly are listed amongst the bravest soldiers of the dwarven race, “they sacrificed themselves for the Dwarven Dream”.
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Originally Posted by EOMER
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