Escape from the Iron Mountain
by Varda
‘’Even after the
destruction of the Ring many strange and evil creatures dwelt in the
dark places of the world….’’
1: The Chronicle of Garlach
‘Where is that dratted
Elf?’ thought Gimli,
craning to look round the dim recesses of the great feast-hall deep
within the Iron Mountain stronghold of Dún Duibhe.
‘He is gone at least an hour….’
Gimli was worried. Through all the
dwarf-realms of Middle Earth he and his Elfish companion had travelled
since the ending of the War of the Ring, and nowhere had the ancient
animosity of the Dwarves towards the Fair Folk shown itself. Gimli had,
if he was honest, been quite surprised and heartened to find deep in
his dour and stubborn kinsmen gratitude for an Elf who had given
friendship outside his kind, and had gone to war on behalf of every
race…..
But not here. Sauron had cruelly oppressed
the Iron Hills, and had slain its king, Dáin Ironfoot. Since
then no
word had come out from this dwarf-realm to Gondor…until Gimli and
Legolas had journeyed hence. And ever since they arrived Gimli had
detected, with a sixth sense he probably got from Legolas, mistrust,
suspicion and some nameless fear…..
‘You are imagining it!’ Legolas had said with
his usual light-heartedness, but Gimli knew that was only because the
Elf did not want to hurt Gimli by taking offence. And this had been
Legolas’s idea; the dwarves of the Iron Hills had indeed once marched
against his father King Thranduil’s people in war, but that was long
ago, and now Legolas wanted to make friends where once existed only
hatred. There were older bonds of friendship, he had told Gimli, and
the Elves even of Rivendell had relied on the smiths of the Iron Hills
to make their weapons….so Gimli had relented, and in the late autumn of
a golden summer they had crossed the bleak heather-clad uplands that
lay beyond Eriador and approached the dim line of jagged peaks that
marked the Iron Hills…
Almost at once the weather turned against
them, and an early fall of snow driven by a bitter East wind tugged
their cloaks as they drew up their horses, Legolas still on Arod, Gimli
now preferring a sturdy hill pony which he had named Gearr. Above them
the sheer granite sides of the mountain reared up, and a great
iron-bound door remained firmly shut in their faces. A flurry of
movement behind a grille above the port however betrayed the presence
of watchers.
Legolas shrugged and laughed, but Gimli glowered.
‘It is Gimli son of Glóin, and his
friend Legolas Prince of Mirkwood. Open the blasted door, you wretched
clan of lead miners!’
‘Roaring fires, malt beer, red meat off the bone….’
Gimli remembered his promise to Legolas as
they entered Moria. Instead they had got a Balrog and a fight for their
lives. But since then they had been royally entertained by the Dwarves,
in every part of Middle Earth. But not tonight. Gimli made a face as he
chewed the tough stringy meat served to him and Legolas, and which the
Elf would not eat. He took a draught from his cup, pewter not silver,
despite the fabled wealth of the Iron Hills Dwarves. He made another
face; thin beer…
‘I have got to get a breath of sweet air!’
Legolas had whispered to him before slipping out of the feast-hall. And
even Gimli found this subterranean cavern oppressive; the walls were
bare stone, with only some threadbare hangings against the cold and a
few rusty arms from the time of Grór, the great king of the Iron
Hills…
Gimli looked round; in a corner of the dim,
chilly hall a half-starved young dwarf tortured a set of bagpipes.
Gimli saw his poor playing was caused by shaking hands. He glanced
round the table; at once all eyes were averted, as if avoiding him. At
the head of the table sat the Lord of the Iron Hall, Glinne. His name
meant silver-tongued but to his guests he had barely spoken, and that
only to offer a surly welcome. He wore a fabulous gown of blue trimmed
with silver thread and bound with a mithril belt, which gave him his
name, Glinne Gorm. That, however, was the only wealth on display and
Gimli could see some of the crystals embedded in the mithril were
missing, and even links of the precious metal itself.
Gimli put down his pewter tankard with a
bang; he was going to go and find Legolas. His unease had grown to a
feeling that something had certainly befallen his friend to keep him so
long….
It was discourteous to rise from table before
the host Lord, but Gimli had lost patience with this Dwarf-king. He
bowed and said;
‘My pardon, Lord Glinne. I am tired from long journeying and wish to
find my companion. Allow me to retire…..’
Further to Gimli’s disgust and unease the
Lord merely nodded and turned again to his tough meat. Muttering to
himself Gimli pushed back his chair and stamped from the hall. As he
passed the young piper he stopped.
‘What is your name, lad?’ he asked. The boy looked up, fear in his
eyes, but he answered in a brave voice;
‘Garlach, my Lord Gimli….’
Gimli thought for a moment; the name meant
orphan. The lad must have lost his family and been brought up in the
King’s household as a musician. That made his half-starved look and
thin patched woollen tunic even more disgraceful. Gimli put his hand to
a well-filled purse hanging at his belt and dug around with a thick
forefinger. He flicked aside lesser coins till he found a gold crown.
He pulled it out and looked at it.
This was the first coinage of King Ellessar,
and on one side was the tree and stars, on the other in profile the
King and his Queen, Arwen. It was a work of art in itself, and no
wonder, as the mint had been assisted by a certain dwarf….just then
Gimli heard the voice of another queen, Galadriel, speaking to him long
ago…
‘I tell you Gimli son of Glóin that your hands will flow with
gold, but over you gold shall have no dominion….’
And so it was, for now Gimli handed to the
poor young piper the gold crown and said; ‘Buy yourself a warm tunic,
my lad. And new pipes…’
All around the courtiers stared in amazement. The servants stood along
the walls, not moving. Gimli turned to Garlach and said;
‘It seems I have no-one to light my way to my chamber. Will you take a
torch and lead me, my boy?’
There was only a moment’s hesitation, then
the lad jumped up and running to an embrasure he snatched from its iron
socket a flaming torch and ran back to walk ahead of Gimli out of the
great cold feast-hall.
When they were out in the passage Gimli heaved a sigh of relief. The
boy looked up at him and Gimli asked;
‘Does your lord always keep such a merry household?’
Garlach looked embarrassed and Gimli slapped him on the shoulder and
said;
‘Don’t answer that, my lad, he is your king
after all. But show me the way to my chamber and that of my friend's,
for I can’t remember which turning it was in all these confounded
tunnels…’
All Dwarf realms were dwarrows, tunnels
delved into mountains, rising from mines in the lowest levels to great
high-ceilinged halls in the upper caverns. Endless tunnels connected
them, and Gimli followed the little piper as he led the way upwards to
a long gallery off which opened chambers which in the heyday of the
Iron Hills must have been guest quarters worthy of royalty.
But not now; when Gimli knocked and entered
the room allotted to Legolas he found a great dusty chamber hung with
mildewed and moth-eaten tapestries, barely warmed by a sparse fire of
peat in the vast fireplace. One mullioned casement looked out onto an
inner courtyard ghostly in the moonlight and on the great couch was
thrown a black bearskin. But it smelt of damp and although Legolas’s
grey elven cloak had been laid carefully across the chest at the foot
of the bed, there was no sign of the Elf….Gimli turned to Garlach in
desperation;
‘Lad, can you help me find my friend?’
Once again Gimli saw fear in the boy’s eyes.
But then, as if taking some great decision, Garlach took a deep breath
and said in a clear voice;
‘Yes, Lord Gimli, I will help you find your Elven friend. It would be
best to start at the lower levels….’
Gimli followed Garlach and they entered a
tunnel with rough-hewn walls and no windows. It led down, ever down.
The flame of the torch wavered as they passed openings on either side,
and gradually the distant sound of the feast-hall receded until all
that could be heard was their own breathing. Gimli wanted more than
anything to ask where they were going, but dared not frighten his wary
young guide off. At last they came to an underground gallery. Gimli
noticed the air had grown warm. Garlach waited till he came up to him
then lifted the torch and said in a whisper;
‘This was where I last saw your Elf friend…..’
Gimli wanted to question the boy, but did not
get a chance; on the ground at his feet he saw something gleaming, and
taking the torch he bent down and exclaimed in horror; it was blood, a
great pool of blood, freshly spilt. Someone had been attacked and
slaughtered here. Suddenly fearful of enemies Gimli looked around, and
wished with all his heart he and Legolas had not given up their weapons
when they entered the Iron Mountain….but then Garlach pulled at his
sleeve and pointed;
‘Look!’
And Gimli looked down again and on the rough
ground, among the broken tiles, he saw something golden gleaming in the
torchlight. He gasped, and dropped to one knee. His fingers gently
traced the bright line and picked up the glistening thread; it was a
long strand of golden Elvish hair, dabbled with blood. It was a strand
of Legolas’s hair….
